We know not to run/drive through 
stop signs and red lights.
To do so is called
"Pushing our luck."

Trust your luck
without pushing it!

We have to know where the line lies
between trusting and pushing our luck--
and stay on the right side of it.

When we are cruising along
and sense a red flag,
the proper course of action
is to stop and explore the implications
of what we were about to do.

Ignoring red flags and warning signals
from our psyche
is pushing our luck.

We sense edges and lines
before they become apparent.
When we give ourselves warning signals,
it is time to sit still, be quiet,
and discern what's what. 

Trust your luck,
don't push it!

–0–

People who always know what to do
in any/every situation,
are screwing things up for everybody.

The right action appears out of nowhere,
at just the right time
as a reminder of the Mystery
at work throughout the cosmos.

We cannot calculate our way through mystery.

The Way is not subject to reason,
logic,
analytics,
recipes,
and rules to live by.

Right action is made up
in the heat of the moment
as a spontaneous response
to the situation as it arises.

We do not think it up.
We recognize its validity
in the aftermath of having done it.

We find ourselves saying what needs to be said,
doing what needs to be done,
being who we need to be,
at one with what is happening,
as a dancer dancing with the music,
as a fiddle player jammin'
with the guitar and the banjo
and the mandolin,
wondering when it's over
where it came from,
and looking forward to its  
regular return.

–0–

Settling into the moment,
into the here/now,
and just being here/now,
as though there is no better place to be,
and just doing here/now
what needs to be done here/now,
as though there is nothing better to do,
is the way of the whale in the ocean,
and the snake upon a rock,
and a lion in the Serengeti,
and a willow in the rain...

It is what nature does best,
folding into the here/now,
settling into the moment,
soaking it up
as though it will be the last moment ever.

Human beings think there is
something better to be had
in some other moment,
and we can't wait to get there/then.
To hell with here/now.
Give us there/then here/now! 

–0–

The right kind of emptiness 
is easy to achieve.

Start with stillness and silence.
Empty yourself of everything you find there.

That is all there is to it.

Now, you are as empty as the space between breaths.
Be there,
emptying yourself of everything that interferes 
with the creative space between thoughts/
images/
memories/
fears/
emotions/
etc.

Be conscious only of your breathing.
Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Count to 5 in sync with your heartbeat.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Count to 5...

In the emptiness,
stillness
and silence.

Open, waiting,
breathing, counting,
open, waiting...

For realization,
awareness,
enlightenment,
illumination,
seeing,
hearing,
understanding,
knowing,
being...

Then do what needs to be done.

This is the way to the way
all the way.

–0–

Our relationship with nature
determines/reflects all of our relationships.

Honoring/worshiping nature sets the tone,
establishes the rhythm,
puts everything else in place around that.

Contempt for is exploitation of the natural world,
and reflects contempt for and exploitation of
all of our other relationships.

Nature's place in our life
reflects/exhibits/expresses
all you need to know about us
to know what you can expect from us--
and how much,
or how little,
time you need to spend in our company.

Buttons

by Jim Dollar

The buttons were everywhere. The contents of the entire box had exploded across the room, covering floor, chairs and the potted plastic fern.

“The little bastard!” she thought. “I’ll just have to kill him. Any jury in the land would acquit me. It isn’t as though I haven’t told him. ‘Be careful around the sewing machine,’ I said. ‘Watch what you’re doing in the sewing room,’ I said. He is going to die right now.”

Striding through the house on a mission, she arrived at the screen door and pushed. The door, as was its tradition, refused to budge.

“Damn it all to HELL!” she shouted, kicking the bottom of the door. One kick usually did the trick, but not this time. And, in the instant between the first kick and the second one, she looked through the screen into the back yard and saw him swinging on his stomach, looking at the ground, on the one swing that still hung from the old gym set.

He wasn’t old enough to have conspired to disrupt hr sewing day with the button disaster. He wasn’t old enough to think about what he was doing before he did it, or even, as he was doing it. Yet, he was growing too fast. Childhood was disappearing before her eyes. How many more seconds would there be before there would never be any more buttons to pick up, ever?

“Maybe I won’t kill him today,” she said to herself, working the door open .

She walked to the swing set and gave him a gentle push on his butt. “I thought I would give you a push and tell you I love you,” she said, “before we go in and pick up some buttons.”

Writing from Batesville, Mississippi, Sunday, January 21, 1996