Balcony Mother

1/2/19

Before meditation:

Always every excuse not to sit

And face whatever it is that comes forth

For what lies inside is every fear

Every desire, every sick thought

That blocks you from who you are

So on the toilet you decide that 2019

Is for the second person, and it does not

Matter whether you go back and forth

From past to present

Or whether the older man pours

For the younger

As done in Korea, those lonely nights

Singing with Aunts, eating spicy chicken

Downing bowls of kim chi alone but wanted

If for nothing more than the difference

Is not this what so many seek:

The difference

What is special about being separate

What is better or worse and never

Just

Us: the way we are we in this industry

Called life, called driving, called

Next we find the way past what is

To what was

to what will be

The same things: the snowfall

The calls from the balcony

The winds that blow forth

Disturbed by a woman, lovely like a soft touch

To be kind to those that call from up above

Those that have called since birth

A mother with wonder and sleep

Risen early to see her eldest son drive

Sixteen hundred miles from Iowa

To New Orleans is a mighty difference

Yet there are mothers there, too

Miss Lee and Miss B, and even Miss T who is

Closer to being a sister

Though these mothers could never replace the love of the one

Calling from the balcony, the one you made worry

The one that concerns herself with whether you are hungry

And whether your hair is cut

And have you met any nice girls

And if so, have you considered marriage

And are you sure that you can’t stay longer

“Can I buy you a shirt?”

This is the mother you

Take for granted all that she has done

If you want to continue living

With the thought of self made man

No man is self made

Not with a mother that gave gifts of love

Everyday you showed up

Blood on the elbows and knees

A shaved eyebrow, passed out in the driveway

Stumbling through the living room

She forgave, even the Mother’s dDay

You called home from jail

You were without card, without sentiment

Thinking not of the day

Not knowing the date

Not knowing much of anything

Save the need for money

And she gave, and she forgave

So how dare you not answer, when she calls

From the balcony, maybe

This is what needed to come in these twenty

Minutes a love letter that never would have been written

For you take what is given, live in the moment

Ask to be forgiven

Get the mail, take the trash to the curb

Make fires, still

You leave a mess, one that is less

What it used to be ; kindling

The beginning: anew

Whittling: who knew?

She lets you drive her car down snowy streets

The cold outside

Only relieved by a step

In, carpet, a call

From the balcony

Mostly saying, “I love you.”

In so many words

The same is heard the world over

For the gift of a mother is more than

Any grown boy deserves

And maybe the difference between men and women

Is that at some point the girls turn into women

Whereas people just start calling boys men

Because of their age: they know not to wash hands after the bathroom

Or to put wax paper over bowls of chili

In the microwave.

Those boys never get haircuts or buy new clothes

Not on their own

Not unless there is some proclivity

Yet this does not define every man

Nor does every mother call from a balcony

No, some sit in the old age home with yarn

And a cat named Fluster,

Looking out the window and wishing they might have called down

Wishing they might have said more than this

Wishing that every Christmas was a Sunday

And every Tuesday a Monday and not willing

To take the path of the quiet lamb

Or the boastful pride of a pack of lions

Choosing instead to let everything get under the skin

Instead, your mother from the balcony has begun

A journey to see her own purpose and so when

You say that you are writing

She walks away and waits

She realizes that moments will come again

And maybe, if you tell her, she will know

That these last moments, the seconds and minutes

After she interrupted

You dedicated these to her

You took your time for writing

And you built a house for the reader to see

That his own mother might have been the only reason

That he sits sometimes with tears in his eyes

And the vision to see a better tomorrow

After:

In sitting

Thoughts are labeled

Neither good nor bad

Only thinking

And in life we meet

Friends and family and think

That we know what is best.

We call some of this judgment.

We see judgment as bad.

On the other side we say things like,

“I just want what is best for him,”

“It’s for his own good.”

This is no more different than thinking

That we know which thought is good and which is bad

If this were the case, all of us would have figured out life

Long ago.

Still, we take these ideas

so deeply ingrained

and push our notions of what should be

in the name of love.

True love is trust

Is knowing the process

Is knowing every action (or inaction)

Is an opportunity.

Every path is different.

Take the great lesson of Chogyam Trungpa:

The iron jacket and pants that we all wear

And one day, one of us discovers a key

And a zipper, and a way out

And suddenly, you run free

Your body one with the wind

No difference between breath and skin

And you shout for a crowd

And the people gather to listen

And you say that look here, this is

The way.

Take this zipper and this lock

And you, like me, will be free.

Each member of the crowd looks down,

Searches around, looks for

A lock and a zipper, but each suit is different.

Each suit is mean

Each suit can

Each suit has it’s own set of keys

And each suit can only be taken off

By the one wearing it.

So consider: his journey is perfect

The one you want to help

Does not need your help

The one that would be so much happier if…

Can be happy now.

It is you that struggle because of these thoughts

It is you whose suit must be taken off

It is you who must look down at the chains and

See that the keys all lie within you

There is nothing out there to catch

There are no reaches that need to be made

Every day a bit of inspiration

An unthreading of steel

Wool what will be and let might

Set the course upon which you will

Witness the vision

That rises in the east and think not

Of what they do when the sun sets

For this sun will never set once you break free

Do not in the least think that

The searching for freedom is not valid

For most subsist on this search

Most thirst is quenched not by water

But by the notion of availability

Talk to a junkie

And ask just how knowing the score was going to come

Took away eighty percent of the craving

Speak to an alcoholic

And ask how two o’ clock meant two more hours

Until the first beer, and how this allowed

Two more hours of fighting

How then to take these gods and make real gods

And real presence and silence

And revolve around wishes given

Not only to the majority

But to everyone that wishes

Need not be Muslim or Christian or even

Religious

Masters have never been self-named

At least not in the streams where we have stepped

Only the first time did you not realize

Wet is a condition that cannot be thought

So much as experienced and neither

Can the adherents of the events be struck down

By motorists on their way

For they must have a place and a destination

Coupled with the knowledge that this place may not be found

Coupled with the knowledge that

All motorists must

At some time turn around

Even when the weather is not inclement

Even when the seasons are rain and the need for wipers is not

Even when you think there are only twenty more minutes to complete

The journey is a wide one, not out of reach

But not to be grasped and gripped and held onto

Like a monkey stuck in a coconut

One of the greatest analogies to describe the

Self-proclaimed greatest of apes.

Speak not what cannot be heard in silence

Speak not what cannot be sold

Speak not what comes from beyond

In the fold of the muse

Before the afternoon

Before the drive

Before the time dings

Before you make it out

No longer alive

But living

No longer breathing

But a spirit

A flow

A thought in the hearts of those still speaking

Build ancestral altars and always carry

The hearts of those that walked the earth

The feet of those that wore down the path

And then might you see that the master is found

Not in skin or brain or even heart

But in the gas that floats between and within all of us

A gas that will lift

And give buoyancy to seal

Will also deliver you into heaven

Right here on earth

Right here before you

Right past the chain mail through which

There has always been a key

Through which there has always been release

Though which you have never needed assistance

And never needed more than you have.