Love my last and greatest companion this heaviness will pass… just a salt wind from the ocean stale air before the storm that seems can never break will break I thought once that the source of our creativity was the height of our joy — but then I found it difficult to write …
Here's the script: from an early age your interest in intimately knowing what my daughter would call the Greater Spirit (I like that) drew you to science, to the arts, to T'ai chi and yoga, to cooking and foods, to learn, to learn, to learn. And along that wild and sinuous path, you do learn – or …
the door I return to
and must pass through
It is nine in the morning. With those first words, I have given you the freshness, the low rays of the sun, the clear skies of so many mornings. It is Saturday: I have given you some stillness and freedom from Purpose. There is the faintest breeze, in fact, which plays around the drying …
The moon poured its smiling face silver over the yard, and you moved your hand an inch, then another inch, then held my cool fingers in yours that were so warm.
"I was born in a suburb outside of Pittsburgh, two blocks off the rail line – before it was abandoned, and then reclaimed for pedestrians and bicycles – so that the 7:45 and the 8:30 made audible bookends to my bedtime, first calling ahead, then calling behind, and finally the stuttered step of the cars …
There are too many waterfalls here; the crowded streams hurry too rapidly down to the sea, and the pressure of so many clouds on the mountaintops makes them spill over the sides in soft slow-motion, turning to waterfalls under our very eyes. — For if those streaks, those mile-long, shiny, tearstains aren't waterfalls yet, in …
A certain slant of light or the softness of the breeze tells you; the brightness of the birdsong tells you it is morning. Most of the world is waking now, refreshed, while the night shift yawns and paws its way to bed. The light turns green. The light turns red. The morning traffic pauses. As …
Tonight I was sitting in a pile of wood shavings, they fell like heavy flakes of snow as I carved away layers of beech, until I was adrift. A seated Buddha is concealed within what was originally a modest 6″ block of roughcut. The Buddha’s always within… I know that… you just need the patience …
There is nothing in midnight but a fleck of ink on the otherwise empty face of the clock, or an electrical pulse which dis-integrates into a soft dash of light in an otherwise seamless river of life. We make the marks against which we measure our lives and call them time: they do not exist …
Some words seem to be born of an inner and shared light… For me they may arrive after the stillness of meditation; but just as often the softest and most human words are accompanied or are led by a melody. All creation is frequency, is a movement of waves, from the highest vibrations of quasars …
The language of touch is one where two stories are spoken together, and two energies which by nature are completely distinct from one another, move toward and recognize themselves