June 9, 2002

"Sto Viaggiando"

''A poem of yours has been translated into Italian,'' Julia informed me yesterday. Actually a page SHE created has been translated into Italian. Actually, two of my poems just happens to be on it. Here's one of them:

I Am Journeying I am journeying to the center, to the heart, To the heart of the Mother. Oh Magna Mater, Take me in. Show me your secrets, teach me your mysteries, that I may learn to bear the LIGHT glow incandescent with the white heat. That I may manifest PEACE   transforming presence with ease. That all I touch may know LOVE --- Joan Ann Lansberry

I don't know when I wrote this poem. Most likely, it was before I began an online journal, with its trait of precisely dating everything. Unlike some of my earlier poems, I still like this one, however.

I'm not sure how it SOUNDS in Italian. Maybe it sounds better in Italian. It seems to LOOK more impressive. But then I'm easily impressed.

Sto Viaggiando Sto viaggiando verso il centro, verso il cuore, Verso il cuore della Madre. Oh Magna Mater, Portami dentro. Mostrami i tuoi segreti, insegnami i tuoi misteri, che io possa apprendere a sopportare la LUCE l'incandescente barlume con il bianco ardore. Che io possa manifestare la PACE trasformando la presenza con facilità. Che tutto quello che tocco possa conoscere l'AMORE --- Joan Ann Lansberry

June 11, 2002

"Fire!"

Fire! It has been raging through our mountains. I first watched with uneasiness the progress of a fire in the Catalina mountains, north of Tucson where we lived for ten years. This fire spread across over 30,000 acres before many teams of hardworking firefighters got it under control.

It endangered homes in Summerhaven, near Mount Lemmon. It endangered broadcasting towers on Mount Bigelow. Many people had to be evacuated and a huge pall of smoke hung over Tucson for many days, making breathing difficult, especially for those with lung and heart problems.

We watched via the web, here in our non-smoke covered Yuma. But we remembered the nervous summer in which a small fire brewed in the Catalinas. We lived in Catalina, north of Tucson, and saw the blazes in our home which afforded a wide vista of these majestic mountains. We were instructed to have all loose brush cleared and foliage trimmed down to a certain footage around the house. It was nothing like this year's blaze, yet still we were nervous.

I breathed a sigh of relief when I read via Starnet that this fire had finally been tamed.

Now I learn of a much greater fire raging in the state of Colorado, near Denver. ''Earlier Monday, the so-called Hayman Fire, named for an old mine site, grew to about 77,000 acres and roared to within five miles of neighborhoods. The fire was advancing about one mile an hour .'' (via Starnet)

Each of these two fires were caused by thoughtless human beings. A careless hiker began Tucson's fire and a camper with an illegal campfire began Denver's fire.

Thoughtless human beings! Mother nature herself is both a thing of destruction and creation at times, left to her own devices. But when the human element is added, how much more perilous things become.

With that, I think of the radioactive 'dirty bomb' the Al Qaeda had plans to detonate within the United States, and fear again what humans can do. Fortunately this plot was broken before anything happened.

SUCH GREAT POWER Fire, glowing, flaming burning white hot deep within: It can warm with its great heat, igniting the inner engine into action. Such great power, for good, if reason is at the wheel. Such great power, for ill, if left to flare up and blaze, runaway, out of control, destroying all in its path. Gone then, like the burnt forest, which takes so long to heal, may not heal. May not, ever again, reach into the sky with its ancient green spires. Fire, let us not be consumed, yet not your candle be extinguished, Fire, for your power is so great, Yet We are the keepers of the Flame, and the balance is in our hands. JAL, 2-22-97

June 12, 2002

"Travel Slowly"

''Fellow Travellers'', a new journal burb, has opened with the idea that ''Life's a journey, not a destination.''. I find that so true in my life.

The other day we were watching Castaway on TV. The movie, which did not impress me on the big screen, seems so much more intimate on the small screen. Tom Hanks really does an impressive acting job. Somehow his torments, lost on that island, were more real to me when viewed on the little screen in our living room. Why is that?

Anyway, after four years in lonely exile, he's at last been found. He's back home, but it's not the place he'd left. His wife, and everyone, assumed he was dead. They got on with their lives and he must begin anew.

There he is, at movie's end, at a crossroads in a corn field. Shall he turn left or right? What difference will it make? I was left with the awesome conclusion that all of life is 'the crossroads'. We must come to it and realize no matter the destination, YOU are the destination. Or as I've seen it some where with words to the effect, ''Travel slowly, all you can ever come to is yourself.''

