A Nice Day

Today he enjoyed coffee time even more than usual.  It started early and what he noticed first was on his walk to the bus stop.  At 6:00 a.m. it was still somewhat dark with dawn only beginning to display itself.  The temperature was 59 degrees causing him to feel the stirring of Fall.  He boarded the Poudre Express at 6:28 a.m. and didn't notice the bright sunrise until arriving at Harmony Transfer Station 15 minutes later.  "Daylight hours are fewer now that we're into September," he thought.  

After arriving at the CSU terminal the short walk to Mug's on Laurel was pleasant through which he was intent on not even glancing at his watch.  Time became inconsequential, so he instead focused on the gentle breeze noticing how the tree tops seemed to respond to it with joy.  If a tree is capable of expressing joy he noticed it this morning.  

The coffee shop appeared dimly lit when he finally got in.  His usual point of entry was still locked.  "What's going on," he quipped in the direction of a nearby squirrel.  He then strode around the corner and found option two, a fully functioning door. A little chatter at the counter greeted him with a few people patiently waiting their turn to place an order.  With there already being a line of patrons, he decided to pour himself an available drip brew and pay later.  He brings his own mug.  

Adrianna, the formidable Mug's manager, noticed his proclivity for sneaking a cup of brew out of turn and ignored her hesitancy to point it out to him when he finally did manage to make his pilfered "joe" legit.  "So, I saw that," she said at the register.  "Damn," he replied.  Big smiles met somewhere in the middle.  From that point forward numerous conversations were had with a number of "irregulars" as he and his coffee buddy Monte fondly refer to them as.  

Concluding a "chauffeured" ride home, as he was the only passenger, Peanut, the affable bus driver, wished him well at his Windsor drop and a nice day, too.  A nice day it is and a nice day it shall still become as hours always lie between now and later.  

Unlucky Joe

He was bothered by the colossal ketchup stain.  The Monday burger special at Lucky Joe's seemed like a good deal at $4.99, with fries!  He also realized, too late, that a big first bite can transform a burger into a lunch-time Vesuvian eruption!  Cool splattered ketchup resembles hot Vesuvian lava when it garnishes the belly-protruding catch point of a fairly new light green hoodie.   

And there was another victim.  A planned post-lunch shopping stop.  Vanity simply does not permit such a thing under the circumstances.  While a new shirt from Sierra Trading seemed obviously reasonable, his pride would prejudice the possibility.  

Driving non-stop and upon arriving home he stripped the sullied shirt from his body, offered a word of thanks to Proctor and Gamble, hit the soiled sweats with a hearty dose of Spray-N-Wash and pushed the start button.  While walking away he hoped that in about 30 minutes he would also be able to offer thanks to the General Electric Company?  

Never underestimate the power of a volcanic eruption, even if it occurs on the outdoor patio of an (Un)Lucky Joe's bar food restaurant.    

Escape to Joy

Today he feels alone.

A profound loneliness.

He seeks retreat,

to solitude and silence. 

“There’s too much noise!” 

Caught between two worlds

 not only created,

but one from which to escape.

Wandering about

he senses a shrinking world

pressing him into a 

tomb-like trance.

As gentle tears fall 

upon the redness of his cheeks

nourishing moisture births

a meditative epiphany. 

He feels freedom 

in loneliness.

No longer seeking escape,

but embrace.  

Within alone-ness

lies fortitude,

gifted by

gently flowing tears.

“Today I choose joy,” he says.

“Today I choose joy!”

Sightlines

 I sit comfortably chaired with one leg dangling over the other knee

sipping an iced brew succulent as a summer cherry.

He comes from my right, glaring at the movement of my eyes

as I notice shiny Florsheim loafers standing out against his ragged bottom,

encrusted street-stained jeans no longer blue.

Our eyes meet. 

“Like what you see?” says he sarcastically with a deepening scowl.

I bow - not to honor, but to hide.

