Prose & Poetry  2022

Night and the Coming of the Dawn - the Story of Frank the Crow

Frank woke, beady eyes alert in the unaccustomed dark. Nearby, Molly, Jasper, Fred, Curly, and Jess were all sound asleep, as they should be, hunkered in the highest branches of the elm, grasping their respective perches with tenacious claws. In the various levels below, the other twenty or thirty of their crow tribe bobbed, doggedly dreaming while they awaited the arrival of the Prince of Light with his promised kiss...

Frank had been dreaming, as usual, of shiny things - coins, diamond rings, tin foil… Damn! He remembered the time he’d landed on that boy’s head and the bright silver coin had turned out to be nothing but a circle of unpigmented hair in the middle of his crewcut. Mortifying! But of course that had been long ago, when he was a mere fledgling, and this was now, and why was he awake??

Looking around him, he rocked from foot to foot, wondering. The night was cool, the stars winking endlessly in the black depths, and it seemed to him that they were gently beckoning, sending him subtle scents from another world… 

But what was he thinking? He really should not be awake - he was no owl… Ruffling his feathers he shifted his grip, closed his eyes and waited… 

Sleep always came instantly to him, as it did to all his kind, but for some reason, now it was nowhere to be found. At last he gave up, opened his eyes and gazed about him, curious. This wakefulness was bad, no doubt, but he couldn’t deny that it felt rather good. Something beguiling seemed to be afloat in the dark, calling to him, as if the Night were inviting him into herself…

Well why not? Why should owls be the only ones to fly at night? Cautiously, not to wake the others, he spread his wings, pumped them once - and the dark air opened, lifting him like its own child. Then he could no longer resist. With a few powerful wing strokes, he soared up into the night…

Up and up he flew, higher and higher and higher, until the tree where his tribe slept was swallowed in darkness far below. And the luminous night enveloped him, holding him close like a mother, lifting him into herself, opening her secrets to him… 

And the joy of the flight filled him like water overflowing, so that he forgot the world below, forgot about the irresistible imperatives of food and sex and treasure, forgot even about his tribe’s appointed mission of waking the world with their unruly cries.

Up and up he flew, the silent depths breathing all around him, welcoming and endless. The higher he rose, the more effortless his flying became, and there arose in him a reasonless longing, a yearning that was happiness itself, a powerful happiness about all and everything. Perhaps he would have called it “gratitude” if he’d known the word - gratitude for the silent planet below, for the cradle of Space in which the earth slept like a child, wrapped in her mantle of soft air and clouds, and for his tribe and all the sleeping and waking creatures who called the earth their home… 

And all at once a wild crow of delight lept from his own throat, making him laugh in surprise as it ricocheted all across the span of night. And the moon crooned her gleaming melody, and the stars showered the interloper with their luminous voices, and Time took a breath and stopped, listening... And all was well.

Frank never knew how long that endless moment held him, suspended...

But at last something whispered to him that his tribe was stirring down below where the rim of the world was just beginning to glow… And full of gladness, he plunged back down, homeward… 

He came to rest beside his friends just as they were opening their beady eyes, snapping awake (as they did every morning) as the ritual word reached them (as it did every morning) that yes! It was true! Once again, the sun was up! 

And with that, just as they did every morning, Frank and all his tribe, and all the crow tribes everywhere where morning was breaking, exploded into caws of astonishment and joy. Taking to their wings, their raucous cries ringing out all around them in the burgeoning dawn, they flew out all across the great awakening world to break the wonderful news of the Coming of the Light. 

Losing reveries to simplify life

Officially old now at 75, I’m looking back on a life made of fictions - a whole tapestry of them, all woven around a central reverie. It’s funny, but I never really noticed that central reverie until now, when I’ve just watched it uncurl like a snake and go up in smoke.

Whoa! At first watching that was a real bummer - seeing the overriding dream of my entire life swept away, obliterated.

But I swallowed that pill - what else could I do? - and lo and behold, now that it’s done its work, all I have to say is it simplifies things no end.

Let me tell you how my central reverie got torched.

