Touch Stone
Spirit. Soul.
Ethereal polished gray run with life lines thru.
Smooth from the caress at edges I’ve wandered about, and cracks I still explore.
I know some of them now do I not? Why they are there?
Some will heal. Some will not. Or perhaps they were never meant to.
Like the wrinkles by my eyes, they have come to be a part of me through a lifetime
of smiles and tears.

My Coat of Arms
Inscribed by a thousand small wisdoms,
things I’ve heard and read over my years that opened those little cracks
and let a warm sun shine through the dust motes of my wonder.
I look down at my reflection in the dark pool, reach my finger out to touch, and a small drip falls back to it. A ripple … a strange loop.
I feel something in me;
a line is etched to become a pattern to become an emotion.
On my Touch Stone.
And on my Coat of Arms.

My Compass
I hold one of glass on brass and a delicate balance.
I possess another of discipline, patience,
awareness of the thread between my consciousness
and what I am conscious of
….a delicate balance.
Tuned to an order of things within the chaos of it all.

My Ship..My Body
Mine eyes.

I Am Pilot

Meditation isn’t
It’s ‘Awareness’.
Thinking is a waterfall.
Awareness is sitting behind the waterfall,
feeling the spray on your skin, watching the light thru it’s mists.
Meditation is the awareness of ‘being aware’
the awareness of ‘AM’.

At the heart of it – when all this is shut off :
No Sounds
No Smells
No Light
No Taste
No thought,