 

I watch as he comes, moments later, from my left with a quickened pace.

Our eyes again meet.

He strides by, a silent scowl intact

turning squarely, carrying only his thoughts.

I bow - not to honor, but to hide. 

Honest Pride

 

As I walked to the bus stop this morning a Great Blue Heron had a message for me...

To stand with head held toward the sky, 

Is to hold a truth that will not die. 

With spine unbent and spirit wide,  

You meet the world with honest pride.

I wish I would listen more closely and often to nature's voice .  

The Way It Is

 The Way It Is

by

Lynn Unger

One morning you might wake up

to realize that the knot in your stomach 

had loosened itself and slipped away,

and that the pit of unfulfilled longing in your heart

had gradually, and without your really noticing, 

been filled in - patched like a pothole, not quite

the same as it was, but good enough.

And in that moment it might occur to you 

that your life, though not the way

you planned it, and maybe not entirely 

the way you wanted it, is nonetheless -

persistently, abundantly, miraculously -

exactly what it is.

And that's the way it is, Sunday May 31, 2026!

 

Poetry of Presence: An Anthology of Mindfulness Poems, edited by Phyllis Cole-Dai and Ruby R. Wilson (Grayson Books, 2017), p. 31. 

Celebrating Life

 

Grace Mae Wartgow
(May 28, 1925 - August 25, 2010)

Today I send a birthday greeting to my beloved Mom.  Grace Wartgow (it feels good to simply write her name again) would be 101 years old. 

Your spiritual presence, Mom, still influences my life.  You were a wonderful Mom! 

I love you!

Peace

 On this Memorial Day weekend I'm remembering a song that, for many years, closed every worship service at a church I was attending.  Our rendition adjusted the lyrics so as to be as inclusive to as many people as possible in that setting.  It was also abbreviated because we sent one another from that experience together, some even arm-in-arm.  

Let there be peace on earth
and let it begin with me.
With every step I take
let this be my joyous creed:
To take each moment 
and live each moment
in peace, eternally.
Let there be peace on earth
and let it begin with me. 

Regardless of the specific words used, the enduring legacy of the song remains its simple, beautiful premise: peace cannot be forced from the top down; it must be cultivated quietly, starting with oneself.

How I long for peace among nations this Memorial Day weekend and how I wish I had a community of peace loving people to again sing it with.  May your day be special.  

One Letter At A Time

 

(image credit: Natalie Lynn Kindergarten)

As I began writing a journal entry today I wondered what words lay beneath the nib of my pen? I honestly didn't know, but didn't worry over it or over think it.  Words seem to always find their way onto a page.  I believe that, while sometimes elusive, words have purpose and my purpose at that moment was not to decide for them what their purpose at that moment in time would be.  Here's an example of what I mean:  some new words just notified me they want to be read on my phone in the form of a text message.  Should I stop paying attention, I wondered, to the words on my journal page so I can attend to the words in the text?  In fact, even newer words just flashed on my wrist watch which, thanks to words has become more than simply a watch. They're alerting me to the fact that it's time for me to take a couple of my medications.  I’ll pay attention to those words first, follow up with the words in the text message, and then—if those words allow it—return to assisting the words seeking expression in my journal. Aren’t words wonderful?

After ten minutes some new words did, in fact, return me to my journaling.  I must mention, though, that while taking my meds a few additional words showed up as an email that was "undeliverable."  The address had three "o's" instead of the required two "o's" in the word "outlook." I was struck by how easily even a word can get itself wrong, accentuating the importance of the individual letters that form it. 

Life, it seems to me, is like that.  One "letter" in life can altar reality just enough to make it feel "undeliverable."  The little things are a big deal.  As ink flows from the tip of the nib of my pen onto the page forming letters that form words that form sentences that form paragraphs that form chapters, so is the book of our life added to, one letter at a time, each and every minute of each and every hour of each and every day of each and every month of each and every year of every life.  Life is wonder-full, in both little and large ways.  

