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!

It's 5:00 A.M.

Peacefulness within and around.  

   Quiet.  

A beautiful amber glow 

   emanates from my Irish lamp.  

Then, for some reason, I notice my legs 

   resting on the open recliner.  

It seems strange to 

   notice the benign.  

Then, in their own bold way, 

   they remind me how they have 

      thus far carried me through life, 

         even to places throughout the world.  

My gratitude grows.  

   Born of bone, sinew, ligament, flesh and blood 

      they are the pillars of my being.  

When I've needed to "stand tall," they were there.  

   When I thought I could "stand no more," they were there.  

So, I'm grateful to and for my legs. 

   Could they have been more faithful?  

      I think not.  

Thank you my pillars! 

My sight drops to the anchors of my pillars, 

to whom I owe an apology.  

I apologize for slamming you into the earth 

   and onto hard surfaces millions of times.  

I can't fathom how you've tolerated that 

   with only an occasional complaint.  

I envy your attitude!  

From funerals to parties and all points between, 

   you've delivered a mobile 

      and transient life. 

Your pillars partnership has been a good one.  

The things I notice when I silently sit surprise me.

~

   

Interpretation (ai):  This poem is about mindfulness and embodied gratitude—taking a moment to thank the body parts we rarely think about but rely on every day. It’s also about the passage of time, resilience, and the wisdom that arises when we slow down enough to notice the ordinary.  It reads almost like a gentle prayer or toast to one’s own legs and feet—an acknowledgment of loyalty and service.

Mild Morning

In the quiet of this place,

In the stillness of my heart,

I am safe.

Dennis Warren (adapted) 

                 There is a feeling of safety in quietness.  No thoughts of what I must do, only what is.  So, my question for today is not 

"What will I do?"

-but instead- 

      "What will I be?"    

   

To Look Within

 "Close both eyes and see with the other eye."  

Rumi  (A Community of the Spirit)

                                                                                    

The unsighted one said "see"

Darkness bright as day

Luminous glory

On Journaling and Blogging

Journaling is journeying with one's self, traveling alone, feeling secure along the way and comfortable in the skin that holds one together even when that skin is like tengujo, the thinnest paper.  Blogging it is the travelogue.  

A Day

My calendar is empty.  My day is full.

One of my morning coffee routines involves checking my calendar.  When I do, the day is often blank.  It's empty.  Nothing of importance documented nor needing to be remembered.  On that day my life is not empty, even though the calendar seemingly tells me so.  

It's a morning coffee gift to see an empty calendar. Celebrate spontaneity and possibility.  

When your calendar is empty, your day is full!  "Empty" days are often the most colorful.  

Frustrated Silence

Waking early I listen to silence only to realize how noisy it is.  

Can silence be noisy?  I don't know except that today it is

   water coursing over coffee grounds slowly filling the pot,

   the refrigerator hum preserving my food,

    and, my tinnitus companion.

Does the tiny bug running a marathon over my rug hear it's steps?

Does silence know frustration?  So many interruptions, yet never gone.