Upside Down Kris

  Success There is a siren pumping in my ear. It starts low enough as a constant drone. As time gathers force, the droning drones so much it pieces  my ear drum. I hear the drums coming. They are pounding into and through my feet on the concrete. I am heaving, heaving, my skin alert with goose pumps. My heart has taken up the pounding my legs  have left. It's time to stop. I look up as a Mack truck hits me, catapulting me in the air. I had been running from  (to?) this point for a long time. Now, I'm ready  as I ever will be. Afraid, unsure, but sure  it's here. Here I am, suspended. I have a choice. I could land, hard on the pavement fragmenting me and my structure. Or I could try to land on my feet somewhere on the meadow adjacent to the concrete. I choose the second. I choose to move back to green to yellow to vibrant colors and the callings of the sparrow. I even join them– the sparrows– and sing my heart out replacing the pumping with a melody. This is...

A Sweet Scene Chocolate, chocolaty nougat melting on my tongue with the heat from my taste buds longing for something sweet but satisfying. None of that light meringue-like empty puffiness or over-the-top sugariness of cupcake frosting. Not even the cake crumbling from muffin liners that attach to a moist finger and delight the mouth. No, I'm talking about true, whole sweetness. What I mean is a food that holds you, that fills you with that feeling of being embraced to your core. It's similar to what I feel like during those rare connections while dancing a slow blues or French mazurka. Ah, that's when the sweetness is so true that it runs through your skin giving you goosebumps. What I mean is cream that is so delicate yet full that you have to close your eyes to savor it. You lean into it and it fills your mouth until the taste becomes part of you.   In the end, the true taste experience is a lot like a hug. Have you ever tried biscotti dipped in Muscat wine? Just divine–...

  The Three Sides of Grace The thing about Grace is that she changes with age. We are all born with Grace–she tickles our throats and makes us suck in our first breath. She takes us so off guard that the breath spirals out into a wail. But it''s there: her gift of life and wonder so powerful that it's a miracle. Yes, our first breath is our first Grace, and the strongest and fullest one at that. She is alive in our puffy cheeks and red-pink skin. The second Grace is the leaving. She takes someone you love and presses them to her heart before gently drawing them away. You are devastated and think Grace has abandoned you, but I assure you she hasn't. As she's drifting away with her arm over your loved one's shoulder, she looks back with a reassuring smile. You see, she is keeping them safe. Although it may be a bitter goodbye for you, she is leaving you the space the person has left to rediscover yourself. Many times we don't realize this is a gift and remain ...

Yesterday's Twists It started out in peace. At long last, I could take the time to pour out on a piece of paper and feel absorbed by the birds' polyphony outside my window.   Then, a whiz hour of housework and I was off into the world of Bach's playful Coffee Cantata.  I was even early for the bus and on time to help out with a tango course for people with motor issues. Almost everyone was feeling well and the positive mood carried out into the first exercises. That is, until one of the elderly gentlemen turned to stone. A strange sort of gray creeped into his skin and he stared straight ahead as if he were suddenly sucked into a dark world. He couldn't hear his wife's frantic calls nor respond to anyone. The spell was so strong he would have fallen rigidly to his right had the people near him not been ready to catch him. We were in a private hospital but it took twenty minutes for the paramedics to reach us. His wife tenderly kissed his forehead and told him she wo...

Where I'm at I am sitting at a heart filled tablecloth, a grayness filled with upside down hearts asking questions. They are under the cherries that are falling from the gray background of the picture   above accompanied by a green-yellow lemon and two ceramic jugs holding I know not what. The hall is to my right behind a half-closed door that finishes in a shadowy line on the wall. The shadows contain Sophie's meow asking me to make reflections on that wall. Behind me is the countertop with the kettle still hot from the water in the cup in my lap. Whiffs of the tea tease my nostrils with fennel and honey as it swishes around my mouth tasting my tastebuds. To the left are the long windows of the French doors leading to the balcony, a balcony which was my stage during Covid. This balcony became a portal with which to communicate with my neighbors in person, a way to connect through song and chatter. So, really, in the end I am sitting in the middle of my relationships. My relati...

  My Ugly What if being true to ourselves means being ugly–showing our distate for something or someone. Should we hide it? I wonder if Buddhists  (in particular the Dalai Lama) feel disgust or dislike. Are they beyond all the pettiness? Do they have a deep acceptance of the way things are so they're not disturbed by it? I imagine that at least they don't feel aversion as much as I do. It felt good to yell at my roommate the other day, so much was my frustration against him. I know I should feel guilty because it's a petty way of reacting, but I don't. I'm only sorry that I wasn't acting the way I want to see myself, not for what I said. It released what I had been holding in for months, and at least he knew how I felt. But I k now I showed my ugly. I know it's not the calm, loving person I want to be. I ask you: must we accept everything? Where does the acceptance end and the realness kick in? Is it more important to be real or to hide impatience?    Mayb...

  Steaming my Thoughts I should let my thoughts steep for a while...let them stew in the pot until the dendrite leaves become soaked and well drained. I will strain out the goodness from the nucleus and leave the rest to be discarded.  I must take care not to leave the leaves for long and throw them out as soon as possible. Why would I want discarded thoughts to stick around, staining the counter tops and coffee cups? Even worse would be to use them again and again, especially when the thought becomes old and makes tasteless tea. *** I started a tea ritual not too long ago, so much am I enamored of the soothing substance. Every morning, it goes like this: I sit cross-legged on the couch covered by my favorite cuddly blanket. Only after I am comfortable do I take the mug: a  large picture mug that I  wrap my hands around to absorb its warmth. Then, I suck in the aroma from the steam and manifest myself into it. I take a steaming sip with my eyes closed and let it slid...