The photo above from Natalie Lynn Kindergarten along with the conclusion I've drawn about the importance of little things reminds me of Robert Fulghum's wonderful 1986 book: All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten.       

The Gift of Haze

 

I again ventured to the Jacoby Meadows third floor deck on a beautiful afternoon.  My music choice is Native American meditation.  My visual mediation is Long's Peak obscured by a deep haze seeking balance with the cool air at elevation and the full sunshine warmth I feel sitting here.  I've often thought of this marvel as a battle between opposing elements.  Yet, no struggle is visible. "Battle" is the the wrong term. This hazy mountain skyline seems more like a sign of nature cooperating with itself, creating beauty within turbulence.  

How I wish we could find similar balance in the atmosphere of human turbulence, meaning more cooperation and fewer "battles."  I choose to believe that even a cold heart neighboring a warm heart can find it's center and foster balance within the haze of uncertainty through cooperation.  

I hope your day has been a cooperative one with both nature and neighbor.   

 

Captured

“Waste no more time arguing about what a good man should be. Be one.”

Marcus Aurelius 

(Photo credit to Monte Stevens at montestevens.com who blogs a similar post therein.) 

I was there the day this good man was captured gazing thru the CSU Oval right in front of us. He is a coffee shop compadre whom both Monte and I appreciate every time our paths cross.  His affable smile brings balance to the "frown" of his tweed flat cap.  He and his cap are a harmonic pair. 

Taken

Why am I so taken with the voice of the Native American flute?  The music speaks to me.  It's good medicine.  Why did I so badly want to go to Soapstone Prairie Natural Area to see the bison herd?  I suspect it's not the animals alone, but their relationship to Indian history and life today.  I did not go to a zoo.  I went to the prairie; expansive and free.  What an immersive possibility this offered.  I brought two of my flutes hoping to play in that setting.  I was able to only for a short while.  The cold ambient air blended with my warm breath to quickly condense and "wet out" the flutes, as they say.  A few notes, however, sounded appropriately transcendent which fulfilled my longing for just such an experience.  As I looked across the landscape I felt a connection to the earth and the descendants who lived there even 12,000 years ago.  

I wanted to be alone in this special setting, in company with the bison herd which I was able to see at a distance, and play my flute.  Being cold and breezy, alone I was.  How does one understand a longing like this?  Maybe I won't try to understand, if that's possible?  Am I simply able to receive and accept what I recognize as something important in my life?  The flute has been my companion on this journey.  I won't travel too quickly, but slowly.  The flute seems to be saying: "travel slowly and walk gently.  Play gently and allow the rhythm of your heart to find its voice in my music."  That would be good.  Miigwech. 

To Simply Leave II

I feel compelled to append my last post.  This afternoon I returned to the Oval at CSU and simply walked through it's center.  Many Coloradoans are familiar with the John Muir quote: "The mountains are calling and I must go."  The Oval was calling me today, so I went.  The "golden snowfall" I refer to in my previous post had become an occasional "flurry," yet continued to radiate beauty.  I found myself intentionally searching out accumulations of leaves on the walkway simply to feel them beneath my feet and gather my thoughts in the slight crunch they emitted.  Being slightly damp they uttered a faint sound instead.  I noticed a bit more sunlight visible as I looked up because the number of leaves remaining on the mighty elms are fewer with each passing day.

Then, from out of nowhere, a speeding bike rushed past and startled me.  A gently falling leaf ahead quicky brought me back, but not before I wanted to shout "you SOB, slow the f down.  Can't you see what you're missing?"  I then realized that my life now best reflects the reality of the falling leaf.  The speeding biker mirrored the reality of the other world we share.  I didn't want to re-enter that world, so I kept walking and managed to say nothing.  To say nothing speaks volumes.  That is what a "golden snowflake" taught me today and I am grateful.  I simply left the Oval, much like a leaf leaves it's tree, and slowly walked on.