It was what my comfort buddy - the human being I share an apartment and some history with - told me. Just the other day he informed me that he was sorry, but he would soon be disappearing. 

I couldn’t believe it. We had our situation set up really nice, running pretty much on automatic, like a autopay at the bank. Our basic needs were fulfilled without me having to lift a finger or a thought. 

And now, this bombshell - it disarticulated my situation in every possible way. Not only would I have to find a new place to live; far worse, in fact unthinkable, I was losing the main character in my central reverie, my comfort buddy.

My central reverie is something I’ve had with me all my life. It was at the first sign of danger that I created it, long, long ago, when my body was still very small and my experience tiny. I built it and then retreated into it like a snail retreating into its shell. And that’s where I’ve lived my whole life ever since, until just a moment ago.

The reverie was simple: it was all about refuge, being safe. The way I took refuge morphed as I grew - at nursery school I hid under my mother’s chair instead of playing with the other kids; as a teenager I hid in art and music and writing. But when I left home and went away to college, I was too lonely to hide anywhere by myself. That was when I launched my obsessive search for someone who would hide with me: a comfort buddy, with whom I would spawn little comfort buddies, who would comfort me forever! 

And I succeeded! Over the decades I found several comfort buddies, one after another, and spawned several little comfort buddies, and they all did a great job, right up to now, when the last one, a perfect exemplar of comforting, is biting the dust. 

But this time, somehow, I’m not looking for a replacement - I’m just not interested. Somehow the whole dream seems suddenly a bit hollow. Because not even a million comfort buddies can protect me from the void inside me. 

Which leaves me no other option than to stand here, naked, before my personal apocalypse.

At first I couldn’t bear to look, so I kept my eyes shut. And instantly, in spite of myself, I fell into a new reverie, which quickly devolved into a real doozy of a nightmare. Forget that! In a panic, I opened my eyes, first one, then the other… 

And was surprised to find that it’s not so bad being here, exposed. It’s just me, a friendly if clueless consciousness, afloat in this bodily energy field, this living space full of lights and shadows, warmth and tingling, breath going in and out - languid - no hurry…. And the great Silence in the deep center of everything…

Don’t get me wrong - I’m not permanently awake. On the contrary, I’m so used to being asleep that I keep drifting off, stumbling into dark and labyrinthine dreams based on what’s going on around me.

But at least I know now how lovely it is to step into wakefulness for a long, sweet moment. As I said, it’s a wonderful way of simplifying things. No need for intricate plots and schemes and disguises… Even the unknown is less scary with my eyes open…

Love and my crimes against humanity - a tribute to Walt

In my dream, my dead lover Walt and I are in France, traveling with a large group. Walt is bored with a certain woman who talks too much, so when she invites us to her party he says we are busy - which is a lie. 

I go along with the lie, inventing a pressing engagement. That’s when things start to get messy, as others notice that we are still here, when we’ve told them we have to be gone… 

Thinking we really do need to leave, and having somehow gotten separated from Walt, I start looking for him. At first I can’t find him, but then my phone comes glowing to life and shows me his face. 

To my surprise, he seems to be at a big meeting in the town square, along with everyone else. In keeping with the seriousness of the situation, he is wearing a formal white dinner jacket. He looks confused, and I think he is looking for me.

It turns out everyone is looking for me, calling my name. Clueless, I hurry to join them, hoping Walt and I can escape and go on our way. But before I can find him, the woman we lied to confronts me. I start to speak, to defend myself…

Suddenly everything grows silent, and I see Fernando, my dearly beloved friend, approaching. Staring at me in cold appraisal with narrowed eyes, unsmiling and unspeaking, he is pointing a rifle straight at my face, the long barrel wrapped in brown paper. Without taking his eyes off mine, he comes closer, presses the muzzle against my mouth, and keeps on pressing…

“What are you doing? What are you doing???” I scream -

And I die.

The tribunal has ended.

I have defended myself to the best of my ability, have admitted my guilt, and have accepted the judgment of the King.

