My friends and I climbed all day
to reach the summit ...
where the unseen air
moves the prayer flags
in a dance
that joins the infinite
with the finite -
the visible world
with the invisible realms ...
beyond perception.
I sit on a large rock face
overlooking the world.
Out of the palm of my hand
I extract the splinters
I gathered
spinning the circular frame
of the prayer wheel
over zealously
this morning.
It was my attempt
to turn the wheel,
overturn the central axis
of my fate
and confirm the end
of my karmic life cycles.
I draw out
the wood and metal
embedded into my hand
with great respect,
with the same forgiveness
gifted to any module ritual.
I press my palm
to express what was
further pressured
into me
from the outside,
from the push
in the climb
to these new heights.
I inhale deeply
stinging my lungs
and chapping my throat.
I am very cold
and wrap my handkerchiefs
tightly around my wrists
to seal my cuffs.
I have no buttons,
I gifted them away to someone
who treasured them more than I.
Yesterday I watched an Elder,
a sightless lady
focused intently on her worship -
her vision was impaired
yet the sanctity of her faith
was not blind.
She turned over,
end to end,
each one of her prayer beads
only to stop, once -
to grab my arm
to capture and hold my attention.
I held her hand in mine
and I felt her textures -
her sunny skin burnt-golden
and the creases of her smiles.
Her heart caressed
my purple corduroy coat,
she had a fierce grip,
as unrelenting as her determination
to live out her life
on the terms of her own devotion.
The buttons on my coat cuff
resembled her prayer beads,
and each time her hand found a button,
she turned it over
smiling as she passed it
between her fingers.
Each button was treated sacrosanct,
sensed as if it held a beaded memory
and the mere touch of it
released a familiar store
of past sights and sensations -
treasured relics from her
boxed and buried past.
I felt her touch,
her fingertips brushed
the softness of my fabric.
I felt her sound,
her prayers penetrated
past my exterior coat
into my padded inner-lining.
I wished my coat sleeve had more buttons,
offerings for her to redeem
along each step in her Soul's search.
I sat down beside her
and I took her free hand,
then I glided my fingers
over the gilded pads of her fingertips.
I traced her configuration,
the structural arrangements of her parts,
the concentric circles
to reach the summit ...
where the unseen air
moves the prayer flags
in a dance
that joins the infinite
with the finite -
the visible world
with the invisible realms ...
beyond perception.
I sit on a large rock face
overlooking the world.
Out of the palm of my hand
I extract the splinters
I gathered
spinning the circular frame
of the prayer wheel
over zealously
this morning.
It was my attempt
to turn the wheel,
overturn the central axis
of my fate
and confirm the end
of my karmic life cycles.
I draw out
the wood and metal
embedded into my hand
with great respect,
with the same forgiveness
gifted to any module ritual.
I press my palm
to express what was
further pressured
into me
from the outside,
from the push
in the climb
to these new heights.
I inhale deeply
stinging my lungs
and chapping my throat.
I am very cold
and wrap my handkerchiefs
tightly around my wrists
to seal my cuffs.
I have no buttons,
I gifted them away to someone
who treasured them more than I.
Yesterday I watched an Elder,
a sightless lady
focused intently on her worship -
her vision was impaired
yet the sanctity of her faith
was not blind.
She turned over,
end to end,
each one of her prayer beads
only to stop, once -
to grab my arm
to capture and hold my attention.
I held her hand in mine
and I felt her textures -
her sunny skin burnt-golden
and the creases of her smiles.
Her heart caressed
my purple corduroy coat,
she had a fierce grip,
as unrelenting as her determination
to live out her life
on the terms of her own devotion.
The buttons on my coat cuff
resembled her prayer beads,
and each time her hand found a button,
she turned it over
smiling as she passed it
between her fingers.
Each button was treated sacrosanct,
sensed as if it held a beaded memory
and the mere touch of it
released a familiar store
of past sights and sensations -
treasured relics from her
boxed and buried past.
I felt her touch,
her fingertips brushed
the softness of my fabric.
I felt her sound,
her prayers penetrated
past my exterior coat
into my padded inner-lining.
I wished my coat sleeve had more buttons,
offerings for her to redeem
along each step in her Soul's search.
I sat down beside her
and I took her free hand,
then I glided my fingers
over the gilded pads of her fingertips.
I traced her configuration,
the structural arrangements of her parts,
the concentric circles
that her uniqueness carved
and printed into the flesh
and printed into the flesh
that covered her jointed bones.
I felt the fabric of our universality,
the pattern that had built up over time,
the relationship of elements
in our bodies to our substance
and systems of being.
My wrist clicked
I felt the fabric of our universality,
the pattern that had built up over time,
the relationship of elements
in our bodies to our substance
and systems of being.
My wrist clicked
from the dampness,
and my breath slowed
and my breath slowed
from the high altitude.
I bent myself into a whispering position.
I shivered from the chill in the ground.
I wrapped myself tighter
I bent myself into a whispering position.
I shivered from the chill in the ground.
I wrapped myself tighter
whenever my body shuttered.
I found my voice, I quivered.
Blind chance and cold made me sound
like a chanter, a singer of town cries.
Softly and cautiously
I found my voice, I quivered.
Blind chance and cold made me sound
like a chanter, a singer of town cries.
Softly and cautiously
from my mouth spilled
the stuttered lyrics
the stuttered lyrics
of an ancient poem -
about a mountain that had a temple,
which housed a Monk,
who told a story -
about a mountain that had a temple,
which housed a monk, who told a story.
about a mountain that had a temple,
which housed a Monk,
who told a story -
about a mountain that had a temple,
which housed a monk, who told a story.
The Monk's story was about
a mountain that had a temple,
which housed a monk who told a story.
Each time she asked
what the story was about
She giggled
She giggled
as I repeated the poem.
She knew her part
She knew her part
and I knew mine.
We both played our roles
We both played our roles
and found fun in the game.
We were philosophical
about life and meshed.
We were fabric
woven together
at regular intervals,
a system related,
a system related,
connected parts,
paths that crossed
paths that crossed
in the manner of strings
threaded into a net.
We talked and she prayed
that someday ...
We would all Self-realize,
remember to see, that ...
We are all connected,
strands married in the web of life.
~~ Other People's Fingerprints ~~
Henrik Johan Ibsen sometime after 1828 wrote;
"If you want to be of value to society,
there is no better way
than to forge yourself
into a vessel for its use."
We talked and she prayed
that someday ...
We would all Self-realize,
remember to see, that ...
We are all connected,
strands married in the web of life.
~~ Other People's Fingerprints ~~
Henrik Johan Ibsen sometime after 1828 wrote;
"If you want to be of value to society,
there is no better way
than to forge yourself
into a vessel for its use."
