The cross hatch took all morning. Their journey through time and trials brought them among the trees in a forest of splendor. Before long, they would cantor up to ravines hard to cross, past burnt bridges, and retrofit rope ladders weathered and untrustworthy, spanning the gap. The two climbed down the steep and perilous cliff sides, they swam the rivers of hope, never quite certain but building confidence. Their pace slowed a bit slogging through the mires of despair, but the cross hatch constantly progressed from one sacred corner of the Zen Garden to the other. Working with a will to heal, they crafted their way beyond the boulders that are people, grandfathers, and fathers of old, and other dead relatives, obstacular bits and pieces disrupting the intended pattern. The intrinsic beauty made surreal and all the more evident as they climbed together up the other side of the rifts, no longer pitfalls and deathtraps, but a set of melancholic puzzles along the journey. he youngster becoming far less bound by the unseen dangers and as yet unprocessed tribulations of limbic embrace, they continued to climb, and talk, and laugh. Memories loomed at first then fell away like so much morning mist. The past was observed, memories heard, and a process was experienced. With the bright yellow sun counterpoised to the endless deep blue of unsullied sky above and all around its glow, here and now, the son was high and his light was bright. By that time, the seemingly turbulent cross hatch pattern was nearly completed. In this garden of tranquil introspection, they had resolved to set up base camp on the side of the youngster’s mountain. Snow white, impossible peaks were the backdrop, rife with numinous crags and crevices, marbled grey granite hues in their constancy. The pinnacle was shrouded in wispy mystical cloud cover. From that distance, vacuous winds could scarcely be discerned, calling out a warning to them about former fruitless efforts and false bravado. And the Sherpa knew, from previous pilgrimages, it would take genuine courage not foolish bravery to accomplish the climb ahead. Fortunately, the kid had it and this trek would be worth it. The cross hatch was finally finished, with a sweaty smile and gratitude, by count time mid-day.
LIVING ZEN 2
He woke up that morning with a grin. The sun was shining another molten summers day was about to begin. The summer of ’25, with all its angst and turmoil couldn’t help but to be gorgeous and extraordinary. The atmosphere was full of ambient potential. At base camp three little birds perched upon the loading dock, well wintered wood grain and smooth polished granite pedestals. The perfect all-natural launch pad. The three sang songs of chaotic discontent and mild melodrama from the week before, at first. But slowly the discordant chirping and tweeting edged beyond the party line of discontent, becoming honed, musical and almost reverent. Through simple osmosis, the three with he, and the wind and the trees, the gravel and skree, found a peace and began to climb in earnest. Their adopted proximity to here and now, in the garden, this temple of refuge and restoration at the mountains edge, they had discovered together, at base camp, the little birds found harmony. Flowing, functionally, in and out with novel purity. They became the breath, and the life, and a Living Zen. Twittering into actual accord, together again, after trying times in separate conclaves, the Sherpa saw the pattern and proceeded to work. Subtle in approach, sturdy in example, silent, as much as possible. Together, scaling the ladders and sliding the shoots of historic trauma and emotive discharge, the three birds worked up a magnificent mandala that day. The Sherpa carried the bits too cumbersome, healing may have taken place but the point is the journey, the mystical process, their fellowship, and the practice of it all. Finally, together, the three, like musketeers, smiling in revolt of a rueful past and a crazy baldheaded system that never cared to ask why; which had been holding them down. With their wings not yet formed, still stubby and featherless but growing, they climbed the path, laid the pattern, and sang songs of freedom that Bob Marley would be proud of. It is quite a sight, still seen in the wave and the weave of the rocky skree and its emanating sense of pure serenity.
LIVING ZEN 3
Later, in a week that will be forever forsaken in the mundane, surrounded by featureless miles of austere grey walls, the Sherpa in the hidden garden sat in silent repose; observing the flash and glimmer of bikes and cars. Another year goes by, some with show, others without. Always the mountain remains. The climb must persist and the work is more lifestyle than occupation. This day, at here and in the now base camp, the Sherpa, gardening his own cerebral plot; heard a call across the lane, on the other side of any of the given fences. A not so authoritarian sang out in revelry, from a state of active reprieve. She had received this stasis and internal space despite the doldrums of a hard-pressed day. She sang a song of peace and fostered serenity sharing the experience of her visit to base camp, the more enriched by the pattern which gave her pause and energized her smile. The pattern that was created, climbing the mountains of limbic frustration and malcontent, seeking pure air and the light at the top of the world. The Sherpa was taken aback in the midst of preparing lines and plotting courses for the coming weeks trek, unexpectedly she reminded him of the spot at here in the now and the active Living Zen. She spoke of daily trails and weeks of struggle and a decision while fuming to go to the garden and breath. She sang of thrilling insights and a smile, being tickled in the color of pink. She recalled with joy how happy the pattern left in the sands of the garden made her. “It looks like a vagina and it makes me happy” she said loud enough for the whole mountain to hear, also just as bold and filled with joy she exclaimed “Hooray for the Lesbians!” The Sherpa grinned and waved a hand knowing for sure that lesbians must have mountains to climb too, and in her struggle at here in now the Sherpa knew, they were united. And the mountain remains, and the struggle continues, and the joy is everywhere and available here in the now of every moment. As he considered the blueprint from yet another novel perspective, the Sherpa could not help but see a vagina layered in the pattern. Smiling he went back to preparing the lines and plotting the course, packing for the next trek.
LIVING ZEN 4
Crystal clear pond
Glass-like surface of living water
The mirror reflection of serene blue heavens
Pristine rake lines
Concentric circles and razor straight rows
Reflection of natures mid morning harmony
Dappled koi colors
Crafting chaotic rippled beauty
Reflection of truth in harmonious imperfection
Meandering footprints
Necessarily utilitarian or thoughtless in play
The mirror reflection of Living Zen. | JM