Liberties

I like parking at the big box store, watching people come out and go in.  Swaying winter grasses in the median, sky that brigand Saturday blue.  I’m waiting to pick up my son from his guitar lesson. Already masterful,  he doesn’t quit. Even Jimi Hendrix continued with a vocal coach,  up to the very day he died. I have so much useless knowledge.  Like what the monk said about meditation: if while sitting on your cushion  you have the best idea you’ve ever had — stunning, complete — you mustn’t get up to capture it. Also, a lot of what we call miraculous  is just the way things work: a monarch always emerges from its chrysalis  as a radically different worm. A miracle is living flesh restored to reeking  corpse. It’s the man sitting calmly, shaved and dressed, after he’d raved  at city gates for more years than anyone who stepped around him  could remember. The monk said: when wondering what to do in life,  do what will cost you the most. Commit to watching the gorgeous  bubble evanesce. That’s the only way this works.