Here is the piece I wrote for Poetry Evolution this week with a few photos of the Metolius River that is just a few miles from our place in Sisters, Oregon. It has always been a special place for me because when I was a child my best friend, Betsy, had a cabin at the head of the river (it springs right out of the ground at the foot of Black Butte) and we would spend summer and winter days there playing–riding ponies, canoeing, croquet and hours of reading and playing board games. It is a magical (and very, very cold) river that winds unfettered until it merges with the Deschutes.

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Like a River

Last month at the meditation course in New Mexico there was one class where we did a guided visualization along with a kriya to open up to guidance and clarity. It was a hot day, my back ached and I was hungry and ready for lunch and feeling the familiar resistance to the effort of concentration and stillness. As we got deeper and deeper into the meditation, though, I felt the strength of the process, felt myself giving way, opening to what might come through. Centering on the inhale and exhale, as well as holding the posture and the mudra, all brought more and more energy, a peaceful surge of strength and projective focus. In the last couple of minutes, as the mind chatter lessened and the body discomfort eased, three small words slipped through the veil, three words that landed with an impact that took my heart completely by surprise, brought tears, a welling of gratitude and recognition of the union of all in this vast universe.

Immediately following the meditation, my hunger having disappeared, I pulled out my notebook and pen, sat at a bench in the shade and began to write, write in response to the message:

The ripple, the roar, tidal pool flow, going, round a bend whirl, twirl, engulfing falling running, clouds reflecting, bowing branches turning down, the ground, the bounds of all solid, lost, found, counting stars on the surface, stones flung upon the floor. The bottom not solid, not sound, not caught, taught, swells with flotsam, buoyant with loss, whatever is tossed, floats, wants the journey, hears the call to merge to seek the expanse, beloved all, waters call never ending, the pounding, beckoning…come, come, leave the shore, leave all mammals, birds, meadows and falls, how sun finds day, the tears of the moon, the cottonwood snow, the pauses, move on, move on—chant of love, eternal mantra—always so, always so, always so.

Since that day I have been writing a little bit here and there to connect with this phrase, to find out what it has to divulge, what I need to learn from it. I have found a poem or two from it. I have begun to see life more and more as that eternal flow, as liquid, as fury, as calm, contained, overflowing, moving, still, all the many aspects of a river. Just a couple of days ago I was reading a short essay about Pablo Neruda by Edward Hirsch from his book, Poet’s Choice, where he quotes a portion of a poem of Neruda’s called “The Heights of Macchu Picchu.” Two thirds of the way down I came to the lines, “like a river of riving yellow light / like a river where buried jaguars lie.” I would have thought it mere coincidence if there was only one line that began “like a river” but that there were two…I knew that this was a confirmation, a communication from this incredible poet to keep on, to keep going down that river, an assurance that there was much to be learned, many blessings to be garnered by such an endeavor.

I leave Oregon tomorrow, travel back to Los Angeles, but I will return in a month, to a land where rivers abound in the mountains and meadows. I will carry these waters with me as I continue to write and to meditate on the river, to dive into the depths, to risk the icy cold, the loss of breath, to experience crystal clear moments of transcendence, to one day reach my ocean.

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The Head of the Metolius

If you look really closely you can see a small bridge. To the right is the cabin of my childhood friend, Betsy.

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Winding through the Ponderosa Pines.

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