Tag Archives: moving

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Packing Up

Moving out feels much sadder
than moving in, more gladder–
which is poor grammar
for severance of love’s embodied glamour.

Packing up
feels more like packing in
and down,
cutting ties with my own stage,
this playful working space,
for everyday self
and other witnessing life
love
hate
joy
anger
courage
fear
healing
suffering

Not a fabulously grand stage
but my intimate memories
triggered by damp basement
through dusty attic,
inside resonant
and outside growing resilient,
front yard exhibitions
and back yard more inhibited glimmers
and shivers,
dimmers
and emotive rivers

Moving out
without regard for loss
feels too surgical,
masochistic,
violent,
silent shriek of bad faith
loss,
divestment from personal
political
economic
cultural placement
more sacredly cherished
than secularly calculated
in clock time to move on.

My best therapeutic intent
to know I leave this tiny spot of Earth
at least as healthy
and beautiful
as I have found her
while unpacking
in her abandoned
neglected
bramble thorned sadness
inviting my hope-filled gladness
too few years ago.

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And Still We Search

I’ll be turning 68 this spring
and still looking for a health wealthy home.

This feels remarkably like a younger traveler’s game,
with less baggage
and furniture
and tools.

Embarrassing
for an ecotherapist
to be so Earth-habitat unrooted.

Not to indulge in self-shaming,
yet my youngest son,
dependent on EarthTribe to support him
because of physical and verbal dysfunction,
is especially threatened
by Dad’s disability
to seek deep and wide root systems
of affiliation
with natural and spiritual neighbors.

My support system
continues with good faith feedback
that every challenge represents opportunities to learn
and doing so keeps us feeling young,
flexible,
even springy,
optimistic.

I wonder how much older I would feel
if I had never left my family farm birthplace
in Michigan
where this nomad epic wandering
was first inspired
to run into young adulthood
on my own two strong legs
and back
and more orthodox mind.

Now more imaginatively stimulated
by heretical thoughts of a well-cushioned rocker
next to a comforting fire,
surrounded by neighbors,
people
and birds,
squirrels
and rabbits,
chipmunks
and woodchucks,
fox
and shy coyotes,
wild turkeys
and horses
and cattle,
sheep
and goats,
mother trees
and lilac bushes,
a blue lake
and a green alpine mountain,
a shade speckled rocky river…
And still I search
for compassionate companions
on this daily revolving journey
through Earth’s nutrition nurturing seasons
active and dormant,
light with rain and snow,
sometimes feeling far too fast
and sometimes anciently slow…

And still we search,
my son and I,
for yet another right place to go.

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Greetings to a Profane Space

A new home feels slightly pregnant
with possibility
yet empty of sacred reality

Not yet any echoing memories
of bumps on stairs,
late night scraping chairs
stuffed with familiar intimates.

Organic warmth sacrificed with each move,
attenuation of sacred relationships
with a new view,
a different character of silence,
more inscrutable
than mere absence of familiar sounds left behind.

Each move a commencement
toward a renewing sense of home
and incarnation
of ego-self within eco-other
identity
nondually co-arising
toward a more sacred place.

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CoArising Transitions

Who do we invite this me to be today,
here and now planning for our next re-arising era
toward death’s patient resolution,
graceful resonance?

Is there some supermagical meaning
in more recent unfortunate events
capable of reading mystical tea leaves,
the web of palms rooted in life’s soul of Time,
in some way that would tip us toward discarding
memories of subsistence economies,
shortages of value,
insufficient wealth of health,
to transform some new place into nirvana,
a WinWin home for all
with sensory full-consciousness challenges,
suffering,
margiinalization,
poverty,
over-fueled wilting?

What is distinct about your vocation,
embedded in our co-operating mission?

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Summer’s Stormy Move

It started the 8th of June

moving away from too familiar

into too alien,

finding no sane oasis between.

 

Vibrant greens relentlessly fade

to wilting monochromatic drought.

Brown patches emerge with dulled loss

of what might have been a family

an ecological home

a pasture for aging bones,

hinky synapses flaring tornadoes

of heated defeat.

 

Boxes realign themselves

incomprehensibly hiding any value

in their move

from what could have been here

if not left there

where fading memories survive

my loss of presence.

 

Bags batter

bursting malignant neglect.

Chairs no longer fit

for seating hot tempers

of displaced despair.

Dust defecates destiny.

 

A house that should be home

to those grateful for its care;

downsizes redemptive purgation

into shrinking violence,

invisible,

screaming silent strangling sensory strings

slipping

sparkling vents glaring

glacially through stagnant July.

 

Then,

early evening spills thick black.

Tall elder treetops sway

with hope of cathartic wildness,

drama of release

from petulant

radiant

hot.

 

Lightning rolls in thunderous waving walls

and back again in falling grace drops.

Transition storms

through pilgrim soul’s discontented purgatory

in space without place

house without home

faith without hope

place with cavernous time,

mindful without passion.

 

Earth’s sky roars dark wet flashy passion.

Wild yeast superlatively shredding domesticated culture’s skin,

bleaching dark passions from dry-cracked crevices.

 

“Abatement is not removal!”

wild Wicked cackles demented delight.

“If transitions were regenetic

then nomads would rule,

pilgrims would land in paradise estates

with coincidental karmic confidence.”

 

The storm abates,

drought removed.

Thunder claps farewell.

Brief time

now

search evening’s rainbow

before hazing horizon

rolls over light’s last gasp.

As night promises peace,

Thunder cracks and shakes one last reminder.

Serenity is not always sanity.

 

Promise smiles teardrops

on hot tin roofs.

 

 

 

 

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