Autumn (satya)
It is the smallest shift
that makes the biggest difference.
Like the difference between saying hello and not saying hello.
Like the difference between thinking it is ugly and thinking it is beautiful.
Remember learning that your favorite flower is a weed?
We try to find the beginnings, middles, and ends of the seasons. But a circle has no such things.
Movement and stillness.
Permanence and impermanence.
In opposites are reflections of the same.
Yet, it’s always surprising,
the swinging of the pendulum,
the vultures roosting on the cemetery’s
transmission tower.
Richard Alpert knew there was something he didn’t know. But what he didn’t know was that he wouldn’t know until he fully gave into the unknown.
The bravery to give up what you believe is essential.
How many of us are willing to do that?
A windy morning.
Dozens of white shells.
And two black ants moving so fast I can’t get a good enough look to verify what seems to be true, that one is carrying an ant head, the other the thorax.
I heard it said just the other day that ants bring their dead back home.
A bald eagle soars over the cottonwood, my perception of this bird so tainted by nationalism.
And there in midair,
a large stick floating,
as if a magic trick.
Transformation is not instantaneous though that makes a better story.
It is not about stopping anything,
but rather about being a river,
allowing, accepting, flowing.
What a dull thing to say,
like something on a t-shirt.
What does it mean?
What does it mean?
From a wild tree, I pick the reddest fruit and take a bite.
It’s sweet, so I bite again
but then it turns bitter.
I spit and rinse my mouth.
If it’s poisonous and my throat closes up, would that ruin how beautiful the day,
how miraculous the light?
The setting sun illuminates a swarm of bugs.
The same chaos I studied as a child when the light angled through the house and lit up the dust.
When did we start believing something other than oneness?
How is it that civilizations gain knowledge only to lose it?
The dismissal of the common good.
And the feeding of the greedy beast.
How many hours spent dreaming of particles;
imagining the stories of water drops; studying the angles of light that slide across the room when cars go by?
Do kids still notice such things?
What value is there in chasing shadows?
The sunset is a good example.
No matter where I am,
I wish I had a better view.
The ash trees have all yellowed.
Coats appear on couches.
cold rain falling
how thankful to be
warm and dry
It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a pelican.
But how many days has it been since I have really looked at the sky?
Cold and gray with a nostalgia for
brighter days.
Geese honking as they fly south.
Leaves falling,
houses showing through
the woods.
Satya
means
truth.
Was it Vivekananda or Patanjali who says the more you tell the truth, the more you say the truth until everything you say comes true?
No wonder so many gurus don’t talk and spend their lives on mountaintops.
Is it true?
Is it kind?
Is it necessary?
A dusting of snow in the morning.
Leaves crunching underfoot.
The setting sun so milky I can feel it in my throat.
Naked branches etched against a crimson sky.
A chilly wind, a skittering wayward mind.
Winter (asteya)
I don’t want to go walking because it’s gray and cold, but I must, so I do.
Sometimes I don’t go out, unless there is somewhere I have to be, and then, I do.
But if I had my choice,
I would not go out walking,
even though I will insist I do.
Winter light, orange in the afternoon.
Night falling.
The tree in City Park lighting up
red, green, blue.
Soft as kisses, ice chunks drift apart and together.
Asteya means nonstealing
Under the naked branches I wonder
what do I steal?
Does intension matter?
The owls in City Park call out hoo-hoo to which I respond hoo-hoo!
My daughters beg me to stop.
But I can’t help myself because sometimes they reply hoo-hoo hoo-hoo.
In winter who bothers to notice the asters,
the Queen Anne’s lace, the goldenrod;
all those pale hollow bones?
Dark at five.
Frosted river.
Iced branches.
Is trespassing stealing?
Is landownership?
What do I steal from the river?
Attempting to balance giving and receiving.
I chase the sun up to the bluff and stand on a ledge and soak in the day’s last rays.
How long into the new year can I keep wishing happy new year?
Under the College Avenue Bridge the river is frozen shore to shore and a Christmas tree lays on the ice, evidently thrown from the roof of a car.
A fox! Johnny says, and we all watch as it silently crosses the road, skirting the trees along the river.
The fox stops and stares at us.
And disappears down the ridge.
Somewhere, a sleeping duck.
At the gallery, we tell about seeing the fox,
but everyone has better stories;
about staying up all night,
about a whole family of foxes
close enough to touch,
about snakes slithering over feet
and stars shooting through the sky.
So very cold for so many days in a row.
Fingers and toes numb.
Drawing with gloves on.
Down to the essence of things.
Snow begins to fall.
The muralist says he never hoots at the owls because it confuses them.
I wonder, are they really so easily fooled?
It’s tempting to think of the river as needing, wanting.
But the river is always indifferent.
Rather than noticing the beauty of the day,
I replay minor offenses.
Noticing not noticing.
It sounds silly to say the river is a friend,
and yet it feels that way.
I try to remember that I am one with everything and everyone.
It takes the pressure off.
Perhaps it’s not so much about saying something new as it is about discovering something old.
And the sun opens from behind a cloud.
Studying the same old thing.
Singing the same old song.
“That’s dumb,” I’ve often thought,
a sign that what I’m sure I know,
is probably wrong.
Inevitably, a hopelessness sets in.
How snow piles up on the tombstones.
How wilderness is both external and internal.
How a mourning dove is calling.
Notes:
All images by author, Joanna K. Dane.
[1] “Couple on Riverbank”
[2] “Dandelion”
[3] “River Paper Cut”
[4] “Once Awakened”
[5] “Peace Face”
[6] “Circle for Paul”
[7] “Owl on Roof”
[8] “Warigold Wings”
[9] “Fox on the Fox”
[10] “Bird on a Wire”
