twilightMist

My words are empty

They leave you suffering

Though I am here

Words a poor substitute

A proxy compassion

For my leaving you

For my wandering the scrub

Seeking berries and herbs

Returning to you always

Tending your wound with nature’s salves

My words are empty

They leave me suffering

Now you are gone

Words a silent assassin

A proxy reaction

To my leaving you

To my wandering this mind

Seeking truths and justices

Returning to you briefly

An ongoing story of a budding enlightenment; or at least the glimmer at the end of the tunnel …

The Old Prayer Word

“Jason, JASON”. The voice carried now into the kitchen. It found a listener.

“What Jaime?”, Jason said. “What’s up?”.

“You are … you bloody muffin.” Jaime shouted from the garden. “What are you doing in there? You’ve been ages making that damn coffee.”

Jason collected the cups, his thoughts and his spectacles before heading out to the garden. He set down his little collection and sat in the chair, in the shade of the parasol.

“Sorry mate, I just got … well just lost in thought I guess.

“It’s this forum I’m in. Someone posted a nice little piece about prayer in there and it’s just got me all bothered inside.”

Jaime looked at Jason over the top of too large sunglasses; head shaking, ever so slightly. This was going to take a while, Hand reached automatically for the coffee mug.

“I know Jaime, I know” continued Jason.

“But look who do they think they are praying too? And why are they doing it?

“Do they expect an answer? An actual tangible thing to happen? Or not happen even?

“There’s nothing out there J; nada, zilch, nil, zero. So how can prayer help anything? What good is it?”.

“Who cares Jason?”, Jaime said. His glasses slipped down his nose a little and he glared at Jason. “Who fucking cares?”.

Jason looked away, “I wish I didn’t, I know that”.

“Look far as I can tell prayer is a way of showing-off how pious and devout one is. You stick your hands together, or your ass in the air, or wave em all about and everyone else knows you’re a god lover.

“Big effing deal!”

“You’re a bitter old bastard Jason”, Jaime said.

“Harsh as this black firewater you served me.

“What about prayer has you so riled?

“Where is it that it hurts”?

Jason was quiet. But not for long. Just a couple of slurps at the coffee trough.

“I used to pray quite a lot in my youth … and again later-on”, Jason finally said.

“But it never did me or anyone else any good.

“Just another empty vessel from religion. All promise and no tickle as they say.

Another slurp loosened Jasons tongue further, “My heart is saddened and my mind is angered.

“People who pray are just dodging reality; prayers are dodging reality … in my universe at least. Just a way for folk to pass the buck”.

Jaime was right about that coffee though. It was bitter as a badgers bum.

“You remember me saying we create our universe with each in breath Jaime?” It’s a metaphor, not actually, we aren’t gods after all.

Jaime squinted over the coffee mug rim.

“I know … like we assemble the input from our senses and from that build/sustain our image of reality (that sort of thing)?”.

“Yeah Jaime”,

“Well in that mental picture of reality —which I’m calling the universe for (cough) simplicity— there is me. Just me.

“Anything I do, any action, impacts in some minute way, the actual universe.

“But what I think does not, never, no how. Cannot.”

“Sounds to me you’re a resentful old bastard, ranting at the universe for not bending to your will”, Jaime smirked. “Look. Seriously. Think about it like this maybe.

“If forming words into a prayer makes someone feel better, maybe that does impact the universe, even eventually your` universe … their feeling-better I mean. Not the prayer that would be silly; although in a sense it was the prayer.”

Jason’s well aimed sock caught Jaime in the eye. It bounced off the sunglasses and into the cold coffee dregs.

“But that didn’t require any third-party supernatural external entity Jaime”, Jason said with just the hint of a whine.

“They might as well have called it a poem, or a chant, or a wish, or a mantra, or a bloody paragraph even!

“You just told me that somebody else thinking words actually impacts things in the actual real out there reality … the universe including me, right?”.

“I guess”, Jaime sighed. He picked-up the soggy sock.

“But that’s bonkers. How? Now I’m even more bothered Jaime. Jeez mate look what ya did.

“You just rammed my universe into a fucking great social network mate.

“I mean, according to that theory, the words we put together —even in our own heads— can change the whole essence of things.

“Somehow. It’ll ripple through all the individual universes people make each moment.

“Jeez I think that might be karma Jaime. I think you just empiricised the Buddha’s whole karma thing.

“Intention, word, thought begets reality.

I don’t know if I made this whole technique up, or am just rehashing something I read or heard or saw somewhere else. But I’m not claiming it, it’s universal and I’m going now to leave it here anyhow. If it seems it may help you, please try it … and like any self-respecting You Tuber (evah!) leave your comments in the section below.

