My hut has a dirt floor, basically,
(as I stopped running
the vacuum
at some point in recent time).
If paper counts as leaves,
the leaves make comforting drifts
astride the pathway
from my hut to the outhouse.
I think my style of housekeeping lately reflects my desire to live simply, in a natural environment.
Spiders and moths are my constant companions,
and I try to stay out of their way,
knowing the good work they do,
in keeping things safe,
and gravitating toward the moon.
I applaud them,
and mostly try to stay
out of their way.
(although, truth be told,
their way is a wonderful,
curious, and magical way,
that I suspect I would do
well to follow)
There are curious smells that drift in from the forest,
and varied and curious pockets of decay,
and growth from within the decay.
(I suspect my gut flora is in really good shape)
For whatever task I find myself engaged in,
the forest offers useful tools and curiosities to interact with,
making the way a wonder of
achievement, and
a joy to behold,
on a moment’s notice.
My ear’s love of novelty is satisfied
by the variety of sound environments,
in a plethora of timbres and tones and textures,
that exist within these spaces,
right here at my fingertips.
(It’s kind of amazing)
There are pools here and there where I see my reflection,
well enough, from various angles.
Not perfectly clear, but
clear enough. I recognize
my appearance,
just enough.
My sleeping bag smells like me,
(as it should be),
and I bathe occasionally in a waterfall,
where the rocks beneath my feet are a bit slippery.
I’m engaged in clearing a space around
my sleeping bag, so the dust
doesn’t get in.
(It’s going well enough)
The voices of my ancestors are very close,
and I can tune in to them at any moment,
at my whimsy.
They’ve always been there, and I’m
thankful for their many
myriad reminders.
(close, but not too close)
I’m finding myself increasingly accepting
of mother earth, in her endless and curious and
sometimes baffling and overwhelming variety and craft.
I’m finding myself accepting, increasingly,
of father sky’s demands for attention,
his ever predictable and demanding attempts at overwhelming my attention,
with his hasty attempts at craft.
(good enough attempts at craft,
blunt though they are)
I’m finding myself loving the infinite variety,
and increasingly overwhelming subtlety of my children’s directed attention, and attentional arcs, and disengagement from attentional arcs.
(craft is in their design)
In the shapes and colors and sounds and smells and textures around me,
I am reminded of my friends and relations.
(and it occurs to me)
I love visiting my friends in their zen temple environments,
but I seem to be made to live in a more natural environment.
At least for now.
Thanks for bearing witness with me.
Thanks for listening. Thanks for being flexible. Thanks for being changeable with me.
Everything changes.