He tells me: 

You are all things - good and bad, loving and selfish, sensitive and callous, weak and needy and strong and shining. I see no problem.

At that my Deep I wakes up, yawning after her long siesta, and agrees with the King. All is well. There is no contradiction - everything is made of love, just love. The darkness, the fear, the cowardly self-protection, the betrayal - everything is part of the great unfolding web of life, which is simply Love.

All you need is Love… My Deep I can be really corny sometimes. 

My little i, trapped in her own contradictions, doesn’t buy it. 

Wallowing in needy self-loathing, she is dying of guilt and shame. At last she bursts into tears, weeping and weeping, “Let me out of here!”

With her pitiful attention span, of course, she doesn’t last long. After a few moments, seeing that no one is taking her seriously, she gives in and accepts her punishment, which is humbling and embarrassing - because it’s just Love. No one gives a fig whether she deserves it or not.

And so, even having been summarily betrayed and executed for my crimes against humanity, I endeavor to embrace the unity of all things.

There’s simply no other way I can live with myself. 

But the unity of all things was way beyond me when I met Walt. At that point, I was not looking for love. Because I’d already had my “one love,” and that one love had died. So all I was looking for was the comfort of companionship. And maybe a little sex. 

That didn’t keep Walt from loving me. And his love was such a powerful force that after a week or two I couldn’t help loving him back.

Which threw my little i into utter confusion and denial. 

Her problem is that she can’t see more than one thing at a time. And so she simply could not grasp that there could be more than one true love - and that they could both be completely different and equally real. 

But they can be. And so, my dear Walt, I give in. Just as you always insisted, I was - and am - in love with you. 

The day I fell for you is bright in my memory. That day, when I walked in your door and saw you, my heart leapt into my mouth and I kissed you, and shyly offered you my life, not knowing why.

And so we set out on our trek together, slogging through swamps of confusion, climbing peaks of exaltation, frolicking in gardens of longing and delight, getting lost in deserts of distraction…

All the while, I loved you in spite of myself, without admitting it. And my little i was understandably upset with me, because my memory then was so full of other loves and losses - my beautiful Jorge who had died and left me, my wonderful children who had grown up and left me, my past that had slipped out of my grasp and dissolved into the present, like the tide sinking into the sand. But that’s the way it works - we stand on the present and the water of our life sinks into the past and nourishes the earth, rises up as mist, falls as rain, and fills the ocean…

My life with you, dear Walt - amazing lover, grudging philosopher, stubborn materialist - ran its course, our happy little steam burbling down the mountainside, the two of us spilling over and around the rocks and boulders, together and apart in our folly and laughter and earnestness, our loneliness and pain, our guilt and our joy, our capricious self-serving, and our deep simple caring for the world.

You struggled long at the end, in pain and dignity and good humor, until at last, your tender being exhausted, you gently bowed your self to the ground, and the great world rolled off your shoulders, and you were free.

And the world was fine, kept spinning without you, grateful for the vast and passionate love with which you gave it your whole life.

Report from the Trenches - observations after the death of a beloved partner

How real is Anything???

My “reality” changes with whatever I imagine. Fear and hope run me.

Now that I’m “alone,” I’ve been repeatedly overwhelmed by a primal fear of abandonment, imagining myself washed up on some lonely shore, broken and friendless. In those moments I feel such crushing meaninglessness, such darkness. - the future weighs like a poisonous lead, and I am afraid of sinking irretrievably into the darkness - for that, too, is a choice… 

After being under the heel of this bleak state for many days, I manage to compound its horrors, adding mortal fear to mortal fear, by convincing myself I am dying. 

I mean, I give myself good reason. In my queasy, on-the-edge state at being suddenly alone (no more alone than ever, but more apparently so) - I lose my appetite and therefore also lose a little weight. 

Then, when I consult my doc about another minor issue, she tells me my issue is probably nothing - but, “if you also have any unexplained weight loss, be sure and let us know - it could be cancer.” So of course you know the story…

In a panic, I determine to force myself to eat more, so as to gain weight and prove myself immortal again - and I lo and behold, I eat so much that I gain three pounds overnight!

