Monday, October 4, 2021


            I have spent most of my life trying to fill my days as full as possible, but now, almost 80, I am finally seeing the importance of emptiness. I want to be always prepared to receive the gifts that life continuously brings, and only an empty container is truly ready to receive. I want to be like the wide-open Grand Canyon, forever friendly to whatever is waiting. The immense, hospitable canyon welcomes storms and sunshine and daylight and darkness, and I want to be just as welcoming, but I can’t be welcoming if I’m already chock-full of beliefs and desires and fears and to-do lists.  If I imagine the Grand Canyon filled to the brim with junk, I get a picture of what my life sometimes feels like – a measureless container, but so full it can’t possibly be open to the miracles life is ready to provide. To me, being empty means being as clear and free as a sky that’s ready to receive all the winds and light and storms and silence the universe creates. It means unloading my endless worries and creeds and desires so there’s room again for the marvels each moment makes. I want to be a canyon that’s always empty so it can always be freshly filled up, moment after amazing moment. 


He thinks he might grow up 
to be a peacemaker, or perhaps 
a poet who lives among lakes 
and trees. He often thinks a life 
of throwing baseballs would be fun
when he gets a little older,
or a career involving canyons 
where the calls of the youthful earth
can be heard. He recently sent away 
for information about following 
lonesome trails that know no end,
and brochures about jobs 
studying distant, miraculous shores. 
He's even considering becoming 
a singer of songs of wisdom, 
or working as a protector
of people's hearts and minds. 

However, he's only 80,
still unfolding as a person.
There are refreshing years ahead 
in which to decide. 
No need 
to rush these things. 

And here's a scene from our walk yesterday at the Denison Pequotsepos Preserve ...