Or ''Where ever you are, there YOU are.'' We can't escape ourselves, though some people try. I recently learned with sadness of a miserable youth who shot himself after playing Everquest nearly non-stop. He could not escape his miseries in the mythical world of Norrath, for he brought them right along.

Do not run, do not flee, if the problem is inside you. Stay still, and listen to your own highest wisdom. You may find a friend there, NEED to find a friend there. Others can only point the way, but only you can make the journey. Sometimes a journey can be made without a single footstep. Mind can go places where body cannot. It is free if you let it be. I give wings to my mind, and set it free from the cages which have long held it. I am surprised to learn the width of my wings, and their strength.

This amazing journey that is mine, where will it take me next?

June 13, 2002

"On The Brink"

I tried to find the source of the quote ''Travel slowly, all you can ever come to is yourself,'' yesterday. The nearest match came up in a very early journal entry of mine (1996), surprisingly.

I'd added the cautionary words ''And one's self is best met slowly'', however. What had I meant by that, over five years ago?

There's been an gradual evolution in my mindset since over five years ago. It almost seems that I was hinting at more than just enjoying a leisurely meeting. Certainly, this whole process of sitting down with myself, letting words come to me as they will, is a form of 'meeting oneself slowly'. I need slowness, because I process best slowly. Had I meant that in 1996, though?

Or was I still exhibiting timidity at what I might find, deep within the recesses of my mind, and did I need 'slowness' to slow the shock factor? I'm still not sure.

Sharing the progress of my thoughts today with Laura, she asked ''What was the shock?'' I answered ''That I might find something in myself I was afraid of?'', still wondering. ''DID you find something in yourself you were afraid of? ''she questioned.

Have I? Or will I, yet? I feel as though I'm on the brink of some new understanding in my life, something I might not have been able to handle when younger. It's so close to the surface, I want so badly to know what it is.

Younger, I WAS cautious, scared even. I'd carried threads of earlier teachings that I was 'sinful' still within me. ''Wretched sinner'', what an abominable concept! It is so liberating, the Buddhist concept:

Who would have expected that Self-nature is fundamentally Pure and clean? from the Altar Sutra

And yet I had to travel many years to fully embrace that concept.

June 15, 2002

"With A Quiet Smile"

Maybe I don't 'journey' as much as I 'spiral', revisiting old themes in my life, each time with perhaps a tiny added layer to the meaning.

I wish I could remember who said that in middle age we become the person we always were. I think it might be so. In fact I feel it happening. Bits and pieces of self, discarded in adolescent frenzy or early adult preoccupation, seem to be floating downstream and fetching up on my shore. I imagine that when I reach middle age I will be a rock covered with moss borne by spores on the wind and lichen brought by who knows what. At any rate, it will all be familiar. We'll all nod to each other--the rock, the moss, the lichen, the visiting toad and the perching dove and say, "Nice to see you again." And then we'll settle in to stay. ----Barbara Lazear Ascher

So such is the landscape of my inner life, as well as that author's above. Now regarding the OUTER landscape of my life, within it is a POOL:

Floating, weightless, suspended loosely in time and space, I lay back in the accepting water. It embraces me, welcomes me. I give myself to it.

Ah, the sensuous surrender! It feels so good, trusting the gentle water. I lay back with no thought of tomorrow. I lay back, experiencing each sensation to the full, resolved to never allow the half-life again.

Why we are taught to tip toe about with tight shoes, never daring to fully feel, I don't know. Mostly, I remember confusion - fear and confusion with intermittent flashes of hazy light.

Now, the light lasts longer and I can see more clearly. So, to the full sensuous experience of life, I dedicate myself. I may still shyly shimmer in the shadows, but with a quiet smile, glistening at the edges.

June 19, 2002

"Some Strength To The Shy Smiles"

And do I in the shadows, shimmer, or do I quiver? Shyness makes of me what it will. What then, the hesitancy? Why then am I, always listening, with not much to say? I would probe of this mystery. But I cannot make the words come. They would come with fluidity, but first I have to hear them to say them. And it takes such listening, it does.

How am I to know my own face, if I do not see it?

