mental pencil sharpening

I say I am awake. I got up around 10:15; late for many, but when do The Many go to sleep? I am awake, but it's not the prime hours of the day for me, the starter minutes, the limbering up orally, visually, aurally, et ceterally. I strive to be awake, to back up my claim of same.

But am I?

Who is?

I look around. Glance and browse with my eyes. If I were to close my eyes right now, could I name five objects in this room at this coffee shop, name five smells, five sounds, five textures? Could I describe colors, voices, fixtures, flavors, tastes, walls, floors, doors, customers, lighting, ceiling, temperature, odors, fragrances, air flow?

But who could? Who does such a thing?

To be fair to myself, and to anyone reading this (all 18 people), if I knew I'd be queried as queried above, I'd be able to practice my observation skills. I'd be able to sharpen my mental pencil, or mentally sharpen my metaphorical pencil. Something like that. I am confident I would achieve better results, as would anyone else.

Is it an acquired skill or a discipline, this acute awareness? Can anyone do it with practice over time? Are some people born with talents and powers and skills that aid and abet this adventure?

Detectives and priests. Writers and car salesmen (not gender-specific). Hustlers and thieves. Politicians and pontiffs. Pitchers and batters. Poets and magicians. Who among them exceeds at seeing/hearing/tasting/touching/smelling/thinking/feeling? Again, is it practice or innate talent, or a hybrid of all those things?

Are females or males better at this? I suspect babies and toddlers are the most advanced in this arena; they simply lack the ability to articulate it. Are some cultures better than others at it? Has technology dulled the knife of perception, the blade that cuts through the cloud?

So, you're reading this, and you say, So what? Who cares? What's the point? What's the big deal?

The big deal is the small deal. The small deal is the only game in town. It doesn't take a meteorologist to know which way the rain is falling.  

I want to know enough to get away from the train on the tracks. But I don't want to know so much that I can't tell the difference between a train and a titmouse.

hole in the donut

Waiting to board an Adirondack Trailways bus bound for New York from Syracuse, I spied a sign in the distance at the Dunkin' Donuts in the regional transportation center. 

The sign read, "DO A DOZEN."

Or did it?

Now picture a doughnut, or donut, if you will, in place of each letter "O."

"D A D ZEN." 

I pointed out this oddity, coincidence, novelty, or providential message to the prospective passenger sitting in front of me on a metal bench.

"I've never been on a bus," she felt compelled to confess.

"Never? How old are you?"

"Twenty-two."

"How about a train?"

"No."

"Plane."

"No." Self-conscious chuckle.

"A school bus?"

"Yes."

What Dad Zen wisdom could I impart to this brave-new-worlding daughter of her dad?

A smile, a reassuring voice.

"I wonder if it's late. I'll check," Zendad offered.

What is Dad Zen? you might ask.

If there is no self, wouldn't that rule out Dad Zen, as well as Mom, Son, Daughter, Brother, or Sister Zen?

Having no self, do we become the hole in the doughnut? 

But in doing so, are we made whole?

In Step Three of Twelve Steps and Twelve Traditions, Bill Wilson observed that someone, especially a fledgling seeker, might be afraid of taking a leap of faith, a surrender to Somebody or Something. Such a BraveNewUniverser might be afraid of becoming "the whole in the doughnut."  

Becoming a doughnut hole isn't just a clever Dunkin' marketing ploy.

Willing to risk becoming the hole in the doughnut takes a leap of faith, as Soren Kierkegaard put it.

Who wouldn't be afraid to take a leap of faith? Where do we fall to? Who or what catches us? Are we bruised? 

And what or who are we after The Fall?

There you have it.

It?

Alan Watts says, "This is It."

So be it.

Later, having arrived in NYC, I see In front of La Mode cleaners on Broadway near 109th Street, an Asian man wearing a black baseball cap emblazoned with the word "DAD."  

Was he practicing Dad Zen? 

(Or subliminally advertising DO A DOZEN?)

I've been staying with friends on 108th Street.

There are 108 mala beads.

A baseball has 108 stitches.

It's Opening Day.

I'll have a bagel with a schmear.
 

particulate matters

before the next step pavement sparkles a starry day constellation advancing with each footfall between tire tracks imprinting transit blaring snow islanded coal wet dry wet trumpeting clarion sun white melt Rorschachs but you roadway glitter diamonds pixels pinpricks flame pinnacles piercing into my eyes where have you been all my life

Spider, man

So I walk up the stairs of the downtown, vintage 1970s or '80s parking garage. (What's the Brit or Irish term, carpark?) Well, this structure is not a park setting; it is muscular and rusted and garnished with girders and nuts and bolts. Fortunately, my employer pays the monthly parking fee. (Unfortunately, I have fallen from the habit of taking the bus at least once or twice a week. Not sure why. Getting up too late?) One can discern how late one is by where one is forced to park (oh! that's the park in carpark. I get it.). In other words, the later you are, the higher the deck you are parking on. If it's a roof day, you're likely checking in past 9 a.m., after your date with the therapist or the OB-GYN or your inability to pry yourself from under the covers. I reach the flight for the fourth floor. I am arrested by the site of a spiderweb above the stair railing, near one of the massive girders holding the structure together. My day is a day of stress and tension and deadlines. I am stepping out for a lunchtime appointment. At the center of the intricate web, illuminated by afternoon sun offset by corner shadows, is the spider himself or herself (who spins the web? males? females? a little help, please, Botanist Colleague). Still. A fleshy color (pinkish-yellow with a darker portion at the center of its body) but partially semitransparent. I count the tiny (a quarter-inch long?) creature's eight legs. Or am I looking at six legs and two antennae? No, I'd say these are eight legs. I pause. I stop. I stare. I spy the spider's eyes: two dots perhaps smaller than the periods in the documents seen minutes before. Is it staring at me, fearful of its very life? This arresting moment is an occasion of grace, I realize. I bow before the spider. I really do. I bow. Then I smile, shrug my shoulders, and walk to my car, lighter, freer, and blessed. It is the benediction moment of my day. A moment of clairvoyance, quite literally. It was all there -- for anyone attentive and awake enough to see it. Like any moment of grace.

When in Doubt. . .

When in doubt, haiku (or punt if you're 4th and 17).


To wit:

Dusky light splashing

September's well-dressed branches

Squirrels stocking up

Pruning green hedges

Fresh-cut timber aroma

Dead vole in the grass

Shadows of sunset

Fall on Hopperesque buildings

Missing May's finches