What a relief! the whole world is now beautiful. Safely immortal again, I am no longer oppressed by my solitude - instead it is a peaceful, lovely and privileged state… 

So it seems that, swimming in illusion, we flounder “merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily” down the stream of our dream life….

It really is quite hilarious and diverting watching “myself” - an entire fiction - tumbling and floating and twisting and turning down the emotional rapids of my life, full of angst and hope, deep dark foreboding and lovely fantasies…. 

And NONE of it is real, save the serene outlook of the kind Watcher (who is also myself) who so graciously stands aside, observing the “little I” as she takes the bait again and again, clinging first to one shred of illusion, then to another. Not that the Watcher is cruel - apparently this is just the only way the little I can learn to see beauty and meaning in this strange entrapment called “Life.”

Whatever the reason, somehow both of us are fascinated with this show.

When will we tire of this entertainment??? 

Never, as long as the little i insists that she alone and helpless in the clutches of the vicious twins, Time and Death. Which of course, she is, if she believes she is.

But is Time not exactly this stream of illusions, this self-perpetuating round-robin of pain and pleasure, from which, with all its helpless heart, the little i yearns to escape? 

And can it not be possible that Death - whether before or after the body dies - might offer just what we need: a moment for the little i to just let go, and fall into the arms of the Kind Watcher?

River Light

This is an ancient story about humanity and most other species. It's a story about holding on and letting go - the story behind all wars and violence, all failure and despair. And since I am human, it's my story too, as it is very likely yours. But it was only yesterday that I really noticed it playing out in my personal life. 

You may have heard how people trap monkeys in some parts of Asia and Africa. They put a banana inside a cavity, say in a tree trunk, leaving a hole just large enough for a monkey’s hand. A monkey comes along, and it can’t resist. It reaches in and grabs the banana - and then it’s stuck. It can’t pull its hand out of the hole and run away, because it simply cannot let go.

That’s me.

I simply cannot let go.

In my case, it’s not a banana I’ve grabbed onto - it’s love. Because somehow early on I became convinced that in order to be happy and live a good life, I needed love from other people. So ever since then, I’ve gone through life looking for people to love, and when I find someone I fancy, I grab onto them like the monkey grabs onto its banana, and I won’t - or actually can’t - let go…

I’m not saying I’m a bad person, or even unusual in any way. For whatever reason, this seems to be the way most of us are made. Not that we are all obsessed with love - but we all want something. We humans are creatures of desire, constantly on the lookout for what we want, and when we find the right object, we grab it and hold on. The only thing that varies from person to person is the object of desire, which can be anything - money, power, prestige, fame, love, sex, comfort, success, knowledge, enlightenment…

For me, like I said, it’s always been love. I hold onto my loved ones, and if they resist, I hold on even tighter. That’s what I’ve always done. Which of course can quickly become uncomfortable, especially when a loved one starts to feel trapped. Then things can get strained fast, and suffering can ensue…

Knowing this, I’ve told myself for years that I really must learn to let go - and I keep thinking I’m starting to do that. But it’s tricky. Even when I believe I’ve finally let go once and for all, it turns out I’m just pretending… 

Today this story came to a head for me. I’d been mulling yet again over a favorite tense relationship, reviewing my latest strategy for proving to both of us that I’ve finally let go for good, when reality slammed me in the face. Suddenly I saw, with blinding clarity, that I had not been letting go at all, but only putting on a show of letting go - in order to keep holding on. 

That was when I saw for the first time what I believe Silo meant by “profound and essential change” - and saw what a staggering, impossible proposal it is. 

Because if I’m right, what profound and essential change really means is completely turning around the way I look at myself, at others, and at the world. Instead of seeing myself as needing love - or anything else for that matter - I need to see myself as already filled with everything I could ever need, including love. 

This is a change so fundamental that, wonderful as it sounds, I can see no way to achieve it short of dying, of losing myself entirely. And even if I wanted to, the grasping little “me” who pretends to let go in order to hold on tighter could never, on its own, “do” such a thing - it would be simply impossible… 

Yet making this impossible change is clearly the only way forward - the only way to be true to myself, to those I love, and to the world…

Seeing this impossible predicament, I found myself utterly and completely at a loss.

