When I Went for My Waterfall Blessing, I Found a Divine Dog

author’s note:

“What a feeling!”
        — Irene Cara, “Flashdance…What a feeling”


WHEN I WENT FOR MY WATERFALL BLESSING, I FOUND A DIVINE DOG

PART I

Today I went to visit the waterfall

as I do whenever
the mud and dust
of my life in this world
just seems too much.

When I stand beneath
the water rushing down
I imagine a blessing descending
on my bowed head—
cleansing me.
So when I emerge
I feel clear again
and for a moment
again feel the purity of my spirit.

But I believe we’re all
pure in spirit.
I need that belief
in order to accept
all the mud and dust
of our life in this world.

PART II

But when I arrived
at the end of the forest trail
I found a dog playing in the pool
beneath the waterfall.

Possessed by a dance, it was—
leaping up
trailing beads of spray
then landing down
in a winged splash—
a joyful rebellion against gravity—
a joyful acceptance of defeat—
spray
and splash
spray
and splash—
ecstasy.

But I’d come there for a blessing

so I waded around the canine
and stepped into the curtain
and let the full force of the fall
pound my head relentlessly.
The water cold but hot in its intensity.

Soon overwhelmed by sensation
I lost every dull thought in my head.

But when I stepped back out I saw
the dog had stopped its revelry.
Standing still, it stared at me—
head tilted to the side. Puzzled
by my trembling solemnity.

I didn’t want to ruin the dog’s frolic
by causing it concern
so I then began my own splash dance.
Which broke the spell—
in an instant the creature joined me.
We jumped up and down
and barked and laughed
and my feeling of purity
meshed with a feeling of joy.

Again I was the child I once was—
the one who’d rebel
against the mud and dust of his world
by going into a ritual
with just one rule:
dance—dance—dance
dance like a divine dog.

mythsteps · when I went for my waterfall blessing I found a divine dog

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The Goat Faun

author’s note:

Hope you’re enjoying the Solstice season.


THE GOAT FAUN

The child inside
has on occasion convinced me:
we can make our fantasy a reality.

Like the time, years ago
when this fool tried to create magic
by going to a forest clearing
and calling to the goat faun
hoping to draw it from the shadows.

I chose that mythic creature
because the faun combines earth and sky
in the way it plays mad melodies
to the moon above
while dancing with nimble skill
through wooded dale
and stream
and hill.

But though I pushed notes
from my reed pipe
for at least an hour
the goat faun did not respond
to my heartfelt summons.

So I added a dance
to enhance my song—
I pranced
and leapt
and did pirouettes
in the moonlight.

But still no goat faun.

In all the years since
the faun has never once
answered my call.
Yet I keep coming back
to the clearing
because
I can feel
just a bit of it in me
whenever I performed that ritual.
By that I mean:
I feel the joy of wild mischief
and experience
a sense of my own deep earth
a sense of my own full moon.

Yes, all I ever get
is just a little bit
but a little bit of magic
is better
than no magic at all.

mythsteps · goat faun

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Defiant Plant Ritual Dance

author’s note:

I also dance just to be silly.


DEFIANT PLANT RITUAL DANCE

Though I doubted the value of prayer
I decided: why not at least try?

So I begged the sky god of fire
to show mercy and end this drought.

But though I didn’t really believe
I still felt hurt
when my petition went unanswered—
I began to curse that fiery eye—
yes, I raged

until I finally exhausted my little flame.

But then in abject defeat I found
the cool relief of humility.

Nonetheless
we still had to live in drought—
so many innocents
had already suffered so much.

Thinking about the unfairness
stirred my ire again
and so my fire stirred again
and slowly rose from the ashes.

I then realized:
yes, that fire was my life
but
such flare ups would devour me
unless I found a way to make peace
with our predicament.

At first I tried logic
but even my best reasoning
failed to satisfy me.

So then in desperation I decided
to try to channel my small fire
into a daring act of celebration.
Yes, I designed my own ritual—

it began with a silly dance:
I flashed my leaves
and sashayed
while thundering my emotion
in a song addressed to the sky god.

Some claim I spouted blasphemy.
But how can a lyric so positive be sinful?
Consider these lines:

“I may be weak
 but I am not powerless:

“No matter what you do
 I will not curse you.
 Nor will I praise.
 I will do my best to remain
 ndifferent.

