On the Natural Zendo of the Dino.

04/02/2006 11:38 AM - 12:01 PM

Every now and then, the universe conspires to produce Dean Martin. He doesn’t always go by the name “Dean Martin,” but there he is, sitting in a chair, eating his bread with joy, drinking his wine with a merry heart, wearing his white linen suit, his head lacking no oil. And Koholeth is finally at peace. Behind it all, the First Cause laughs and we find ourselves in our own natural state.

Existence has the option of being a permanent, paid vacation. Or a mountain climb (the mountain climbs the mountain). It’s just there. It is itself, without permission, without regret. All our sins forgiven as if they never were. They never were. When we dance, it’s like the blue of the moon, singing warm breezes to the corn in clean August. It doesn’t matter, it’s just aliving. Where is your spark now? Where did it go when the dust returned to its resting state? But where did it come from in the first place? Do you see? Do you get it? It’s just itself. Our eyes are located on the front of our heads, we are excellent at judging distances, but we can’t see as far at the eagle or as much area as the antelope. We’re just ourselves. You are just yourself. Sink down into the warmth of recognizing your limit and see that it is no sin.

Go on then, go back to the toys you forgot about when you learned the weight of it. There is no weight. It’s you that weigh the thing. If it’s too heavy, stop giving it it’s weight. If it’s too light, see it’s heavier. There is no life that is not epic. There is no tragic epic that isn’t inherently funny. Just make sure that you save the giggles ‘til you’re at home. Some folks haven’t gotten the joke yet. Give ‘em time. Eventually, we all sink down to our natural state – calm seaweed in a warm ocean. Remember yourself, then let him go. Close your eyes and sink into the long, warm summer day. Just let it go and float away. You’re here. All experiences are part of your internal strata. Two years from now is already there. The waves wash in, depositing the fermata on the wet sand. The tide turns. The earth dries. We are left with what we always were. The tabula is rasa. Forget it. Doesn’t matter. It’s just the kiss of the girl. It doesn’t matter, because it’s all-essential. Standin’ on a corner, watchin’ all the girls, watchin’ all the girls, watchin’ all the girls go by.