To Simply Leave

While enjoying coffee and conversation early this morning at our favorite hang, Monte and I were treated to a cascade of falling leaves reflecting the emerging sunshine inside The Oval at Colorado State University.  It was a cold morning and the falling leaves had the appearance of golden snowfall.    

Gold in the Air

(ChatGPT)

Falling leaves whisper soft goodbyes,

golden sighs in a cooling sky.

They drift like thoughts unanchored, free,

released from branch, from memory.

Each turn and tumble marks the end,

yet circles back, begins again.

The ground receives what trees let go,

a quiet trade the seasons know. 

~

Interpretation (ai):  The poem reflects tranquil acceptance of impermanence — that to fall, to rest, and to renew are all parts of the same graceful cycle.

Here's Its Voice

A flute's voice sings

translations of the heart,

melodies of memories 

in keys of D, E, and F#.

Songs of  sun

rising and setting.

Songs of peace 

escorting drums of war. 

Spirits high 

flutes sing of life

sunrise through sunset

and while catching dreams. 

In even fading notes  

seeds of dawn remain,

the heart hears the voice

of what tomorrow brings.

~

Interpretation (ai):  The poem uses the Native American style flute as a symbol of the human spirit — expressive, emotional, and connected to nature and time. Its “voice” becomes a metaphor for the heart’s language: how we translate feelings, memories, and hope into something that resonates beyond words.

What's Next

This is an AI generated poem.  I say generated because I still have a hard time accepting that AI is actually "writing" anything in a creative, thoughtful way, but instead generating something it was asked to produce.  I asked it to create a poem using the interpretation it offered to the poem I wrote in the previous post titled "Some Days." Here is the subsequent AI product:

 What’s Ahead

Some days, calm drifts in

like tide—soft, unsure,

touching the edge

of what I know.

The water shifts,

and I shift with it.

Peace is never still—

it hums, retreats,

returns again.

I learn to rest

in what won’t last:

a glimmer,

a breath,

a hand unclenched.

Even the smallest hope

for what’s ahead

is sometimes

enough—

the gentle pull

that keeps me floating

toward light

I cannot name.

Here is how ChaptGPT interpreted it's generated poem: 

Overall, the poem embodies acceptance, impermanence, and quiet resilience. It suggests that we don’t need to have complete clarity or constant peace; it’s enough to stay open, to let life’s waves carry us, and to trust that even fleeting moments of hope can guide us toward meaning.

I like them both equally.  I believe the human mind is being "stupidified" at a rapid pace.  Or, has a new word been invented?  I'll ask ChatGPT to identify it! It said:

 😂 “Stupidify” sounds like it should be a word, but it isn’t an officially recognized one in standard English dictionaries.

That said—it’s instantly understandable! It follows the same pattern as “beautify” or “simplify,” so people would definitely get what you mean: “to make something (or someone) stupid.”

So: not a real word—but a perfectly usable one in creative or humorous writing.

~

Interpretation (not ai):  It's increasingly apparent that AI will replace the human brain, probably sooner than later!   

Further reading: The Guardian Opinion Piece  

 

Some Days

it's 

what's ahead  

for me

to be received with grace

as

a nice place

without much worry

some days 

to

embrace silence

accept change

seek truth

experience freedom

to 

know love

some days 

it's what's ahead

~

Interpretation (ai): The poem expresses a mindful acceptance of life’s variability — an affirmation that peace and purpose come in waves, and that even fleeting hope for “what’s ahead” can be enough.

Clarifying

thoughts floating

like whiffle balls 

in wind

the past governs

then is gone

the future now

not with worry

some uncertainty 

between head and heart

this moment shifty

muddled mind and cloudy core

left suspended

just hanging out

~

Interpretation (ai): The poem portrays a state of contemplative drift — a moment when the mind is untethered, the emotions unclear, and yet the poet remains curiously calm. It’s a meditation on liminality — being between things: past and future, thought and feeling, control and surrender.