“My emotions are my own—
 no one else controls them.
 No one else controls my thoughts.
 So though I depend on you
 I remain staunchly independent.”

I stirred myself with those strong verses
then kept stirring by repeating the words—
soon I started to spin
then spun faster
then faster
and faster
as I spiraled toward the night heaven
on a thin wobbly stem steadily elongating

until my top leaves finally reached
and touched
and held
a cloud quite purple and plump.

What a saturation of joy in that moment—
I’ve performed this ritual many times since then

especially when
I feel the urge to curse that god above.

Yeah this drought may kill me
but I will die with a defiant smile.
Why shouldn’t I feel pleased?
I’ve discovered a way to thrive
in a hostile environment—
I have found victory in defeat.

mythsteps · Defiant Plant Ritual Dance

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Eternal Cup of Coffee

author’s note:

"Good to the Last Drop"
          -- Maxwell House Coffee slogan


ETERNAL CUP OF COFFEE

On that evening
I sat at the table as usual
appreciating the comfort of habit

until my cup of black coffee
suddenly began to speak to me

saying silently:
this is almost a ritual
isn’t it?

“You mean because
  I always sit here at this hour
  and drink a cup of you?” I asked.

Well, yes, the coffee answered
but I suggest adding meaning
by expanding your perspective--
just think:

what’s done in this moment
will exist for eternity--
you’ll be sitting here
at this center of the Universe
forever.

I then suddenly experienced
what I usually so easily ignore:
I’m just a small dot on a bigger dot
that moves through a space so vast
I can not fathom its dimensions.

Nonetheless I again tried to fathom
and this time, when my mind went blank
all that I’d been
and all I hoped to become
collapsed
into the moment
and so that moment
became a moment of true peace

(----)

but in the next moment
I blinked
and again life was
as it usually is.

However
some sense of that forever moment returns
when I sit at this table in the evening
and meditate on that dot of coffee

until I can again feel the vast mystery
expanding out
from this miniscule center

then in a blink
the spell will break
as the coffee says:
time to drink me up.

And so
the habit has now become a ritual.

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© 2023, Michael R. Patton

Drumbeat Down in the Well

author’s note:

“We experience a dream as real because it is real.”
             -- William Dement


DRUMBEAT DOWN IN THE WELL

When the mower suddenly died that day
I said: “Must be a sign from above!”
and lay myself down on the lawn.

Then as I eased into a half-doze
I detected a pulsing murmur--
perhaps a distant drumbeat

for a ritual dance
of men, women, children--

a tribal circle reaching up
to the circle of the moon:
a celebration I might find
by going where my shadow pointed
as the sun sank in the west.

So I stood up and began to walk
or maybe I only dreamt I did--
in any case
I traced that quiet seductive summons
across a broad savanna
through the starless dark

until I arrived at a well
round as a drum--
its waters reflected a full moon.

I knew I’d reached the source
yet the sound had died down
so I listened down
down into that glowing whole
and as a result
I began to feel the beat
softly echoing up
from a deeper chamber of my heart.

I knew then
I was the ritual circle dancing--
reaching up
even as I listened down.

I understood:
I celebrate this life
every day with every beat--
even when I feel dull gray--even then
I’m still amazed
by this mystery we’re in.

Then
having finally realized the obvious
I returned--
finding my way back
with natural ease
because I was no longer lost.

But though we go back
we never really lose
what we’ve gained, do we?

I can still hear that deep drum--
even now as I mow
this sunny lawn.

Dancing to Raven’s Song: a novel
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© 2023, Michael R. Patton

Storm Ritual

author’s note:

“Splish splash!”
           –- Bobby Darin


STORM RITUAL

Why didn't I run
from those stallions of storm clouds
rushing toward me
over the grassland of the valley?

Obviously I felt compelled
to wake my sleepy head
but maybe I was also held
by this secret wish:

to stand naked
and let the god of lightning
blast apart the stubborn fist
that binds my heart—
a block resistant to my persistent pleas
for freedom.

And maybe I opened my arms
to the cold merciless rain
because my dreams keep telling me:
wash yourself clean.

