The Dream of the Drop

author’s note:

The theory stated by the train traveler in this poem is a truncated version of an idea first proposed by Dr. Allan Hobson.


THE DREAM OF THE DROP

Before I woke this morning I saw
a drop of rain fall down through
a strange starless night
and land
with tiny silvery ripples
in a river glistening black—a river
without beginning or end.

In the dream, I then
peered through a microscope lens
and found in that dark-blue drop
a luminous web of complexity.
The sensory nerves of a spirit.

Thus
an event that first seemed
of little importance
suddenly felt momentous.

Later I told a man on the train:
“That drop is me, my life
 and the river symbolizes
 this metaphysical truth:

“what is here now
 has always been
 and will always be.”

With a yawn, the man replied
“You’re so desperate for meaning
 you’ll invent meaning
 where meaning
 doesn’t actually exist.

“Don’t you know?—
 dreams are merely the product
 of random neural firings
 in the brain as we sleep.”

Having heard that argument before
I then ended our little engagement
with this countermove I’d practiced:

“If an event feels significant
 then isn’t it significant?
 Yeah, maybe I am desperate
 but life loses life when life loses meaning.

“The fact is:
 neither one of us can prove our ideas.
 So now the question is:
 of the two, which belief serves us best?”

mythsteps · the dream of the drop

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New River

author’s note:

“Well, I love that dirty water”
        — from “Dirty Water”, by The Standells


NEW RIVER

“Today I surveyed
 the new river that recently
 cut through our desert town

“and realized the obvious:
 it’s just that old river I once swam in
 making a sharp turn now
 after slamming into a mountain.

“I’m disturbed by its abrupt change—
 now, the mix seems even muddier.
 Wilder too.
 But I know better than to try to talk sense
 to river water—
 I’ve learned you can never win.

“Nonetheless
 I can still protest
 refusing to jump back in.”

So I wrote by candlelight last night.
But then as I lay down my pen
I heard the wise one say:

you know that mud bath
will force you to struggle
to find your truth within.

Well okay, wise one, I said
but just look at all that turbulence—
such anger in those waters!

The wise one told me then:
you know how that chaos
will force you to create better balance
as you spin within.

Well okay, wise one, I said
but
I can still find my truth
I can still create balance
if I stay on the bank—
as long I dance
as I move through my day
and meditate at sunset.
And read lots of books
during these long quiet nights—
especially those
that are smarter than I am.

The wise one remained silent then
because now I suddenly felt the truth:

When I first arrived
at this slow dry town
I needed a rest
in order to survive.
But now to live
I must dive
back into that mad river water.

mythsteps · New River

Survival: poetry book
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Ouch!

author's note:

If laughter is the best medicine, maybe it’s good for me to joke about my pain.


OUCH!

When slogging through
a dark morass of agony
some of us will only say
"ouch".

By that I mean:
we'll answer your sincere concern
with a little joke--
understating our pain
in the manner of a cartoon character
toasted to a crisp by a bomb.

Maybe I'm not being honest about
the state of my heart
but to share my burden
would only burden me more
because then I'd worry
you'd worry
much too much
about the state of my soul.

Please, believe me:
I can endure what I must--
if I couldn't I wouldn't
be able to limit my cry
to this silly-sad
mouse-like
"ouch".

mythsteps · Ouch

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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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