I leave the mountain, cross the border,
stop where the river rushes into the jaws of the Pacific.
The pretty park receptionist, painted like a porcelain pot
shows me to my spot at the water’s edge.
My tiny tent goes up.
Huge pelicans effortlessly ride the tide.
Ibis stalk around like three-legged cartoons.
A thousand bats silently flap their way –
whence, and wither?
Dusk draws the peak of Wollumbin
in charcoal on hazy apricot.
First the wind carries the drone of motorway traffic,
then it shifts; now there’s rolling surf-speak.
On a stone zafu
at the river’s edge I find
a mind that doesn’t seem to mind.
Tamborine Mountain, in the great down-under called Oz, wraps its stony self in subtropical rainforest garb. Peering through spaces in the forest bordering this property I see cultivated areas of huge avocado and macadamia nut trees. There’s a large tree massed with flowers of scarlet. Beyond, there’s a stand of huge eucalypts, and it’s through their open arms that the sky shows gold, then pearl, as the great Shining climbs out of the Pacific and over the rainforest rim.
I notice that as this verdant vista unfolds in perception, it brings up a bouquet of similar delights archived in this particular memory: Normandie, Norway and New Zealand, the English Lake District, Uttarkashi in the Himalaya, and the Western Ghats in Kerala, India. Each vignette bears its unique geographical and chronological label, yet all places and all times exist nowhere but now–here in this vastness of mind.
clamorous sea-speak this morning
for one who grew up amongst the coastal cliffs
the tussock-crowned dunes
the tidal pools
the crashing surf and wild symphonic joy
of the ocean inexplicably called Pacific
“there’s bound to be a salt-wave forever lapping in the heart”
she-who-scribbles loves water;
inescapable conditioning of the cells
well, ‘I’ has no preferences
and that means It embraces everything:
incomparably perfect Love!