Whatever the deeper reasons may be
I can say for certain
the silly child I still am
found joy in the splashing dance

and as sunlight followed storm
I instantly instinctively felt hope—
for a moment, quiet ecstasy freed my heart
as the rainbow arc
joined one mountain to the other mountain
across the valley.

Finally, a ritual has elicited
the heightened sense of reality I seek.
But I must find a safer way
to reconnect with my truth.

If I don’t
deep need may drive me
to again stand and say
come on
next time I see stallions of storm clouds
rushing to wash me down.

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© 2022, Michael R. Patton

Our Dance of Life and Death

author’s note:

"Dance dance dance right there on the spot"
              -- The Beach Boys


OUR DANCE OF LIFE AND DEATH

A woman standing
on our east coast beach
heard about the child
and felt the impulse
to express herself in dance

and for once, did not hold back--
she wanted to be brave
in a world so cruel.

Moving in a circle
with arms crossed tightly across her chest
she suddenly
lowered to her knees
and bowed in grief
then stood back up
and lifted her face to a merciless sun
then went round again
then fell to her knees
and bowed again
then stood once again
and lifted her face to the sun.
She went on and on in this way--
she did not stop.

And when a poor man walking by
asked her “why?”
she told him of the mother and child
and in a moment he responded
by bowing to his knees
then standing back up
and opening his arms
then bowing down again
then standing again and opening
his arms.
He went on and on in this way--
he did not stop.

Two teenage girls joined them:
they’d do pirouettes
then collapse in the sand
they went on and on--
they did not stop.

And so our dance of life and death began:

a chain of rising and falling bodies
grew down the shoreline.
Many or most on the island
felt drawn--as if in a trance:
I think we felt a need to grieve
over the news story.
But maybe some were also possessed
by a deep desire to express sadness
too long repressed.

The chain of separate links
continued to build--
moving over the rolls of the dune hills

then across a field of wind grass

and onto the main road and into town
and then beyond.

As the sun touched the horizon
the chain arrived
at the other side of the island
where an unknown swan dancer
--light as a zephyr--
floated in a gossamer gown
at the edge of a cliff
to the echo of waves below.

At this point
those who’d begun the dance at the east beach
woke from their trance--
all along the way, the chain fell apart
as islanders fell out
and slowly shuffled home
in the exhaustion
of emotional/physical release.
Hardly speaking--
not needing to speak.
Yes, we’d returned
to our regular state of mind
but our regular state of mind
was now much better.

That night, the child's mother
tearfully thanked all participants
from a camera in her kitchen

but through that fall
and into the depth of gray winter
she struggled under
a persistent weight of grief.

Later, she told of her nightly torment
how she’d walk the floor
going in circles--
her arms crossed tightly across her chest.
She’d pace round and round and round
until she finally fell down
then she’d just lie there--
feeling defeated.

But while holding to
the hardwood floor
she'd slowly recover
some sense of stability

and as the surge of sadness
naturally began to ebb
she’d sense a feeling of life
rising within--
a calm steady force that even
her leaden depression
couldn’t suppress

and in response, she’d stand again
and continue on.

Oddly enough
after each collapse
she felt a bit stronger.

Just as I have
on those occasions when
I’ve fallen down in a fatigue of grief
and remained down
until I sensed a calm force rising within.

Obviously, a common occurrence among humans:
I see many falling down in their dance
then witness a new strength
as they stand to their feet
and continue on.

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© 2022, Michael R. Patton

Grief Waters

author’s note:

As they say in the movies: based on a true story.


GRIEF WATERS

In the time of intense grief
I went to the water

hoping to create a cathartic ritual
that would free me from
my burden of emotion.

I believed the opera I felt inside
required an ocean.
So I drove from the city
to a nearby bay
and after stripping down
waded out toward a red sun
dying on the horizon.

When the cold waters had reached
my hiccupping heart
I stopped

and stood
ankle-deep in the sediment muck
of that rank brown bay brew.
Amoebas of oil and gasoline
slithered on waves
bloodied by the sunset.

I then realized
I’d not bothered to formulate
any words or movements
for this ritual
so I merely waited--hoping
miracle healings do indeed come to those
who are sincere.

