dust has nothing to fear

i’m on a long journey, and

i don’t know the way.


the dust under my feet

has nothing to fear;


it’s been here before,

but it has a lot to say—


to the fingers, to the

rib-cage, to this feast, to


the miles walked across

this beach: once you are


thus reduced, you can only

transform into some thing


new—a diamond, a sand-

storm, a brilliant planet.


take every thing that is

happening, every thing you


feel, every thing you keep

silent, every thing you shout—


and kneel: turn it,

churn it into art.


it is the only way in,

and the only way out.




o ye of little faith,

o ye of tiny bank account,

o ye of large heart,

o ye of many worries,


o ye of few true friends,

o ye of precious child,

o ye of perpetual exhaustion,

o ye of strong passions:


if you have but the faith of a mustard seed—

yet even a half, a quarter, an eighth—


you shall be seen and heard; you shall be

provided for; you shall inherit the mountain.

the opposite of trauma


on this pilgrimage, i take direction from

an old blind woman:


she knows the bones of the city

from the times before it was a city.


we climb and watch the clouds

accumulate, swirl across the

sky face like a sensate clock,


bear witness

with our bodies

as they open in wordless


prayer: motion, rhythm,

breath — the things men run from.


we come home and place slips

of spiral paper into bead boxes:


let go of the worry chain.


call forth the abundance

of our human inheritance.


words, bodies, clouds

Dear God, thank you for this day.


Prayers often begin with these words.

I heard these words in my parents’

prayers all the days of my childhood.


And now, I say them in my good-night

prayers with my child, often after the

day is breathed and lived and done.


The words have become such habit

that I don’t stop to think about the

meaning of them; the heaviness and light:


This day; this. here. now.


It didn’t have to happen, this day. At the

very least, it didn’t have to happen to me.


And yet, here it is.


What am I going to do with it?

What am I not going to do?

With whom will I do/not do these things?


Is it really a matter of doing, or can

I just be here in this brand new day?


And the thank you prayer-part?  A deep

gratefulness for another set of full breaths,

heart pumps, visions, touches, sound bites.


The human body is a mystery-marvel. On the

outside, it is aging along with the rest of the

world; on the inside, it is aging more quietly.


At the very core, it is a living raging eternal star cloud

just waiting to be joined with other star clouds.