As I often do in difficult moments, I walk down to visit my friend River and ask his advice. 

Here in Portland, the Willamette flows north - flows and flows, brown-gold, through the middle of the city. Twelve bridges cross him, and he is wide and strong, and full of fishes. I love walking  beside his deep waters, even on such a warm day, in this summer of ever more violent heat…

Usually the River’s calm comforts me quickly. But today, even after walking beside him for some time, I am still clueless, filled with a glum foreboding. Because I can see so clearly what must be done, and I know I cannot do it.

At last I stop and go to look out over the water. Leaning my forearms on the smooth metal railing atop the balustrade, I look out across the River… Impassive and joyful, it flows and sparkles in the sun, the dozens of boats frolicking on its surface making not a dimple in its trajectory.

As I look, little by little I begin to feel calmer, until at last my gaze wanders down to the green-bronze wavelets 20 feet below me…

And there I notice something intriguing. From a certain point on the water below me, just downstream from where I’m standing, I can clearly see a fan of golden light opening outward across the river. How curious! I stand there studying this phenomenon, this trembling fan of golden beams that opens out like a peacock’s tail of light, twinkling and dancing across the water… What on earth could it be?!

I squint at the center point, the place the rays seem to be coming from, trying to make out what it is - and then it hits me. How strange! I must be wrong - it’s too ridiculous - but as I keep looking, I can see no other explanation… Preposterous as it seems, the center from which all the rays are emerging is nothing more or less than the rippling shadow of my own head. Pouring outward in a great fanning arc from my shadow-head is a great crown of light beams, shafts of golden light casting themselves out and out across the river like the beams of the setting sun, or the golden rays emanating from the heads of the saints in old paintings. If the opposite shore were not there, those rays would stretch to infinity… 

How can this be?!? There has to be some simple scientific explanation - some well-known silliness, some optical illusion that everyone laughs at. But if there is, I don’t want to know about it. 

Because, even if this phenomenon is something every school child already knows about - some cute and very explicable trick of light rays - for me it can have a great and liberating meaning. Why not take it that way: as evidence that I am far more than just a body with needs. That I am a being made of Light, a being from whom radiates an aura so powerful that even my shadow emits its own light? If that is true, then I have no choice but to redefine myself and my way of looking at myself and the world. No longer can I imagine myself to be a limited being, a needy creature who has to depend on others for her wellbeing. Instead I must take on the stature of an energy being, a being of Light, with the gaze proper to such a being  - a gaze full of peace and generosity and the joy of giving…zzzzz

Ridiculous and grandiose as it might seem, the possibility moves me deeply. Confounded and overcome with inarticulate emotion, I can only stand gazing down at the water through the tears flooding down my face. 

Because what greater evidence do I want? This has nothing to do with reason, with accepting the worldview of the socioeconomic system we live in. Silo urges us to “learn to recognize the signs of the sacred” inside us and around us. No matter how silly could this not be such a sign?

I know I could find some rational explanation on Google - but I discard the possibility. Much more interesting to simply accept this phenomenon as an answer, a response from the Profound to my plea for help.

And so I accept. Today and tomorrow, again and again, every time I lose my hold on “the golden thread” of my Destiny, I resolve to choose this path of hope anew. Today and tomorrow, whenever I forget who I am - or who I can be, where I am going - I promise to tickle myself into leaping into the void, knowing that I really can fly, and that if I forget how, I need only call out to the playful deities of River and Wind and Sun, and their wise cohorts, Peace, Force, and Joy. Perhaps that way, gently and little by little, failing again and again and beginning again and again, I can transform my way of being in the world. Perhaps that way, little by little, all of us helping each other, we will all be able to make the profound and essential change and surrender to the unfathomable love keeps us all evolving toward the Light.

