when my beliefs
fall around me
when my body
aches with the
weight of the years
when i long for
the pains of this
to be washed
from me with the
down my windows
when this gray morning
is somehow comforting
to the withering one within
i turn again
to that which
has sustained me
over the years
the words that arise
from somewhere and
sprinkle down around me
like an oil of blessing
and in the scribbling
before i begin to fade
back into the
that is my
i find that
what i know i must do
yet am somehow
paralyzed from doing
a lighter thing
that alights upon
to whisper of what
it can be
My door is not always open.
Sometimes I lock it up tight,
pull a chair into the shadows, and turn off all the lights.
I wrap my hands around the warmth of a cup of green tea.
I sit and I sip and I ponder the mystery that is me.
I do not answer the door.
I do not get up for the phone.
For beck and call love to conspire against any time alone.
The mug is cold and empty now.
The door unlocked again.
Having been a friend to myself I can now be a friend to friend.
November 2, 2007
Lately, here in the early days of the summer, it seems that I have become a reptilian protector of sorts.
While traveling to and from Mission Mountain, I have found Eastern Box turtles and black snakes on the road before me. At some risk to myself, I have stopped to pick up or otherwise assist these vulnerable journeyers towards making a safe crossing.
One snake in particular was not happy at being disturbed. It coiled to strike and was loathe to move anywhere with me standing over it blocking the warm sun, but eventually it too made its way into the woods on the edge of the road.
These experiences remind me again that I came here to this place to learn what it means to be a slow mover.
In the midst of a life that is full and a society that gets faster and louder by the day, the quiet of these hills and the depth of thought that has gone into and still goes into creating this space envelopes me.
These creatures speak to me and say that it is okay to be slow. They tell me that slow moving is dangerous at times and we need others to assist us in life’s more vulnerable crossings. They teach me that I am not always happy at being moved. I coil to strike or crawl into my shell, but history of relationship and communal living ask that I cross over.
If I am to continue to be on the journey, then there are times when I must allow others to care for me and to move me from the warm sun of complacency. And I in return am to do the same.
(excerpt from a June 2001 essay)
Journal entry February 6, 2000
I must choose where to put my resources.
I will look very carefully at what I say yes to.
When I first began this blog, I had one simple goal. Long ago, when I first began to journal, I decided to write at least one thing each day. It was a good discipline and as long as I did not obsess (which is quite easy for me to do) it was a good idea as well.
I wanted to do the same with Slow Mover.
A sort of daily confessional with you, dear reader, as my priest.
Honesty. Vulnerability. A constant log of worries, ideas, thoughts.
Alas, I have been remiss. But you have kept reading and so I return.
So instead of wallowing in the numbness of an unfulfilled, unrealistic expectation (another in the long list of broken personal vows), I have returned.
To write. To pray. To hope. The truth (and the gunk) will out. It sure doesn’t do me any good to keep it inside.
So father, mother, sister, brother, reader, friend;
Hear my confession.