Many Praises for the Peopl in My Life
The day is full of good intentions, beautiful friends, and blessings all around.
I could write about the way the sangha came together at the end of a weekend program, the teachings resonating like the sound of a brass gong, striking to the core and reverberating through the heartstrings.
I could explain the grace with which my meditation instructor listened to me articulate the struggles of my sitting practice, the courage she carries into her own life, or the timely advice she offered which has already helped deepen my practice.
I could try to capture Tia’s peaceful abiding, or they way her lips part when she smiles, accentuating her wide eyes and softening her presence even further.
I could start to describe the magic of Mendy Knott’s poetry reading: how her Southern accent rings true in my ear, how she makes me laugh and cry all at once, how she smiles even when she is reading about wartime, how she speaks, breathes, walks, preaches, writes, teaches, dances to the beat of personal peace, extending her sermon to impressionable women writers who subsequently spread their peace like butter on toast, seeping into every hole in our government’s failing justification for war, passing on the message, singing praises of our creativity, believing that a better way of life for all people, all genders, all nations is possible. I could say how I thanked her for writing all those grad school recommendation letters, and how when I got home there was a message from Goddard congratulating me on my acceptance.
I could try to describe the softness of Redboots’ presence tonight, and how she has this way of just sitting back and listening, as if there were a porch just waitin’ for storytelling wherever she lands.
I could go into detail about my relationship with Britt, and how we joke that she is the femme (I the butch) when really, we both know we are the token straight girls – but still, we allow each other to entertain thoughts across all spectrums, to write and read and critique with the elegance of true friendship, to lean into the path of writing like trees in the wind.
I could explain the circumstances which led to picking up an apprentice named Kaya for Joe at the co-op in downtown BigCity, which in turn led to late-night conversations about synchronicity, the kindness of strangers, and hiking up the wall of the Black Mountains at eleven at night as we told Buffy the dog to hush, hush because we didn’t want to wake up Joe.
But all of it, every letter in every word, would only be the beginning of a poem, the hint of a greater meaning, the stardust from lives sparkling with beauty.