The simple truth…

Yesterday, finding myself in turmoil, I walked down to the River, as I usually do when reality is giving me problems. This time it was my most intimate reality that was acting up: my significant other, Walt, had just told me he was getting ready to make his exit from this world. Not that he wants to leave - he’s delighted with living, and would love to stay a while, as I would love him to. It’s just that his body isn’t cooperating… 

So I went to the River and sat on the floating dock and talked to the joyous, imperturbable, flowing waters. I sat for a long time, and shed tears, and wrote down lots of thoughts and feelings. Especially about how Walt had told me it was “hard” for him to be facing his own death all of a sudden up close, instead of sometime off in the future where we usually place it. 

It’s hard for me too, the thought of losing him - and I can’t even imagine what it will be like when I lose myself. But I temper that harshness by telling myself, most insistently, that death is not the end. 

Walt, on the other hand, has no such pretensions. To me, such a lack of faith would mean suffering. So I determined to steer him toward my own faith - as much to make me feel better as to help him. 

So there I sat, thinking and writing, trying to come up with some way to give him my faith…

But nothing I wrote convinced me. So at last I stopped and asked the River: How can I help my love find peace?

And the River said, How should I know? Why don’t you go ask him?

So I went home, and that night I asked him. I took a bit of a round about approach, but I was going to get there eventually: Can you tell me, I asked him, what you mean when you say “it’s hard”? 

My plan was to listen understandingly, and then, somehow, gently lead him to my own wellsprings of faith…

But he doesn’t speak that language. He speaks Worldese. He told me quite simply that it was hard for him to tell his friends and loved ones that he is soon to die. It’s hard for him partly because he’ll miss being here, with all of us; but more than anything it’s hard because he doesn’t want us to suffer. That’s what he really cares about. Us.

Since I barely understand worldese, I didn’t know what to say. I kissed him goodnight and went to sleep.

At 4:30 the next morning, I woke. Something or someone must have explained things to me in my dreams, because now I understood. I turned on the light and wrote the following - it’s a bit over-dramatic, but I was scarcely awake:

After talking with you last night, my love, my old self died. So now I am giving you my beating heart, that you might live.

All my life I’ve wanted to be strong and good, a helper - the one with the answers, the one who holds the magic key, the one who rescues you from the burning ship of your life.

And now - surprise - you have no need of being rescued! On the contrary, you are ready to go down with your ship, happy with your open heart.

When you said that all you care about now is the people you love - your children, your friends, me, and all the suffering world you’re leaving behind - I thought you were just avoiding something deeper. I was sure you must be suffering inside, fearful of the end of everything… 

But when I probed, asking you, “What exactly are you feeling” and “how can I help,” and all you told me was that you wanted me to hold you when you take your leave - that undid me. All night I held you in my heart…

And I woke knowing that was your truth,  simple and complete. You are as loving and caring a person as I’ve ever met - as selfless as the day is luminous. And when I saw that that was all, that was your whole truth and that there was nothing more, no hidden fear for your own little self, only your deep, vast and joyful love - it broke my heart. 

That was when the old “me” had to give up the ghost. Now that old “me” - the one who wanted to be the wisest, kindest, strongest, the chosen one who saves all souls, the quintessential giver, helper, and fixer - has dwindled into a meek little person who simply sits dreaming beside the generous void…

But what a relief! Because now there’s nothing for me to do for you or for myself or for anyone. All I can do is be still, be silent, be no one at all - just be present, with and for you, as we watch love fill the world. 

Our little selves will not be the ones who go to “the place where we do not die” - because that place is not of their world. 

But you and I can glimpse that place even from here, if we look with the eyes of love. That is where we both are going, dear one, and where we will one day meet everyone who walks with us this path of love.

Outside and Inside

Outside 

in the frozen world

the wind in the bare trees

plays the harp of mourning

and the flute

of weeping

But inside 

we are warm and safe.

Going in and in

and deeper in,

we find the kindest 

of companions,

our true Guides.

There we are given 

the gift of Knowledge

without judgment.

There the days 

are luminous,

the heart is warm,

the nights deep

and long and sweet.

There Time

is set free.