the old-school guestbook archives
my amazon wish list... my favorite astrologer... my favorite artist... yerba mate revolution! erowid: a travel guide for interior journeys... no more war: MoveOn.org United for Peace and Justice True Majority seek the truth: Common Dreams Unamerican Activities The Nation people I adore, diaries I read: rev.raikes ariana cubiclegirl epiphany glitter333 laurakay wammo the music: the asylum street spankers backyard tire fire blue highway bill camplin wendy colonna freedom tribe joules graves guy forsyth band hamsa lila hanuman libby kirkpatrick leftover salmon pamela means medeski martin & wood the motet the nice outfit nickel creek open road rose polenzani railroad earth south austin jug band string cheese incident taarka tha musemeant the devil makes three tim o'brien band trolley wild sage keller williams yonder mountain string band |
in the palm of my hand ~ march 19, 2001 - 5:04 p.m. today is a quiet, reflective kind of day. my heart is feeling very tender and maybe a bit bruised, like the soft and swollen place at the base of my spine, the seat of my kundalini fire. I made space in my life today to study the dharma, which I have not been doing enough of. sometimes I am overwhelmed by the thought of how much work I have yet to do in this life. I remind myself to breathe. I crossed paths today with pratabh, whose presence I've cherished since boulder creek became my home. he speaks silently in a dance of tongue clicks and body language, slate-scribbled words. I have your photos he wrote in yellow chalk, and brought me three large binders full of 8 by 10 photographs, all of people, many of whom I know, their souls shining through their faces. pratabh's pictures felt like home. I found myself somewhere towards the back of the third binder, sweaty and tired but shining with love. I think it is the trueness of pratabh's heart that draws the truth from within the people whose pictures he takes. there are people whose photos I can't take he tells me, miming the attempt and the impossibility of it. pratabh gave me the two copies of my photo from the binder. send one to your mother, mothers love photos he scribbled, in yellow chalk. when he went on his way, I looked at the pictures he'd given me, looked myself in the photographic eyes. along with the light of my heart shining out, I could see tiny reflections of pratabh, and the blue sun cafe behind him. home. tonight, I think I will dance.
(((rings))) |