There is a concept, No Self, which I hear or read of often. I always have struggled with it.

For me Self is right here, now. It’s in my face! Directing, prodding, producing, critiquing my every action. Selflessness most often seems like such an unreachable … well nibbana. Something that happens to monks maybe.

Mediation for me has been a mess lately. As I prepared to sit today a technique ‘came to me’ (I shrugged too, where do these things come from?). Anyhow I used it with some success, so here it is in full long-winded technicolor …

It’s 4:53 am. I brew my coffee as normal. Mindful and present.

This time I pour an extra cup. A small cup. An imaginary cup.

I set down my coffee at the table by my old sofa seat and sit.

I gassho to existence. I sip the coffee with gratitude. I close my eyes and breathe deeply.

The other cup? In my head I set aside a small table; over there in the corner, by the broom closet. I place the cup on it and pull aside the chair.

Already Self is butting into meditation time. Right loud in my face it is.

I smile and nod toward the chair. “You’ve worked hard already, today, for years even”, I say. “Sit down. Have a break”.

Self is taken aback; nonplussed. It sits without a word (very very rare).

Suddenly, I am. There is such space.

There is only the cool comforting warmth of the sofa; the trilling of birds from the garden and the gentle breathing of Lola, the dog, sofa-surfing beside me.

From the corner of mind’s eye I sense Self is still there. Its slurping of coffee is stilled by a hard stare.

There is peace. No-Self (momentarily at least —until the coffee gives out).

It doesn’t last long and strictly it is only less-Self not No-Self, but it is —at least— a glimpse of what we may have only read or heard about; the deep peace of abiding only in the sense-scape of the present moment. Selfless (sort of). It brings deep joy.

That joy. That break-out smiling grinning-like-a-fool joy. That is what hooked me on meditation in the first place. I need it.

I lost it for a while in earnest contemplation of all sorts. Maybe one day I’ll be strong enough to return to that fray. The battle to spread compassion in this existence is a fight worth the cost. For now I need the peace, the healing. And if it costs me coffee for Self to get it … well that’s a price worth paying.

Hey and who knows, all this compassion for Self might even have some payback. Perhaps it’ll slip out the side door whilst we’re not looking.

When I restarted regular meditation about a year ago I didn’t even know it was meditation. I was just sitting in the moment.

I did so because it felt good again.

I continued doing so because it kept on making me feel good; even when the sitting ended.

Then after a while it dawned on me that, well this was meditation.

I think that made me meditate harder. With more purpose perhaps.

A little later I realised “this isn’t just meditation … it’s a bit Buddhist isn’t it”.

So I bought a nice bit of string to go around my wrist. Even wrote the word ‘Buddhist’ on my check-in form before my hip replacement op; just in case. Course I carried on meditating but this time like a Buddhist would.

But … now —despite the new Ism and the string thing— my meditation is broke. It’s all earnest and solve-the-world’s-troublesy. Heck I’ve not even solved the human psyche yet. Or even found my self.

So, I’m just gonna sit here on the couch by the window. Sipping good black coffee. Listing to jazz notes and not-meditate until the Ism goes away.

An ongoing story of a budding enlightenment; or at least the glimmer at the end of the tunnel …

The Ings

It was drab outside. Rain dripped from the gutter onto the marine-ply cover of the old boiler flue by the kitchen window; plopping into mind. Jason and Jaime were animated.

“What the hell are you talking about J?”, asked Jaime.

“The Ings!”, he explained. “The Ings are the universe Jaime. Well, not the universe …. but us … no, erm, the essence maybe. Shit I don’t know but they’re at the heart of if all aren’t they?”

Jason’s already thin old hair was stood-on-end — like a family of grey-white meerkats on a prairie mound — where he’d roughly dried his rain soaked head. The ragged towel still in his hand.

“I mean look, you already mentioned talk-ing … but the ones that really resonate the king Ings if you like… well how about captivat-ing, exciting, intriguing, destroying or creating; enlightening even”.

“I mean those are the biggies; the Rock Star Ings. Those are the reasons to be! Or maybe not the reason … more like the consequence. No?”

Jamie just looked at him; blank as a blank thing in Blankville on Blank Day.

‘Did Jamie never meditate?’ Jason thought. “What is life, Jamie … if its not a string of Ings I mean?”.

“Take breath-ing, yeah? Important huh?”

“Ya think Jason?!”, Jaime swapped blankness for his Captain Obvious smirk.

