Presence

Be there, on the side of the road

Facing the rumpled green landscape

Splattered with trees,

And the odd bit of exposed limestone,

Hearing the hills, watching the buzz of unnumbered insects,

Breathing in the spirit of place.

Be there, underneath stone, standing on stone,

In a room with musty walls, and daylight to one side,

Echoing every breath, harmonizing every step,

Resounding the trickling water running through,

Surrounded and infused by spirit,

The breath of place.

Be there, on the long cement way,

Bricks and concrete piled up into walls on either side,

The sound of footsteps (yours), and the faraway echo

Of a stranger

Half-disused buildings painted with brilliant colors,

Images of life and death,

And fantastic characters dancing.

Listening to the bright sun pounding,

And the scattered grass clusters intruding through the cracked cement,

Life in the stillness, breathing in and out the being of place.

Some people can do it.

Some people can simply and truly be in a place,

And be touched and changed by its many faces.

Without chatter, without mastery, without owning.

Others can only bear to consider the potential utility;

What is it good for? As if nothing had any other value.

Such an observer can never be charmed, or harmed,

Enlivened, or quickened by experience.

But the one who can--

The one who is vulnerable to the beauty of things as they are--

That one is capable of loving things for their own nature,

And other people-- just as they are-- for themselves.

Only those who are open to the world for its own sake

Can truly love themselves,

Or receive the love of others.

If you have not the talent for letting the rain fall down on your head,

Or bathing in the beauty of sunset,

Perhaps it's worth a try.

Being present for the panoply of existence--

Natural or unnatural, human or divine--

Perhaps there is hope for us all.

After all.

After all.

After all.