Subject Object

I’m on a treadmill – the working one next to the broken one, in the small complex gym. A plastic garden chair, gray, sits in view behind a pool that seems painted on the ground, or like a sticker pressed onto a Colorform book. Also, forbidden. The sun is bright today.

As legs move, attention begins to lean back. Layers of impressions synchronizing… acclimating… all is restful, okay. I go somewhere, which I see only in retrospect when fragments begin to stir for attention like a thousand eyes, feelers darting about, seeking another point of concentration. So that my legs keep going. So I don’t think about them. So I can stay a while longer.

“I guess we are it!” is what I think to the chair, projecting attention as if swooping over to someone approachable at a party. Am I really asking permission of this object, to do an exercise with me? Why not.

Attentions are split, some resting as if (with?) the chair and some staying as if (with?) the me. A million years pass, tumbleweeds roll by, before I wonder if it is okay to be so vague.

It is not distance, not floating from above or disappearing ‘me’ again. We’re grounding each other? I feel the posture of the chair and my own changes. I’m startled to see that I usually think of imagination as something I do, but what pops up by surprise, or flows up on its own, as something quite different. Something slightly other, that I allow from some ‘obvious’ center.

A choice to make… whether to stay in the connection with the chair, which feels like ‘charging energy’, or to write down the thoughts, which do after all seem friendly, not intrusive, as though they can coexist and be trusted in our (yes mine and the chair’s) restful, grounded, space.

I can reach for my phone to take notes, but even if I trust the percolating up of little gentle creative affirming thoughts, can I trust the phone, or my quieted habits, not to flare up through the phone… can I let them be part of the collaboration? Probably not, but I risk it… even all this calculating doesn’t hasn’t broken the bond in any way, yet…

New note:
I fear to say that I know anything… as though what I’m aware of not knowing cancels out anything known… or as though the second I know, the door will close. ‘Timing’ is synchronicity, beginning-less and endless happening… doesn’t need an origin. Like the ‘imagination’ I was thinking of as mine.

How is that comforting? But it is.


What is Reality? An icicle forming in fire.

– Dogen

A Thinner World

sunset in st petersburg

He meant only to
free up 
time –

To lighten
thoughts bearing down on
his mind

Whether leap or crisis,
Of faith,
or its cure

Now emerges
between us
as a much
thinner world.



There are times when something doesn’t end, but winds down… when continuing begins to feel contrived but there remains an inkling of a new chance arising, to bloom from what lingers.

Tonight the online I Ching says, “Let nature take its course.”


At the bookstore cafe’, moving through the line, when the feeling of someone noticing me presents itself. Not looking, but I see – he is dressed far too well for the bookstore. I am disheveled. He lingers, asks about the book I’d purchased … a children’s book, delightful, titled Goodnight Yoga: A Pose-By-Pose Bedtime Story. I think too much and look away, but he draws me back, saying he has a son, 6 years old… wonders whether he might like the book.


I show him the illustration on the cover: girl in playful yoga pose, whimsical. I think my son would scoff at it, but he is 17, and calls his mother “hippy dippy.” So I say, “Well, it is yoga.” He wishes he himself had begun yoga many years ago, that now his son lives in Hawaii, that he would like him to do more for himself… that everyone dotes on him too much.

Me: “He must be charming, and what a nice life, in Hawaii.” He laughs, “Unlike me he is handsome, charming with ladies, and smart.” Hm, I think that was the perfect time to emote. I missed it. I begin mentally packing to hurry away and hear myself say, “Good luck!”

Later in my car I revisit the conversation. Emerging from a long marriage, I have no idea how to function in a singles world. I only wish to be a more attentive partner the next time around. Yet, even in this small interaction, I missed so much about this man… the way he worried about his son far away in Hawaii… the reflective way he looked back upon years that he sees as less aware. He was thoughtful, interesting, but I was too wrapped up in my own trip.



Indra’s Time

A few nights ago I was struck with energy of the sort that could be called inspiration, yet didn’t feel particularly out of the ordinary. Rather, it was a practical nudge to write a list. Thinking further, it was probably a build up of energy that had started with a question posed during the Brahma Kuhmaris meditation workshop last weekend, about a figure in one’s life who displays admired qualities. I had chosen someone, yet in that choosing had also fathomed others who would fall into that category, then teachers in general, and spiritual friends who have graced my life.

As I began to write this list, a flood of other lists and figures began to appear. The teacher category was soon at 50, then over the next few days, an honest 100. I say ‘honest’ because there were some figures who arose that were not quite teachers, but friends and influencers none the less, and then there was also a dark side of those categories, which was thankfully, much smaller. A separate ‘friends’ list grew and branched into other figures who were ‘neutral-positive’ or neutral-negative due to some lingering misunderstanding or discomfort, then another list – some on the edges with whom I’d like to be closer.

But it was the teacher list that kept growing, because, behind each teacher were other teachers, and there were those I’d spent deep lifetimes or love affairs with in books, or who had shown up in various guises and dreams along the way. Well, when I reached that territory – the dream and vision territory – yet another wave came through. Now, it wasn’t teachers, but lessons and stories. So I began another list, which branched into a few more. Continue reading “Indra’s Time”