But in the quiet
of the ticking moments
I began to see this act
as a fancy performed by a fool
who’s seen too many movies

so I gave up in embarrassment
and just let the waters sway me.

Then, as my eyes settled on
a distant cloud aflame
I slipped into an accidental meditation--
I lost all thought--lost time

until brought back
by an electric chill
needling my clammy skin.

But with that awakening
I saw again
the glorious strangeness of this world
and our life in it.
Have you ever found yourself
by losing yourself?

Refreshed by a satisfying emptiness
I pulled my feet up from the muck
and walked myself back out.

My poorly-formed ritual
had somehow tripped a switch.
I drove home with a desire for life
missing since the death.

Years later
when I think of that loss
I still feel a lingering shadow of sadness
but I also remember
those blessed grief waters--
that wonderfully-strange sunset--
the flame that hides
at the end of our day
but never dies.

mythsteps · Grief Waters

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After the Funeral I Create My Own Ritual

author’s note:

I have nothing against traditional rituals.

I say: whatever works for you.


AFTER THE FUNERAL I CREATE MY OWN RITUAL

Until late that afternoon...

I sent those small smooth round stones
skipping in delightful arcs
across the still water:

some making seven or eight or more hops--
others...only three or four

while a few, I regret to say
went ka-plunk
without jumping even once.

With every throw
I imagined that stone
excited to fly--joyful

then, whatever the outcome
content to sink, to rest

to be back with the lake.

When my arm finally said
okay--enough
I drove home in acceptance:

the beginnings of a peace.

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Master Boulder

author’s note:

Many years ago, I heard we should “commune with nature”.

But some time passed before I learned the wisdom of that advice.


MASTER BOULDER

Though I'm intimidated
by its monolithic presence
I often return to that boulder
at the bottom of the hollow

and then
despite my resistance
obey
its command to listen
to what can not be spoken
only felt:

the profundity of its heavy silence.

In that way, I’m humbled
even as I begin to feel
that same power
echoing up from my dark depths.

I’ve finally discovered
the value of ritual.
I now know how to pray.

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The Kissing Fish

author’s note:

“I’m gonna do what I gotta do to get the union back!”
               -- from the movie Hoffa


THE KISSING FISH

As they do
nearly every evening at this time
the kissing fish
arc out of the lake.
One coming from the north.
One coming from the south.

The two trout
meet in mid-air
and for one still moment
their mouths adhere

and all the people who’ve gathered
around the pond to witness
this twilight summer ceremony
hold their breath
as they experience
the wondrous union
as a union of their own, within.

But impermanence is the cost
of living on this planet--
in the next moment
the rainbow arc made
by the two trout
breaks

with a collective sigh
from the crowd
as the spent bodies
flop helplessly down
and land on the water,
creating two rings of spray

then disappear under
the orange autumn leaves
rolling with the waves.

Some couples
now drift into the woods,
hand in hand.

But the truth is:
everyone here has become
a lover again
by opening to
the glorious perfection
of this gentle event.

Soultime: a novel
© 2021, Michael R. Patton

Honoring the Ashes

author’s note:

Are we in the ashes now?

Yes.

Will we rise?

Of course.


HONORING THE ASHES

I identify with
that solitary tribe in the desert--

the book says:
when done with life in one place
they arise in the fresh morning chill
and burn their village
and burn their clothes.

Then, having cleansed
they follow the wind
to their next destination.

But the story didn’t tell
how they know when they’re done.

Well, in my experience
the “knowing when”
begins as a feeling that then
becomes a thought.  My best decisions
are the feelings I can not ignore.

But unlike the tribe
I carry my ashes with me

and often stop to dump the urn
and shift through the gray dust
that’s dead yet still lives--

maybe I contemplate
the shard of a busted jar
or a ring twisted
into a figure “8”.

Some say:
“don’t waste the present
  looking back on the past”.

But I feel the need to find meaning

especially when
the present moment seems
so trivial and low.

At such times, I sometimes
remember to remember
all the people, places, and things
I’ve known
and thank the whole menagerie
for helping me
as I struggle to learn
about this life and myself.

In that way
I elevate the moment
and see my past
as a glorious panorama.

© 2020, Michael R. Patton
Butterfly Soul: poems of death, grief, joy