for St. Patrick’s Day….
The winter-bare branches wore green;
not full summer sleeves,
but more than a blush.
Smaragdine: yesterday’s word of the day…
a foreign word if ever there was one,
sounding like some cheek-curtling dessert
of the Vikings,
rather than one that might–anon–
rename these purple, high-desert hills.
Hmmm…I imagine a coffee table book,
Smog to Smaragdine:
The Fashion Evolution of Global Warming.
This is not a poem…
just a bleary morning’s musing,
a means to pour the pollen-silt onto a page,
and clear my senses for the unrestrained Spring Revue
of birdsong and brightening sun:
Warming’s happy chorus of
M.L. 3/ 18/17
I woke into the Bliss of still body and silence. I brought a dream to the surface to remember; but I lay in long, dozing while my various faculties coalesced in the here and now, and I let go of its thread… let it sink back behind a curtain of open prayer silently intoned, earnestly dispatched in the Morse code of my heart… and repopulated my waking story.
I knew that as I stirred the uncertainties and malaise seeded in the body would swirl into awareness, but for now the pond was clear and still, and I felt the prayers were automatic in the intimate cathedral of that silence. Now that I’m up and stirring outside my womb of a room, I hear the wind swirling and whipping, and I hear the warble of a robin augering through it into the still space of this house, silent but for me, the refrigerator, and the high electric hum of these walls.
This silence, the teeming silence of New Mexico, its sometimes-deafening implosiveness, seems important for me. Somehow, over the years, I have been gifted with—or brokered for myself from beyond personal and conscious conjuring—homes of remove and silence. It must be important. But if my mind makes it important, something to be valued or needed, it feels vulnerable to attack, confiscation, subject to the deprivations that follow on unworthiness and greed (all fear).
I am in perfection here, yet with fear always a shade away. What a set-up! I can only live with an open hand…on a precarious perch over a precipice of unknown future. This perch would seem to be the maidenhead of a good ship of the Greater Self, steered by Karma and exigencies to which I am only occasionally privy.
I ask into the silence, again and again, what is mine to do? … Sensing (right or wrong) that I am still responsible for adjusting the sails of my conscious attention and intention, and plagued by the sailors’ lore of shipwreck, by the belief that I can do it wrong and that catastrophe, while in a boat on these capricious seas, is a matter of when, not if.
But here I am, doing and praying into a sea of love, humility and merit, offering up the ego’s anchors, forgiving their weight and their tendency to catch on things and startle awake the lightly sleeping belief in “Dragons.”
My last post touched on magic, and a moment when events cohered into a beautiful sort of Celtic knot of synchronicity.
Only a couple of days later, I look back upon another day’s events, which flaunt mystery but so far flout the same crystalline clarity of message. Still, they present a poignant aura of magic amid the mystery.
On Friday, a friend reported to me that she had been lunching Thursday at a beloved Santa Fe eatery, Jambo, only minutes before a confused little old lady had driven into the storefront of the restaurant, demolishing the table where they had been seated and injuring a number of people. They were just driving off when a friend of her husband, who had been seated at the next table, texted to tell them what had happened.
We read similar news accounts often enough, normally with an accustomed (or protective) remove. Knowing that my friend had been right there made for a more chilling read, and yet, also uplifting, given the manager’s words:
No one was sitting at the tables by the window when the crash occurred, Swaleh Obo said. “It’s crazy. God is great. … “It could have been a couple dead.” (Santa Fe New Mexican)
I later remembered that I, myself, had driven through that parking lot that day– not once, but twice. Historically, I go for weeks or months without doing so at all. It was just before 4pm when I recall passing the restaurant and noting that a well-coiffed fellow in a silk blue suit was standing facing an unmanned camera on a tripod in the parking lot outside the place. I wondered in passing what special event was getting attention there. My eyes were not attracted by any conspicuous wreckage, which may have been obscured by cars. No emergency vehicles lingered to raise alarm.
And then my attention was drawn to a rather eccentrically dressed woman (in a mink coat and warm-ups) walking along the sidewalk toward other shops, and my previous wonderings were abandoned. My interest in her is curious in itself, as I rarely linger on such human oddities as I drive. I now remember her holding my attention inordinately long.
I learned this morning that another, unrelated friend had actually been inside Jambo during the incident. He escaped with only a scrape or two. Others, I gather, had broken bones. He is still processing the experience. And, in a far subtler way, I am too.
It was eerie the I had been drawn to that location twice that day, ostensibly on other business, and that two of my friends had been on site. No other “logical connection” can be drawn, however.
By the following day, Telocote Café, another long-lived Santa Fe eatery, had put the word out that they were donating 15% of this weekend’s proceeds toward the swift reconstruction of Jambo! My sense of Santa Fe as a community of heartful souls was heightened by these reports. As if an invisible player was more palpably strumming living threads that weave through Santa Fe, and among its diverse populace, linking us all below our normal radar.
If there were anything I could eat at Telocote, I’d have driven into town today and patronized the place — for the first time. I later heard that Jambo Café’s food truck was parked outside their wounded store front and serving today. If I’d known, I might have scraped together my pennies for a mid-day Afro-Cuban indulgence: a spot of fish or goat stew.
I presume opportunity is still there. If you are in the neighborhood, do stop by. Everything on the menu is always delectable. But something tells me that right now the extra helping of good will—the fresh seasonings of poignancy and pathos –will add special savor. Bon appetite.
Forget counting calories. Count your blessings!