Meditating on mountains
To the sounds of the wabi-sabi lookout:
Shabby chic pizzicato overtures, infinitely imperfect bell harmonics.
Trees sensing out, inspiring us one by one:
Leaving New York, remembering the retired lawyer and his partner up north in the Hudson woods,
Her work of listening, truly believing, in a way that I only now begin to see.
His work, there to be united with the missions of all these orbiting others, parallel paths, a psycho-social potentiality of flow.
Matty Fitzgerald, that lawyer in Borneo, and all the New Zealanders with their laws and rights protecting nature, saying No! to the unbridled capitalist exploitation of all these things that grow.
What then of this new feeling of flow, kintsugi too you bid me know, bound no longer by YOLO,
Inspiring others on letting go, of doubts and fears, unspoken woe,
Your fellows of Grace gathered to give, and live, and reap what you so lovingly sow.
Ocean beach, so spur of the moment: Eschewing Stanford, I still had the car, the Thursday before, and like Tagore, you knew, like Trees, that music too is our endless effort to speak to the listening heaven.
Like me, you listened, divine intermingling, consciousnesses colliding, colluding, gentle flow and feeling drawing out the mellow, touches of virtuoso, flashes of light, ensparkled souls, serenading her spray and her playful breathing, in and out: Ocean sweet, dancing to our tunes of contrapuntal fun and games, drawing near, and bidding us stay and dance a little longer.
Watch the wingèd riders taking magic steps upon the sky’s soft skirt, kiting, gliding, lifting near over crashing surf, tempting us to greater heights, adrenaline addicts anonymous, suggestive, near synonymous with the eponymous hiphopotamous, and his compadre, rhymenocerous — jams, freestyling, resonance riding, soaring solos over harmonic waves of rhythm, jiving within each other’s joy.
Discern in me: Manifest, musically, with all my heart and soul and being, every moment of seeing and hearing and healing, feeling the steady beat of humans and nature, co-existing.
Wesseltoft offers whispers, with soft electric keys, to the bass and brushèd snares and high hats: Dryads would be dancing, swaying, caressing branches with fingers, drawing trunks near, holding dear, nature’s warm embrace.
Trumpets from the Sun in September speak to me now of your free flying, falling into feelings of magic, majestic musings that soar.
Trilled notes vibrate, create tight beams of undulation, foundation for brassy brilliance, sensual salience, rubato rallentandos swaying to the graceful gradients of every sweetness; smitten by the sound of your voice in reflective remembrance, bitten by the bug of winds blowing in eloquence. Come, mio caro, let us co-discover our courageous, colibri-ous, co-inspiratorial cadence.
Seeking Orionids lying side by side, looking up to the stars above Alamo square, fleeting flair in the moment, do we dare? Try and seek other stars of sound, a special space to ground, hallowed, sacred resting place for sipping, Negronis, melodies, magic music and friends. A trio of saxophones, and an opening in time, draw me into your gravitational – well of trusting, sharing of sounds and sustenance for the audio-enlightened – soul.
Hands gathered gently in yours, pressing softly, moulding the rise of my claspèd fingers on your wheel, opening space in the real, the hollow, for holding onto emptiness, recognizing remembering that more is not more, and not all that is worth growing and having need be gripped and grasped for.
Awake awhile, just one true moment to last for days. Being kind to our sleeping hearts, taking them out into the vast fields of light to let them breathe.
Giving us back our wings, lift us, lift us nearer, on that wonderful, musical dance so promised.