My hut has a dirt floor, basically,
(as I stopped running
the vacuum
at some point in recent time).<\/p>\n\n\n\n
If paper counts as leaves,
the leaves make comforting drifts
astride the pathway
from my hut to the outhouse.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I think my style of housekeeping lately reflects my desire to live simply, in a natural environment.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
(although, truth be told,
their way is a wonderful,
curious, and magical way,
that I suspect I would do
well to follow)<\/p>\n\n\n\n
There are curious smells that drift in from the forest,
and varied and curious pockets of decay,
and growth from within the decay.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
(I suspect my gut flora is in really good shape)<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
(It’s kind of amazing)<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
(It’s going well enough)<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
(close, but not too close)<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I’m finding myself increasingly accepting
of mother earth, in her endless and curious and
sometimes baffling and overwhelming variety and craft.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
(good enough attempts at craft,
blunt though they are)<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
(craft is in their design)<\/p>\n\n\n\n
In the shapes and colors and sounds and smells and textures around me,
I am reminded of my friends and relations.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
(and it occurs to me)<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I love visiting my friends in their zen temple environments,
but I seem to be made to live in a more natural environment.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
At least for now.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Thanks for bearing witness with me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Thanks for listening. Thanks for being flexible. Thanks for being changeable with me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Everything changes.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"