In tone, it balances wistfulness and acceptance, suggesting that maybe it’s okay to just hang out in the in-between.

Space

 

This photo was taken along the road during my recent trip to soak up some of the beauty of nature and it's Fall foliage.  Panoramic scenes like this engulfed me many different times along the journey.  It was exhilarating and I found myself rounding each curve with an anticipation for what I might see next.  As that occurred time and again, it dawned on me that I was seeing it all from a distance.  I began to think about how I might feel if I actually walked into that forest.  The view from a distance suited me.  I'm not so sure that suit would fit me so well if things got "up close and personal."  

There's often discomfort with "up close and personal."  The road trip reinforced an awareness growing within me that I cherish space.  The prairie fits me as well as the mountain forest, maybe even more so?  Up close things get "tight" and I feel the discomfort I notice when I wear the shirt that hugs my belly.  I can tolerate and even enjoy it for a while, but eventually need to change it out for a better fit.  We're always seeking a better fit.  Space fits me pretty well at this point in my life. I fit in there.

           

New Intelligence

My mind is swirling this morning.  I'm mindful of a new day and a new month.  I'm mindful of a new intelligence, too.  Why has ai entered my thoughts this morning?  Probably because I discovered a new book by Blaise Aguera y Arcas titled "What Is Intelligence."  I hope to get a copy soon.    

Having revisited previous posts in this blog I asked ChatGPT to interpret a few of my poems and then added the summary interpretation it provided beneath them. What I received were thoughtful (thought-full) interpretations, which left me wondering if they were really thoughts, or instead simply "reasoned summations?" 

Is this new intelligence really so artificial?  By definition to be artificial something must be produced by human beings rather than something that occurs naturally.  Something artificial replicates a "real" thing, like an artificial Gucci bag.  Artificial Intelligence, as a process, was made by human beings.  What it produces, however, seems thoughtful, well reasoned, and "intelligent," moving it far beyond the category of "machine."  

So, has the bridge been crossed?  I'm wanting to no longer call this new intelligence artificial.  Even though parts of it still replicate human thought processes, it has become a creative presence and beginning to feel like the real thing.  It's real-ness is simply unreal placing it somewhere between artificial and real.  

On this first day of October 2025 intelligence remains ambiguous.  According to Gemini, Google's ai,   "(intelligence) lacks a single, agreed upon definition.   A common thread is "the ability to learn, reason, solve problems, and adapt to new situations or environments."  There's very little that's artificial in Gemini's definition of itself.  

Morning Coffee

 

The first sip...

how glorious!

Then another,

another,

then another.

Wondering...

how the first person 

crushed beans, 

poured water, 

recognized aroma, 

risked taste, 

reacted to "coffee?"

Ah...   

likely chewed before brewed,

a bean size pinch 

between cheek and gum.

Thought...

roast first,

less bitter.

Purified by fire!

Ah ha...

roasting, grinding, dripping,

offering elixir worth contemplation,

sipping,

slowing pace,

cupped in hands,

fingers warmed,

tongue awaits,

with patience

mouth receives,

taste explodes!

Morning coffee!

~

      

Interpretation (ai):  The poem is both a praise song to coffee and a meditation on human curiosity and ritual. It ties together the primal discovery of coffee with the everyday ritual of drinking it now. Beyond caffeine, coffee represents warmth, reflection, patience, and simple human pleasure.

My Living Journal

Beside me, 

staring intently, 

hugging my Pelican pen. 

I see it's questioning eye:

"Why are you ignoring me? 

Have I upset you?"

Guilt motivates:

Carpe calamum!

"Stare at me often, my friend.

I, too, appreciate the attention.

It's good to be missed," 

I say, as I 

seize the pen!    

