Today serendipity provided an opportunity for me to grab my Gal and drop over the hills past Sausalito, climbing through the eucalyptus so fragrant and familiar, then wheeling down past Green Gulch Sanctuary to the power point known as of Muir Beach. We swerve and snake down-mountain in dense mystic fog, but Maestro Wind is already calming itself in anticipation of another daylight miracle as we park and amble over the dunes to the rocky volcanic excess rising amiably southward, serenely watched over by Angels of Emptiness.
We like this kind of work, especially together. Always have. When possible, simple stupas are left as offerings to itself. Rock poems. It seems only right. Sometimes the poem continues on in our words, sometimes it was already written before we even get there. Lovers don’t care. They have enough to do without trying to figure it out at the same time. Their attention is devastated by tacit mutual recognition. Everything that appears, appears within them; they appear within each other as the unconditional gesture of Love to Itself. This they find endlessly amusing, and if they happen to be scribblers sometimes jot down a few notes on occasion.
A streak of blue on the horizon at noon signaled that the sky would soon be clearing, and as we poked through low lunar tidal pools we met up with winking anemone. Temporarily relieved by low tide of the blessing that submergence in the ocean bestows, they clung like vulva-shaped starfish to the slippery beached boulders, ribboned with slick seaweed flags scattered like mini jade mountains across the shore’s Dali carpet.
As we stood in typical awe, we realized that the gleaming peeled kiwifruit orifice at the center of each creature was its way of tasting the universe. At the center of the mandala of anemone convened on the Buddha-rock face before us, the largest of the group suddenly moistened to mirror back the full shot of sunlight now streaming down from a cloudless sky. The beam of transmission from that holy service blinded me with its brilliance. Looking down, iridescent peacock kelp quivered subtle blue electricities at the influx and exit of tidal whims, praising whole-bodily in kaleidoscopic weave and wave. Nothing needed to be said. The sound of Presence permeates every direction.
We stumble over to another rock and be seated. We are not alone. A large beetle is dragging itself towards us, one wing apparently broken. Now this beetle slowed as he crawled up to our feet. We could see a baby-pink lining under his dislocated carapace, pulsing in the sunlight. Suddenly, and we all are mysteriously familiar with this ancient moment, the beetle began to flutter its wings in a blur of pink ecstasy. Gradually floating up to eye level with us, it paused, shifted gears, and sped off towards the ocean and out of sight. You turned, looked at me with that increasingly familiar expression, and said: “Of course, while you were occupied elsewhere earlier, I was writing a beetle poem.”
“Naturally!” I replied.