All these voices, you are so loud. But what I hear is quiet. Layers of sound under layers of sound. I am not shy, I am possessed, possessed of a notion that I should hear my own voice. however I have to strain to hear it. (Hearing is not good, SUBTLE, maybe.) Anyway, voice and I, we need a listen. So we listen, and we don't always hear the larger voices. ''Off on my own'', ''Pursuing my thing'', Doing what I do. So the larger voices march by, I see their patterns, I see, and wave. I wish them well, even smile. JAL, 6 - 18 - 02

I see the 'patterns of the larger voices', and it takes time for me to absorb their meaning. ''I need slowness, because I process best slowly,'' I said in an earlier entry. See how long my brain has been muddling over this! You've seen it before. Days and days I chew on a subject. My near-mute child self was given the unfortunate name of 'retardo' when I was in school. Maybe there's a kind of truth to that appellation. My slow mind must absorb at the rate it will.

Still, I will give it the time it needs, shed shame for this and give some strength to my shy smiles. I will speak the language I speak best, herein these quiet pages. Why is it that people of a given language always revert to the language of their birth when given a chance? All around me, I hear the illegible shapes of sounds of a language in which I can pick out only a few words. 'Esposo', they discuss their husband. 'Nino', their children. But such illegibility for one to whom such language is foreign. It frustrates me. Sounds in my own language take processing enough. Yet the undersides of the brain strains at these sounds.

Am I offended because they don't speak my language? Perhaps. Yet they alway revert to this language, which is most comfortable for them.

And should I apologize for shyness, for the loud words aren't the language of my birth perhaps? The 'large-eye', slow processing scan over it all, what will it tell me next? Still, I listen to ALL the voices, mine and others and process as best I can.

In time, there will be answers. In the meantime, no apologies, just that quiet smile.

June 23, 2002

"Perspiration And Imagination"

Such animated conversation this Sunday afternoon between the three us there was, as I made the buttonholes in Laura's new black blouse. It was a philosophical conversation that got initiated earlier this weekend when watching an animated film 'Waking Life'. Various people caught in philosophizing are caught in this dreaming man's life. Actually, the people were filmed in digital mode, and then the animations drawn over them scene by scene. Having some familiarity with simpler digital processes, I could tell this even before watching the producer show how he'd done it. Quite creative it was, in any case, and both visually and mentally stimulating.

Added into this mix was the signature file someone in an email list we all subsribe to has: ''Question Empiricism''. Me not being all that highbrow, I had no idea what it meant. Julia trotted out one heavy book of our two-part dictionary and read out loud the defination for empiricism: ''The doctrine that all knowledge is derived from experience through the senses.'' Well, we can question what our senses tell us, but I don't really know how else reality is determined. And I do so love that 'sensuous' experience of life, which comes, of course, through the senses. But maybe all of this is all too high-falutin' for me, and I can't really understand what the hell this is about.

Anyway, it prompted Laura to come up with a new signature file of her own:

Question the Insubstantial
Reality is 98% Perspiration and 2% Imagination!
(Not the other way around!)

I'm not too sure what 'insubstantial' means. I do know what perspiration is, however, and my, do I have a lot of that these days, living as I do in the hottest civilized place in the United States.

One day at work was particularily trial-filled, and I was feeling quite harried. I cried (silently) to the heavens, and said ''Lord, give me strength!''

Not too long afterwards, a rather STRONG aroma began arising from my armpits. ''This is NOT what I meant!'' I again (silently) shouted to the misunderstanding heavens.

Oh, perspiration we have in abundance. A small crystal rock of some salt type we have applied to the armpits seems to help its side effects, however, without the harmful effects of chemical preparations.

Yes, perspiration we have, but what of the imagination? I do believe I have a greater than average imagination quota. I am, while working and perspiring, doing an awful lot of imagining. I invent whole tales, and maybe this is how fiction writers get started. Using the background of Everquest's Norrathian worlds, I imagine whole sequences of events involving my game characters.

New character!

Kaaldar, my Dark Elf enchanter!
(and level 14 already)

The above blue beauty is my current favorite. Oh, he's a b-a-a-a-d boy, he is, and he loves seducing the fairer Elves. His seductions work, and he lives a very happy life.

I should write down some of his adventures. They might make a good story, and not just the sort of thing that later climaxes in, um, climaxes, um. Blush.

At any rate, imagination plays a large role in MY reality. Oh, one has to know it's imagination, of course. One doesn't go out into the world and see blue elves or talking apes, or Mork from Ork, naturally. But what a duller world it would be without these imagined fancies.