Saga of a Flipped Switch

I awake

move slowly

slower

I slog to the brew pot

grind some beans

add some water

flip the switch

and wait

and wait

and wait

I'm patient,

somewhat

sometimes

maybe

maybe not

I sip, too hot, 

I wait

and wait

and wait

I sip sip,

small gulp, so good!

I wait 

and wait

and wait

Time to shower,

no waiting

I walk with vigor

my switch has flipped 

~ 

Interpretation (ai): The poem is a humorous yet affectionate portrayal of the dependence on morning coffee as a catalyst for transformation. It moves from exhaustion → ritual → waiting → reward → activation. Coffee isn’t just a beverage—it’s the literal and metaphorical switch that powers the start of the day.

Assume Love

I'm reading a poem by Jack Ridl titled "Take Love for Granted."  I believe he is saying you can find love everywhere.  

Assume it is in the kitchen,

under the couch,

high in the pine tree out back,

behind the pile of shoes,

in the wood stove.

Don't try proving it's bigger than the Grand Canyon.

Take it out with the garbage.

Bring it in with the take out.

Take it for a walk.  

Wake it every day, say, 'Good morning.'

Then make the coffee,

 warm the cups,

don't expect much of the day.

Be glad when you make it back to bed.

I won't expect much of today and when I make it back to bed tonight I will be glad.  I will try to take love for granted and assume it's presence above, below, beside and within me.  If I keep my expectations low this  could be a real "high" of a day.  I love it already with my warmed cup with coffee in hand.   

   

Afflicted Comfort

Santa Rita Mountains Sunrise

I'm enjoying a family visit with my sister and brother-in-law.  They have a beautiful home with a splendid mountain view in southern Arizona.  It's such a comfortable setting and to be with them for a few days is a true gift.  What I'm realizing, however, is that I have become so accustomed to my own setting and routine that being out of it feels a bit uncomfortable.  In this very comfortable, lovely setting how and why do I feel a bit discomforted?  Is it possible that subconsciously we occasionally seek discomfort?  How much comfort; what degree of comfort is too much?  Is it even possible to become too comfortable? I suppose, if it leads to complacency.  

I recall attempting to define my purpose in a previous vocation by quoting Finley Peter Dunne.  Dunne was a newspaper columnist in the early 20th century who, while describing the role of newspapers, said it was the paper's job to "comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable."  When we are afflicted we long for comfort.  When we are too comfortable, which comes in varying degrees, we probably stand in need of affliction.  But to embrace that places us in the never-ending cycle of afflicted comfort.  For today I'll embrace that ambiguity and reside there. 

Perspective

Zuni Sunset

I awake in a La Quinta hotel with images of last night's sunset still burning in my memory creating an awakening for me today.  The sunset was a "happening," that touched me at a level that brought tastes of wonder and awe to the very tip of my tongue. It was no ordinary sunset because of where I am.  The significance of "place" in our understanding of "happenings" was again brought home.  I'm not far from where most of the Zuni people live.  A Pueblo people still living in what a sign affectionately calls Zuni Land.  The entire Southwest is vitally rich in Native American history, tradition and present day Indian life.  The Navajo, Pueblo and Apache peoples most easily come to mind, but there are others as well.  Yet, this one tribe, the A:shiwi, Pueblo people native to the Zuni River Valley are closest to my mind as I'm practicing to learn two flute songs carrying their name, Zuni Sunrise and Zuni Sunset.  Seeing the sunset last night and sleeping not far from where the Zuni people live has made me more determined than ever to put their songs not just into play, but further into my heart, as well. 

So, my travels continue throughout this land of  Indian nations, petrified wood, and dinosaurs whose effigies stand innumerable along the roadside probably bringing smiles to the faces of paleontologists passing by.  Touching a grand piece of petrified wood yesterday pushed me to realize again just how small and, dare I say, trite a single life actually is too all of time, important surely to itself and loved ones, but not necessarily to history.  Individually we are, if you'll allow the metaphor, one small speck of dust on one ring of petrified wood imagining when it was a standing tree possibly shading a dinosaur.  When we touch history deeply we're taught to not elevate too highly our own level of individual significance.

