IF there is no place like HOME,
then maybe that’s why it’s taken 14 years for me to pause long enough, and become open enough, to hear that word whisper and shout, sweat and sleep, and be so eloquently expounded upon by Chris my therapist, Dharma teachers, poets and friends, and embodied in the eyes of my wife.
The thought of it being an “inside job” a mindful architecture of breath and body, certainly resonates deeply with me because of my clear commitment to practicing a Buddhist path, where meditation and mindfulness are foundational to everything.
The path is where context and content meet and recognize they both have the same address, which is why ours has CHANGED.
A brief history is now in order. Here, I’ve chosen to use excerpts from four new poems, which have become my personal template for this trauma based gift of ecstasy. They will follow this brief description.
Three months ago we were informed that our friends who we’ve rented our farmhouse from for the past 5 years, had decided to sell the place. Now for folks who aren’t familiar with ‘the place” which I have named my “Paradise Empire,” the best way to visually understand the power of such BEAUTY is by looking at the pictures on my website and Facebook, and then reflect on these words.
From “Farewell Paradise Empire,"
to the field’s black eye whose lashes of corn flirted with me at dawn
to Main Street’s murmuring eighteen wheels pulsing to the Port. Townsend Ferry
to the dented cushion shaped like my ass holding me silent as a tombstone
to the hardened veins of Virginia Creeper bloodless on the barn’s gray face
to the frigid sea whipping castles at night as I dreamt in the language of driftwood
to the Olympic Mountains hypnotic call to rise above the poor in spirit
From “The Extravagant Trauma Of Travel,”
For five years in the Country of Now
bliss breathed even from lungs on fire,
which is why letting go are not mythical words
found on a realtor’s sign.
It will thunder as our brake lights blink goodbye,
as lightning carves a path through the storm:
some light to see, some heat to burn
our footprints from the field.
Like deer, moaning, in winter’s
first snow, apple fed and fallen,
the half that made it couldn’t save
the other half that didn’t.
From “Forest Made of Words,”
When the house knows you’re leaving it soon,
which explains the dramatic seizures of wind,
temperatures falling, velocity rising,
the prairie becomes a Ouija board
crawling with fingers of Indian bones
writing Sad out of mud.
And finally from “Slot Machine Saints,”
Darling, if the future has something to do with
dreaming at night on Anchor Drive, no longer
frozen by the now you must leave, or scorched
by the flames of them leaving us, maybe in the
absence of chill and burn we can stand naked
and bow to the clock, praying to a god we can trust.
Yesterday we bought a HOME in Oak Harbor.
There we will learn more about HOME, in ways we cannot imagine.
And no one speaks art as the language of HOME better than my beloved Rilke…..
“Surely, all art is the result of one’s having been in danger,
of having gone through an experience all the way to the end.”