Today’s Soul Report: A Writing/Walking Meditation (written several weeks ago)
I am called forward by the sound of a bird. It is the only sound I want to hear. Soon I hear them all:
traffic noise that I don’t want to hear;
a wind chime;
an old porsche- the driver pushing on the gas to get it to rumble;
a child’s laughter, and the sound of water hitting the car as its being washed by father and son;
a weed whacked.
a tiny lizard running deeper into a bush;
groceries being taken out of a car;
two friends talking loud. A young boy paaaes by on his cell phone;
a young mother walking her baby.
There are too many out today. But who am I? No one more special than the next.
More birds. A place in the shade;
they turned on their front yard fountain. No one home to listen.
All of these beautiful spaces with no one to sit and listen, to the fountain. The birds.
it is hot. Sun exposing me;
I have a great opening line. I’m afraid to go deeper;
I don’t want to see people or have them see me;
like the lizard that runs to the dark everytime a footstep is felt.
a writing room. The one I see in my imagination. More like a cottage. Moved away from the main house. I walk there with my tea. Smiling. Ready to enter.
selfish I’m sure. To want nothing but birds. Wind. Quiet. A cottage to write that only I enter into;
aware I created a life before knowing who I was. This life now makes me feel confined- in moments;
longing for a life that will one day come. But, only after the kids are raised and the money is raised. The career established. Or am I just being dramatic?
wandering the streets to try and find a space that is just mine.
I know the pursuit is selfish. The longing of it makes me unhappy. Soon I will enter my over priced rental. Family of four. No room to write. Only a wall space between the bedroom closet and drawers. My husband will probably be in there sleeping. It’s Saturday. I will feel pressure to join the family.
I hear be grateful being chanted from the positive thinking cult on my left, and on my right I hear some form of my dad and the Buddha tellling me it’s too bad I lost my desire to only be useful- and nothing else.
I find a place. I’ve been here before. It’s on a graffiti filled rock. Above the Rose Bowl. The only space where there’s shade. I see people have been here. But no one is here now.
What’s the rustling in that bush? Probably another lizard.