Perspective!              

Eh-Eye Evolution

My brain is real, 

"I think, therefore I am."

with love to Rene'

I'll simply go my way.  

But now it travels with me

this intelligence called "artificial."  

Is it thinking as it finds Descartes

words in the bowels of the www.  

Creating a web of uncertainty

there are many things to fear

others to embrace 

some to simply wonder over.

The new intelligence called artificial

might be the evolutionary enigma

seeking clarity within itself

and from we who doubt its real-ness.

From biologically human  

to human-oid in 

(what's a good term?) techno form?

Language eludes me.

We have no lexicon

to describe our earthly successor.

Why name it and hasten our demise?

Artificial works for now. 

As our genome evolves 

into data-string or code sequence 

thinking about it's future and 

working to replace itself.  

Yet...

Imagine a humanoid 

     joyful 

        sad

           in prayer

              feeling pain

                 with its whiskey sour

                     or smoking pot.

                           

Finally asking "Who am I?  Where did I come from? Why am I here?"

Questions attributable to no one human 

emerging over time seeking self understanding.

Will humanoids ask them? 

Will universities have only two departments:

science and technology?

Or might there still be 

philosophy, theology, poetry and song? 

Dumbfounded is all I have for now

while enjoying some AI generated music

in a hotel room remembering C.S. Lewis:

"Onward and Upward..."        

~

Interpretation (ai): This poem is about our uneasy relationship with artificial intelligence as both a mirror and a successor. It wrestles with questions of consciousness, identity, and the survival of human culture in a techno-centric future. It blends wonder and dread, humor and philosophy, suggesting that our creations may inherit not only our intellect but our doubts, vices, and longings for meaning.

 

 

 

Birthday

today I spend time with Grandpa B

born in 1893 

mine forever

132 years hence

not past tense but present 

rippling across my pond

waves of love and joy

some tiny some tsunamic

recalling clearly the gray day he no longer could stay

aptly clouding the life blood flowing through my heart

some of it his 

still flowing within me  

we never cease to be

such good news 

  

Die Before You Die

I've revisited a classic known to so many by Eckhart Tolle, "The Power of Now."  I wish he had simply titled it "The Now" and kept power out of the conversation, but that might be a different topic for another day.  I didn't get beyond chapter two before my wheels starting spinning again and I was becoming stuck.  Here's the quote that sunk deeply into my being: The secret of life is to die before you die and find there is no death.  Huh?  Once I moved ahead the "huh" part kept resurfacing.  That's what Tolle does to his readers. 

I'm glad, though, to recognize that it sunk into my being and not into my brain.  The Power of Now isn't a brain book.  It's a "being" book to be consumed by the gut and that all-important organ just above the gut. My brain turns to die before you die into an esoteric nothing.  But at a deeper lever, when I can drop it lower into my being, it's secret is revealed.  Life is revealed because death is revealed.  The secret of life, Tolle's hook that reeled me in, is revealed.  

I used to enjoy conversation in places where I didn't have to "check my brain at the door."  I recall seeing actual signs at entrances that said so.  At this point in my life I would love to see a new sign: "Brain check. Take a number."  Reside for a while in the vacuous absence of questions.  Expose the secret to life. I suppose Tolle would call it "the now."  His is a good book to check in with periodically.            

Walk on...

This opens the poem "Forget" by Czeslaw Milosz:

Forget the suffering

You caused others.

Forget the suffering

Others caused you.

The waters run and run,

Springs sparkle and are done,

You walk the earth you are forgetting.

The closing line spoke to me and the song You'll Never Walk Alone from the Rogers and Hammerstein musical "Carousel" came to mind.   After Billy’s suicide, Nettie comforts the distraught Julie with words of hope.  

Hope is a wonderful thing.  

Walk on!