“With each breath-in we are born and with each breath-out we die Jaime”.

“What the fuck …? ”, Jaime snapped back.

“Really” Jason continued. “Life is just that, that moment when we pause before exhaling. That’s the moment when we can truly notice the Ings; or not … mostly not I guess”.

“And death, Jaime? Death is what we do until the next in breath brings new existence to our thingness, our being; whatever the hell that is.”

“J, that’s just bloody morbid. You’re on a bend today mate.”

“Maybe Jaime. Perhaps I’m just play-ing … or maybe there’s a point. Maybe the Ings themselves don’t matter; I mean they come and go like a hooker-on-a-bike. Yeah?”.

“Maybe what matters is that we notice them. Because if we aren’t noticing them then what the hell are we doing? With our life I mean. And that life is just an instant long don’t forget”.

“Actually Jaime”, Jason was quiet for a long time (for Jason I mean). “I might be wrong — I was once before. Maybe the Ings aren’t important in that moment of life. If we lose the Ing, then we can just be … right?”.

Jaime’s ‘whatever-dude-look’ was all the answer Jason got. It hung in the cool damp air like a wet blanket at a party.

“So like instead of us seeing the Ingness of say, ‘play-ing’ … what if there was just play. Instead of bor-ing there was just the suchness of ‘bore’”.

“Jeez I think I might enlightened Jaime! I mean there would be no more thingness just the godammed ness ness of it all”.

An ongoing story of a budding enlightenment; or at least the glimmer at the end of the tunnel …

One

Beneath the stagnant leaves of autumn, pickled now in this ebbing tide of winter, the buds of spring are bursting free. Two friends are walking.

“That’s some kind of serious shit Jason”, Jaime said.

“Hmm”, Jason nodded. “I can tell from your look that you don’t quite get it. It’s true, though, I thought Buddhism was easy until I came off my Venlafaxine”.

As he spoke, Jason recalled swallowing the remaining half of the bitter white pill. The taste as vile in his mouth as the sense of hope and determination was in his mind. “After twenty-three years, maybe more, on anti depressants I took my final dose last Friday. Whether that was wise or not only time will tell”.

“Its a pretty risky act mate”, Jaime said. “You sure you ought to be doing this?”

“Weeelll … who knows … I just want to do it”, Jason admitted. “I do know though that there are things I’m missing out on experiencing fully; even anaesthetised Buddhism showed me that much”.

The uncertainty in Jason’s voice was because of what he had learnt in that short week.

Already anger is apparent. Impatience arises. Feelings long dormant are stirring. The Buddha within is feverishly washing the dishes. What has he awakened?

“I just explode sometimes mate”, Jason whispered. “It’s like being engulfed by a tidal wave of verbal rage. I don;t know where it comes from and then whoosh(!); it’s been and gone.”

“Coming off something like that, something that’s been clogging up your head for years … its gotta be hard Jason”, his friend echoed.

That’s four human beings folks. Just like you or I. Same hopes and fears.

By Ian Bridge

Scattered mind watches

Field-mouse crossing furrowed bed

Windfall’s potent scent

From a personal perspective, this past four days has been the shittiest Easter on record; well barring the original Easter, that was pretty bad.

My wife, Linda, faithful dog, Lola and I have spent each day at my family home. The house mum and dad worked hard for, which they loved and in which they spent over five decades raising a family and living life; the place my departed sister and I grew up.

With Dad dead and Mum now in a caring home, it was time to clear the house of toffee hammers, of birthday cards from the Fifties, stuff long-gone family left to mum, receipts from Aldi, old bus passes ... all sort.

So, during the Easter ‘holiday’ I embraced my inner Judas.

Now, I feel I have systematically shredded, binned, discarded, donated or otherwise judged everything Mum and Dad worked for and enjoyed. Two lifetimes of memories, possessions, treasures and trinkets.

As a child I’d sit on the bed in the box room and gaze out at the stars over the fields (now a vast housing estate) and dream of the future. Of how life might be, of spaceships, of cars, of the great things I might do ... but never this reality.

Never the dismantling of my own parent’s lives, of the clan of old ghosts that follow us, each of us. Never the casting out of the last vestiges of ancestors, never the glimpse of one’s own mortality. Not once on those starry nights did I ever see myself so alone; an orphan in time, sisterless, fatherless, motherless (well in spirit).

Whatever purpose I once though life had, I know now to be false. There is none. None ... except perhaps, the experience of it.

Each of us it seems, spends our days accumulating memories, hoarding ghost images of loved one now departed, only to have them slip from us as time reaps its inevitable toll.

