There has been an accident,
ahead on the highway,
which, for me,
is simply a delay.

Here in my car,
for two hours now,
my discomfort grows -
I am tired and hungry,
and I need to pee.

But what, I wonder,
happened up ahead?

Are all these emergency vehicles,
sirens Dopplering past,
lights blinking in the near distance,
tending to the victims
of something much worse
than my own inconvenience?

What drama
interrupted my peaceful ride,
but interrupted the lives
of people I will never know
in ways beyond
what I can imagine?

Finally, I am released
from my impatience,
as I pass a tableau
of mangled metal,
the scattered carcasses of cars,
the occupants (if they still live)
long taken from the scene.

How would I feel
if I lingered here,
slowed down
by morbid curiosity,
contemplating the fates
of these people
I don’t see?

How strange,
to brush by the edge of this,
only dimly aware
of the horror of it.

How blasé we are,
sailing through our lives,
mostly blind to all the little tragedies
and personal disasters around us,
until they are thrust
directly in front of us,
and we are forced to look.

The magic of a painting
(or a photograph)
is how it seems
to make time stop,
freezing a moment
in this river of change.

In the flow of life,
time seems always
to forge ahead,
leaving us behind
as we contemplate
what just happened,
unprepared
for what will happen next.

How pleasant, then,
for memory’s tableaus
to be spread out before us,
as so many works of art,
objective artifacts
of our experience,
spread out for our perusal,
at our leisure,
as if time did not flow
at all.

And if it didn’t,
what would it feel like
to be alive,
as if in a museum,
a tribute to life,
a monument,
but not in the flow
of life itself?

The world giveth,
and the world taketh away,
in ways both big and small.

It is filled
with random carelessness,
and random kindness,
exquisitely balanced,
if we are willing
to accept them both.

Yesterday,
I strolled the park,
relaxing in the cool night air.

And along came a boy,
racing on his bike behind me,
warning me too late,
not able to avoid me.

Grazing past me,
his bike scraped across my wrist,
leaving a small red wound,
and an otherwise bare wrist.

Where were my treasured watch
(with a calculator and stopwatch built in!)
and the prayer beads
given to me in kindness,
blessed by a Buddhist teacher?

Scattered in the brush,
I found the remnants of both,
watch strap ripped beyond repair,
the prayer beads mostly gone.

The little pains of loss
were stronger than the stinging of my skin,
until, with some reflection,
I could simply let go
of blame and indignation,
and wanting what I no longer had.

I will never know who it was
who carelessly deprived me
of these two cherished things,
and, as I let them go,
I find that it’s okay.

And so, on a new day,
I am sitting in another park,
writing and relaxing,
on another beautiful night.

As I sit,
a woman approaches,
and, in a kindly, exotic voice,
asks if I would like her pizza,
which she could not finish.

Box in hand, I take it home,
to share it with my son.

Hot from the oven,
the smell of herbs and garlic
permeating the house,
I luxuriate
in what is, perhaps,
THE BEST PIZZA IN THE WORLD!

I will never know who it was
whose kindness
brought us this little feast,
or where the best pizza in the world
could be found again,
and, upon reflection,
that is okay,
as well!

Why does change
amaze and confuse us,
sometimes fill us
with discomfort
and fear?

Is it because
what we see before us
refuses to match
the pictures
we hold so tightly
in our minds?

What stubborn perversity
keeps us glued
to yesterday’s images,
while life’s immediacy
plays out in front of us?

What futile hope of comfort
persuades us
to ignore life’s challenges
and its joyous surprises
in favor of a certainty
which is only imagined?

Across the river,
I see nothing,
only mist,
as if the city
in the world I know
has floated off,
or slipped away,
out of this dimension.

And slowly,
like a painting,
growing before me,
little points of light appear,
poking through the veil of darkness,
details of being, hints of solidity
slipping back
into this world.

In this ebb and flow
of light and darkness,
only my memory
can see the familiar,
the cityscape
that my mind
has always known.

And, as I watch,
form and light
fade in and out,
in a slow and subtle dance
across the horizon.

Forgetting what I know,
letting memory’s vision fade,
all I see before me
is magic.

My hope for you
is not that you become
who I think
you should be.

Although I helped you
to come into this world,
it is up to you
to find your own way in it.

I have done my best
to keep you safe
until your own instincts
can protect and guide you.

My hope for you,
as you build a future
for yourself,
is that you greet it
as the gift it is,
and that you grow to be
the happiest,
most fulfilled person
you are willing
and able to be.

My little aches and pains
remind me,
at the end of the day,
what I could have avoided doing,
but chose to do, instead.

These little aches and pains
are the price my body paid
for being who I want to be,
each day,
as entropy ticks out
the minutes, days, and years
of my life.

These little aches and pains
awaken me, some days,
reminding me of the choice
that every day offers me.

These little aches and pains
admonish me
that each day is a gift,
that it is not
to be taken for granted.

These little aches and pains
remind me
of another day
worth living.

As I look in the mirror
with an open heart,
as if at another human being,
I can see myself
without my story,
or my incessant thoughts.

I see someone
vibrant and alive,
shaped by their past,
grounded in the present,
and emboldened to step forward
into their own future.

When you hear yourself
being critical of yourself,
you may ask yourself:
who are these selves,
and why must they bicker
amongst themselves
inside my brain?

What if they spoke
with kindness and respect,
or ceased to speak at all?

What if you, yourself,
ceased to listen,
withdrawing your interest
and your belief in them
(which are the fuel
that gives them form),
and you let them fade,
bit by bit,
into vapor,
into nothingness?