Thirty years ago I was in labor. Pant. Blow. Which didn’t have much effect as I was induced and riding those jagged pitocin waves. The moon was almost full. I vividly remember a partial eclipse, but can’t find any corroboration. Of the two people who supported me in labor, one is dead, one long gone from my social sphere.
I went to the Women’s March today at the capitol. Feeling somewhat crippled up–and saving some energy for the Patti Smith reading tonight (!) I just went to the rally, then into the roundhouse to say hi to Rich who is working seven days a week during our legislative session. I took off my stylish pussyhat and leaned on my cane. For some reason the guards were super kind.
I ended up getting lost in the bliss of the capitol’s art collection. I admire it, but don’t know it well. There is a Peter Hurd of his daughter, a portrait, with mountains and a rider behind her. It reminds me of his painting “St. John’s Eve” which shows a young girl with a candle, scrying her future husband. A cowboy–no doubt that man–rides along the horizon. Here, seemingly perfect for the day, the rider–iconic, free–is the girl herself.
Parked off Webber Street in the old neighborhood. I once cracked a koan–or it cracked me–at that corner. I was sitting in the car asking “What is my original face” when wham–the coming and going intimate nature of things slammed me but good. I had no idea what had happened, except that some war within me was over. Later when my sensei asked if I knew I’d experienced Buddha nature I’m afraid I became mildly hysterical. laughing and crying. and had to admit I had absolutely no idea. Usually I am not lucky enough to be that dumb.
I have a soft spot for that block because I think Buddha nature is there. It’s everywhere, but that takes me a lot longer.
Fabulous crochet hat by Devon Miller-Duggan