The Trackless Path

A dream…

You the policeman,

I the wandering vagrant.

You upholding the laws that join house to house

And field to field til there is no more room left in the earth.

I complying, moving on from place to place.

But everywhere I go, you find me.

You are the policeman in every town I come to,

The good guy, the one with the law on his side.

But you remember that we were once of the same tribe,

Friends and brothers,

And you take it easy on me.

I remember that you crept into my home and lay with my lady.

That you took advantage of what you perceived as weakness

To steal my children and to paint me in their hearts

With the darkest shades of black.

And I can live with that.

I hold no resentment.

But all the same,

I miss them.

My soul longs for my family.

And I try to hint, to plead, that you could help me bridge the gap.

But it falls on deaf ears

Til finally, exasperated, I cry out, “I hate you, how I hate you!”

You recoil. You draw back, surprised.

“No, no,” I say. “Not really!”

And then from someplace deep inside,

“But you have no idea, how what you've done has hurt me!”

And finally, recognition sparks within your eyes.

You stand aghast at the realization.

And then I wake up

And wonder…

Did you hear my cry?

The lawn is overgrown

And there's nothing I can do about it

Because I can't afford a lawn mower right now,

Not even a $40 used lawn mower.

As at other times in my life, 

I find myself waiting,

Wanting to do the socially acceptable thing

But unable to do so because of finances.

And so the grass and weeds grow up around me

With the flowers, flowers everywhere,

In and amongst the weeds,

A gift from one who years ago

Cared enough to plant them here.

And until last night, I fretted about it.

I concerned myself with neighbors

And chiggers and ticks 

And dogs.

But last night, as the sun went down,

I thought I heard another voice say,

“Perhaps it's supposed to be this way for now.

Perhaps this is closer to reality.

And perhaps it might soothe your Indian soul to let it be,

And even to embrace it for a while.

After all, you are half-wild.

Only a part of you 

Wants the white man's ways.

The rest, and perhaps the deeper part

Longs to let things fare according to their nature.”

I know that one day soon,

Probably not too far into the future,

I will be able to afford a lawn mower.

And I will mow the lawn

Or let somebody mow it for me. 

But when I do, I wonder if it would be wisdom in me

To find another way to let things be,

To grow my hair metaphorically,

To wander through the woods,

And to be plain, and open, and wild, and free,

For despite my genealogy,

My soul is only half civilized 

At least half of me stands naked before the sun 

Loincloth hanging down from my hips,

My skin brown, my arrow raised,

At one with things as they are, 

Not longing for anything

Except to live

And be.

Lazy days, 

Putzing around the house

Doing this and that but with intention,

Letting the oil of relaxation, repose, and recreation

Seep in-between and lubricate 

The little movements

That I might otherwise call work,

As if there is enough time, enough money, enough love

To nurture, ease, persuade, this frail body

Into another year of living.

Lessons from Raymond, the homeless man 

Who helped prepare me for the road.

To view previous lessons, look back through previous episodes

Lesson 9 - Do It for Yourself

I have always struggled with this idea

Since it seemed self-centered.

But I have to admit that when Raymond said it,

There was a ring of truth.

“I had a woman,” he said,

“Down in Springfield.

She was gorgeous

And she wanted me to stay.

But I found myself saying ‘I’ve got to go.’

I’ve got to do this thing!

Though I hated to leave.”

And I think he meant that he had to find a home.

“You’ve got to do it for yourself,” he said,

“Before you can do it for another.”

And I think that he was right.

Deep, deep, into the light there is a city,

A country, forest, mountain, plain,

Where nobody owns a single thing.

And the residents dwell there alone,

Alone and with their neighbor. 

And yet, they don’t protect. 

They don’t defend.

They don't pretend that it is theirs.

They renounce and renounce,

And renounce again

With every breath their sacred claim 

Upon even themselves, 

And by so doing

Claim 

The right to the world, the sky, the stars,

And all that’s in them.

And this is the paradox of true ownership.

All else is usurpation. 

It appears that we don’t make opportunity happen.

It seems to come to those who wait for it

But who don’t waste time

While they are waiting.

Opportunity comes to those who don't waste time.

But that's not the same thing as being busy.

You know when you're wasting time.

Just stop doing that

And opportunity will come to you.

It turns out that relative morality 

Is actually founded in a moral absolute.

Some things are easy. Rape is always wrong.

But it is the grey areas that make us wonder 

If there is no firm moral law.

But when we look closer,

We discover that circumstance decides.

There is still a right and a wrong answer.

We just may not be wise enough to see it.

And there are even times

When the right answer 

Is that any choice will do.

But in those circumstances, 

Choosing to not worry about it

Is still the right thing to do.

And those who keep that law

Are blessed with sanity.

Those who violate it

Fraught with mental instability.

And it all depends upon the circumstance,

Upon the person, the place, the situation.

So, when our world presents us 

With a thousand shades of grey,

Where do we turn for the right answer?

To God, and to that Spirit which is Holy

Which will tell us all things that we should do.

Lessons from Raymond, the homeless man 

Who helped prepare me for the road.

To view previous lessons, find my playlist entitled: Raymond Lessons.

Lesson 8 - Keep Asking

“Make a trade,” Raymond said.

“Ok,” I said. And off we went.

We tried a dealership

But they were closed.

And then we tried a guy

Who just sold cars but he said no.

“Do you know of anyone who might be interested?” Raymond asked.

“Yeah, so and so.”

“Ok,” we said.

And we tried them, and they said maybe.

“Ok,” we said.

“Do you know of anyone else who might be interested?” Raymond asked.

“Sure,” they said. And just like that, we kept on going.”

And Raymond drank Vodka. “I want to be authentic,” he said.

He was. And more and more merry.

Till finally, we were done.

We both knew it.

We had enough leads.

And one of them turned out.

Melancholy and reflection are the poet’s friends.

They leave and come again.

They are the fertile soil

That works its way 

Between the toes of his imagination

And prod and shift the kindling fires

Of his unknown, unseen, deeply buried passion.

And, in time, with much wrestling, 

They bring forth the most delicate of flowers,

Perfect curves and colors

For the reader’s pastime hours.

But little does the reader know what strivings,

And what great waves heave within the soul.

At times, the poet wonders if he’s been swallowed,

Buried whole. But he wouldn’t have it any other way.

For so are flowers made

That sprout and bloom

Then fade away.