This is a new realisation for me; the loss of the ghost passengers I host.

From here I can see the rainbow A trickle of pigeon coloured ribbons A swirling entwining enthralling show Until suddenly they are gone Plunging down to the storm drain Diesel-discharge writhing in this early shower-fall.

From here I can see the normals A stream of brightly colored bobbins A jostling barging mewling herd Until suddenly they are gone Plunging down to the subway train Commuting cattle chaffing in this early shower-fall.

From here I watch the life Draining from the day Turning ever grey

From here I watch the time Passing by and by Noting every sigh

From here today I venture not Nor ever more shall stray The cardboard pire that covers me Sodden to the bone The mind that bore such loves and dreams Stilled now by guttered streams Of snot and puke and phlegm

I'm nine years old. Trapped in a scary adult world. I try to act like them. But I'm not. I can't keep it up for long. Soon I feel overwhelmed. Lost. Uncertain. Afraid of confrontation with the the real grown ups I seek always to avoid it, to mitigate its impact.

In one sense this is one of my strengths, because real grown ups can't always do that. They escalate confrontation. My approach was useful in the tech support and consulting i did. Helping to soothe the angry customer. To defuse tension. To solve the problem.

But in most senses and on most occasions it is a sensibility that leaves me open and vulnerable. And anxious.

I recall my great grandmother's house. The big black range. The curtained chubby hole beside it that hid the coal scuttle and a box of my play things. I recall the black board I drew roads on to play with my matchbox cars. And shelling peas with my great grandad. And sitting astride my uncle's motorbike in the yard; then scaring everyone by accidentally starting it. I recall the kitchen and veranda with its washtub. And one day grandad in his coffin in the parlour. And the funeral day, the crowded house, the tears, the gruff old men in overcoats, the women fussing teary eyed and practical. They are memories from a long gone era.

I am nine and I am fifty five. Trapped.

A visit to a good coffee shop ought to be timeless. In this arm chair in the corner, I’m invisible. People come and go. I watch or don’t watch. I see and don’t see.

Still the taste of spiced carrot cake is on my palate. Enlivened anew by each darkly delicious sip of hot black coffee.

It is late and I have been here forever. Though newly arrived, I remain there still.

Some days I feel like a dark black thundery rain cloud; today is one of those some days.

I’ve read a number of Facebook pieces recently on what depression feels like to their authors. I think depression is such a deeply personal experience that it must be perceived and expressed somewhat differently by each person.

As a lifelong sufferer who has somehow, by and large, managed to maintain a reasonably productive working life, I think that learning to manage the illness is key to surviving it.

For the most part, whilst troughs can be very prolonged at times, the illness is a cyclical one, with periods of ok-ness preceding dark troughs of troubled torment.

And a key part of management is the recognition of those cyclical trends. Learn to identify what the indicators of upswings and, more importantly, downswings are for you. If you’re in the midst of a downswing then just note them in a journal or diary, some where you can refer to them on your better days.

Knowing the indicators enables you to do a number of things: prepare for the coming darkness, mitigate its impact by resorting to one or more coping mechanisms and perhaps work on identifying any causality. Youmay be more able to work back and identify the triggers; if indeed there are any, I appreciate it can just be a cyclical trough.

For me one indicator is the increasing feeling that in some nightmare scenario I am the only one on the boat who knows it is sinking; yet no matter how I try I cannot get anyone else to realise and react to that. In these days of social media that can lead to a blizzard of Facebook and Twitter communications to anyone on my friend list.

One of my coping mechanisms is to try and draw the sting of the coming trough by writing, prose or poetry, about my feelings. Sometimes I share the results, sometimes they are binned or lost or just fester in my journal. Either way it does seem to help me.

As a matter of fact that is pretty much where I am in my own personal depressive cycle right now. Spiralling into a trough and blitzing my poor social media connections with a barrage of all that is wrong with the world.

As regards a trigger, well there are many things at work I think. The fourth anniversary of my father’s death. My mother’s recent Alzheimer’s review at the clinic. An insulting and offensive confrontation in work. Our 25th wedding anniversary, which has raised a miasma of reflective thought and memories. Our looking after my nephew Adam, which has raised the ghost of my dead sister. Concern over our aged dog, Tanya. The general political climate of oppression, callousness and greed.

Of course it may be none of the above, simply a natural rhythmic downbeat.

Whatever the case I must resort to coping mechanisms such as: Silent isolation. Walking in nature. Proper meditation. Chocolate. Low energy activities and tasks. Serving others.

autumns amber light

gilds new mown meadow’s’ stubble -