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You will.

But these are the last days that you will see him.

Married 37 years.

It comes to an end in an instant.

Oxygen.

Two liters slowly climbing to three.

What next?

Cremation.

And there are no plans.

No payment.
No party.
No hoopla.

Six packs a day.

He smoked.

Ceased in the nineties|suffers now.

He lays there nearly unresponsive, yet beautiful.

He’s comfortable because of you.

His wife.

Tears are held in peace.

Denial now gone.

She’s present.

Even the dogs are solemn.

Quiet|dozing|opening only an eye.

No treat wakes their spirits.
No words.

Thank you for sharing with me.

She touches my knee with a question:

Am I gonna see you again?

The potluck of life

green pear in the rainI wake.

5:15 in the morning walking to start the preheat.

375.

Yesterday I seasoned the meat. Today it cooks.

I hear the sound of rain–

–drops left over from the night.

It begins again as though the start.

Radiators tick like time passes, seasons fading into each other.

I sit. Book in hand:

“Essays After Eighty.”

The scent permeates the space. Hardwood floors warm to the touch of heat.

Baked chicken with rosemary nestled under cream of mushroom soup.

I sip-slow–

–routine unshaken even by tasks added.

This is life.

Nearly two hours later and piping hot

it falls from the bone.

I hope they enjoy it.

Ode to coffee II

Terri Jarvi

Terri Jarvi

I sip-slow of your warmth.

Don’t want to lose myself in the burn,

though I am drawn more closely to you.

Heat-steamed like passion.

I swallow, closing my eyes holding the moment.

Blow.

I blow before I taste, watch the movement of my breath atop your surface.

Longing.

I can’t imagine not having you, even contemplating not takes me from knowing I do.

I taste again.

Sipping-slowly your warmth.

Zean Villongco

Zean Villongco

The entrance and exit is the same. One. We fade inside the coming, and wherever the road goes, it is. Life. This is the journey and the cycle of life. We live. Not every person breathing lives. Not every person holding his breath has chosen to fall from grace. Compassion. We choose, and even as we choose there are experiences that are chosen for us. So we keep steady in life. We flow with the ripples that the waves do not over take us. We ride them. We hold on to the empty space of air that oxygen continues to fill the lungs of the one breathing. Inhale me. Let me exhale only that I might return again to truth: I am because life is, and life is because it flows through the mysterious particles of our |BE|ing. Who is standing at the center of their own being? Who is courageous enough to let go in order to be held by the divine? Who has allowed pain to pour forth that tears might find their way through cracks in the earth birthing manifestation? Who? We remain connected there, and there is here in the now of existence. We journey. You walk in as I walk out. We share the same entranc|e|xit. We come and we go. We are born and we die, and yet there is neither our birth nor our death. We remain the Is-ness of form inside and outside of texture. For now do we touch each other. Later we will be left with the feel of a breeze.

Floating Lanterns Launched at SunsetHe looks forward to it, calls it another adventure.

Death.

He views dying in the same way that he has lived his life: one experience after another.

Allowing.

He has resigned all things. Saying goodbye is the only task on his to-do list.

He says goodbye to life the way that he had to say goodbye to the home he loved after his divorce.

Acceptance.

He walked from room to room breathing in what was while knowing it would never be again.

Impermanence.

All things come. All things go.

This has been the experience of his life. Unknowingly was it preparing him for what he would face, resting now on his bed living inside the wait.

Terminally ill, yet free.

Unshaken by fear, he lives a life of gratitude for having been, and for being still.

He walks slowly moving from room to room awaiting the day where his goodbye leads him to the next adventure.

He looks forward to it.

Ode to red wine

IMG_0043During tastings, I taste you. I hold you there in the wet of my mouth exploring your layers.

Bold, rich with age, ripe like you’ve been waiting for me.

I’ve waited for you

–there in the dark, dank barrel of time.

I’ve allowed for my own growth that my appreciation would deepen dark like the color of you. I close my eyes experiencing your fullness. I swirl you around eyeing your grace growing impatient

–the way that you tease me.

And then I taste.

There is nothing outside of the taste of you.

Hindsight is 20/20

IMG_0229.JPG

For so long I’ve been in pursuit of you, this mysterious energy aligned with the essence of the path upon which I walk. For years have I sought the face of you only to encounter what comes of rapid rivers and storms rushing in. It rained. Wind blowing away illusions that truth might be revealed. It’s been a cycle like predictable seasons where sameness carries the disappointment of unrealistic expectations. I should have carried my umbrella, taken it with me as I walked the streets going in the direction of there, wherever there is. Truth is, I went out naked having ignored my intuition, closing my eyes to reports of heavy rain and wind storms, swept away by hope and desire. What of hope and desire protects the body against mind? Acceptance. Maybe had I stayed home and sat in the aloneness of my own vibration I would have ended the cycle and made room for the new. Now I return dripping wet with experience, ending my own suffering.

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