Time to make a salad

Published Oct 1, 2017 at 9:00am

Why is there something instead of nothing?

Party barge lolling through seaweed, lazing in hidden lake.  Blaze of bubblegum pink lilies bouncing on wake waves. Apprehension of prop bound tight!

Open water – reverse. Unwinding, chance for freedom. Tense beauty. 

Hot brush of sun on skin. Dogs smile through door rail, surveying the scene. Happy panting dogs. Stray strands of fur, ginger and white, float off to oblivion. 

Taking the driver’s seat, under canopy, oh welcome shade.

North shore calls but big boat unyielding, wheel resistant, effort required for change.

A mirror, late afternoon sun flashing divine through trees. Blink. Blink. Whirligig beetles, walking on water, scamper from slowly looming pontoon – 1001 teensy, metallic-shelled bodies etch-a-sketch sky’s reflection in a firework blur exploding under endless sky.

Blue. Heat. Late September beads of sweat. 

Rope swing dangles, enticing, from maple yawning over water from cliff holding field of corn.

Boys jump off side, clamor and climb, flying free, splashing with bellowing hoots, howls… a few precious moments with faces not glued to glowing gizmos in hand crafting their minds with Angry Birds or Clash of Clans.

A fellow barge passes, laden with tan smiles, waving here in paradise sans the division, derision, denigration rampant ‘back there’ on shore, kneeling in the shadows of a society so glutted on heated social media it can’t breathe, move, digest, heal, live free.

Ah, to be intimate. Closely acquainted with our Source. Inward and undisclosed. To feel the silence, the space that everything is happening in.

What is happening. What IS! After all, reality is the only thing that is actually happening, not crafted by the mind, belief. 

The sputter of chicken on the grill.

Out on the parched lawn a sprinkler hisses and spits streams of clear cool water.

Hand holding flute of crimson chianti, a bumble bee hovers inches away, his fuzzy body of yellow and black buzzing over hanging million bells. Yellow, orange, red, disdaining mature blooms he fancies the half-opened buds slipping softly into the wombs.

Feasting on a hidden treasure of golden dust he is unaware of giant me, so close, so capable of death driven by fear of his existence, his potential weapon. But somehow I sense that he senses me, lurking here in peace.

In bliss, in Eden of opulent abundance. No threats this day, so far away from the hell and devastation, the misery of a population wading through water to their knees, compromised by sewage, gas lines, filth, sweltering and starving, every necessity but air and gravity deprived.

Divine eternal awareness – when everything within us is in cooperation with the flow of life itself, with the inevitable, with what IS.

So easy here in this moment, this benediction. So hard there, in distress, the throes of wretchedness.

No crest without the trough, no shadow without the light. Without observation, there is no-thing to be observed.

There’s nothing ‘out there’ apart from your perception of it, is there? Oh dear...

A monarch meanders by, surveying the buffet of dangling fuchsia.

One last baste of breasts and thighs. Tomatoes rule! Time to make a salad. 

Why is there anything at all?