I have placed discarded, empty bottles
into the trash can at the end of a day.
Why the bottles sometimes line the street
is a question beyond the gathering of my mind.
Garbage is garbage no matter where it lies
or so the thinking goes on those better days.
One day in the great memory bank of time
I will remember having picked up litter.
Will my place in the heavens after life be made,
having cleaned up for the world on these days?
Looking at a journal entry
from many years ago,
I run across the question,
Can I start over again?
with a book or two.
How is it that I could have a life
and, at the same time,
wish for another life?
A distant spouse.
My own indifference.
Too tired to even go to bed.
Not a disquiet where something is missing.
More of a yearning towards the next moment.
A desire for the means to be worthwhile.
A sense that peace will soon be found.
And a path, unending,
reaching beyond the heavens.
Practice to perform, says life's manual.
Many pages remain to be filled before
it is time to close the little black book.
Perhaps today will be the day
when no clues are necessary to learn
a search to find the answer
lies not outside on some forgotten doorstep
but very close to the heart.
I have started the spiritual practice of doodling.
Not the kind where I doodle my life away
- though the thought of being lost in spirals and loops,
twists and turns, circles and circles is appealing -
but more like the kind which passes the time.
I am learning that in the art of doodling
no forethought of action needs to be followed.
Big plans and small plans are not necessary.
Pen in hand simply follows the will.
What might my life look like tomorrow
if I put this practice into practice?
Surely the neighbors would point fingers
as I made my way back and forth
and around and about on the sidewalk
walking around the block and never arriving.