When I arrive, the garden gate is stuck open, as it has been for many years. Whatever gilding once graced the now rough iron of the high gate and fence has long ago worn away. I slip thru sideways painting my flowing shirt and the right thigh of my loose pants with red dust.

More leaves have fallen, the pesky things now lay atop what I hope is some remaining green, close-cropped grass. They also cover the cobbled path that winds to the right of the big rock, the one with the bench at its base. 

This garden of my mind has more dried, dead thoughts slowly decaying than any well tended plot should have. But, alas, I have few visitors here. Those who do visit come sometimes to help me rake and stack or they come to sit at the end of the path, at the world’s edge, just to talk and dream with me.

For now, I am content with the leaves where they lay. They will eventually crumble and disappear. Just now, I care only to sit on the bench and stare out beyond my worn fence at the desolation beyond. It is good to be home. Deeply, I breathe. 

winds buffet this soul ...

his heart is bold, desperate

he pushes beyond

When I awake, I am a great brown bear and I hunger, not for berries blue, red and black. Rather I yearn to feel the wind combing the thick fur of my back. There is something in the air, a sense of something that my soul lusts for, a purging. I welcome this awareness that eludes my normal senses, my usual brain. 

At the bottom of my throat a sound begins. It rises, a kind of low growl. I invite the sun to warm my granite zabuton as I sit waiting. In this form, patience is not a stranger. Waiting seems natural. Deeper inside, however, I am angry and want only to rage and thrash about until I scare away the bluebirds with my outburst. But for now, here on the mountain, among swaying fir and chuckling aspen, I sit and wait. 

Everything I need is right here, including my pain. With my strength, why do I endure what I could swipe away with one massive paw? This indulgence of pain seems pointless and perhaps that is the point, to learn the futility of mortal thinking. We are here together, my misery and I, to discuss the nature of wind and sun and wonder at our co-existence. Here, I can sit a day or two, warm and strong, learning to make room for my turmoil to sit in my lap and sing ridiculous songs under its breath. I let my annoyance lift away and settle on a branch in the distance. 

Can bears smile? I am content.

white-breasted nuthatch

searches the old maple’s bark —

breeze tinkles the chimes

I have a pen and ink and a great notebook to write in, made of rough paper and a leather binding. I carry it in a simple leather satchel and when I stop and sit, I pull out the volume. It is rather large, which allows me to hold it in my lap. I need to find somewhere to place the bottle of forest-green ink that I will open and dip my pen into again and again as I coax my thoughts onto paper. 

I am outside by the water again and the breeze is cool today, but the sun is welcoming. I write and with every page I turn I feel a sense of accomplishment, partly for not spilling my ink, but also for the satisfaction that I feel with each line, each paragraph of thought that I release. 

The very act of writing is an act of faith in myself. I realize now that writer’s block is just lack of belief that what is inside is worth being outside. When I cannot admit this to myself, I place the blame for a dry pen elsewhere, anywhere, and proceed to chase my tail like a frenzied puppy, full of energy but really only entertaining whatever gods are watching. 

When I am not scared of what is inside, frightened of the consequences of letting my inner thoughts hang in the breeze for all to see, when I am comfortable being me on paper, then writing comes quite naturally. There is no block. Was there ever a block or was it just a lack of compassion for myself? If a tragedy is waiting at the tip of my pen, it is that I failed to dip it in the ink of life for fear of leaving only a smudge. 

I tell myself that one day someone may open one of my notebooks and read something of the honest parts that I leave there and they will be inspired to strip off their own capes and cowls of seclusion and shame and join me at the lakeshore to laugh and swim and lay in the sun. 

I grope for the light ...

disembodied voices lack

accountability

I touch the blue stones. One hundred and eight fingertip orbs of lapis lazuli sing to me of wisdom and intuition, the treasures I seek but am too distracted to dig for.  With my right hand I creep up the knotted cord, one stone for each long breath, until the stones between my hands are few.  My other hand then invests another length into my coming embrace as it slides left to find a new boundary before relaxing and letting the arc of awareness dip again below my knees. The stones' song continues, working its way toward a sage-worthy crescendo. 

My first visitors are typically rather silly, children still settling in on their pillows for story time. Those that follow such a raucous beginning, are more like my dog, wandering with her nose to the ground actively seeking something delicious. But if long-suffering falls from my gavel and kindness whispers my name as an introduction, others will come, some curious, some wise, some who are compassionate. All are welcome, while my mala tracks my intention.