The Poet Dunbar, or, Something About Sanctity

O Lord, the hard–won miles
Have worn my stumbling feet:
Oh, soothe me with thy smiles,
And make my life complete.

The thorns were thick and keen
Where’er I trembling trod;
The way was long between
My wounded feet and God.

Where healing waters flow
Do thou my footsteps lead.
My heart is aching so;
Thy gracious balm I need.

- Paul Laurence Dunbar, “A Prayer,” 1895

I was blessed by a poet. 

One of the cool things about living in Downtown Lynchburg are the beautiful nature trails that weave the fertile banks of the James River. These generous paths are sanctified by the local bicyclists, hikers, joggers and walkers. I used to jog on those happy trails—until one day—I discovered the running track at the Paul Laurence Dunbar Middle School For Innovation. 

My new sanctuary. 

I've had a few sacred places in my life. When I lived in Echo Park, my kitchen nook was The Joint. The nook was a modest built-in-table-for-two with a café light for good vibes. It even had a low-budget view of the Hollywood basin and windows that opened out, not up. Everything was better in the nook. When I lived in Washington Heights, the Hudson River was my front yard and Guru. I would contemplate the teachings of my Master from every window in the apartment.

I am constantly on the look-out for enlightenment. 

The Dunbar track was close to home. I considered the ten minute walk past the streets of Court, Clay, Madison, Harrison and Federal a warm-up to the grand awakening. The epiphany of Dunbar took some time to develop. At first I was simply jogging on an empty track—which felt more like luck instead of a pattern—but over time I realized I was consistently the only person there. Eventually my jogs turned into gentle meditations on the nature of being. With each lap I would admire the poetry of the P. L. Dunbar scoreboard which reminded me the score was always tied: HOME zero, GUEST zero.

On an oval, the start and finish lines are one-in-the-same. 

Sometimes I would jog in reverse, or, I would sprint across the football field contemplating velocity, or, I would throw my Frisbee to a groundhog, or, I would capture a feeling with my lens, or, I would take off my shoes and lay on the grass and look up at the clouds—and I would thank the Poet Dunbar for bringing a new sacred into my life.

The holy has a way of finding us.

⌘

The Year in Haiku

i decided to
rent a 30-yard dumpster
for 2020

⌘

Art in Everyday Life

"How do I do that?" said with a softness of someone who really wanted to know.

This was the question a student asked me at the end of our photography class. 

I was turning off the overhead fluorescents when the student approached. All the other photographers had left the building. The student and I were alone, standing face-to-face in front of the glowing TV screen. The moment felt sensitive and cinematic so I channeled Martha Graham and slowly lifted my willowy wrist. When my gesture reached the height of my protruded chin my palm turned upward and my fingers spread apart. I kept my gaze on the student’s eyes until absolute elegance turned my head toward the corner of the room. "Please take a seat over there."

"Over here, on the cushion?" asked the student while drifting towards a makeshift meditation dojo.

"Yes. Pick your favorite. I will sit on the other."

The student picked the purple cushion so I sat on the emerald one and slipped off my shoes. My socks were pink and the student's were skull and crossbones. "Nice," the student said while looking at my feet and sliding their backpack across the floor. 

"Thank you," I replied as I sat up straight and rested my hands on the knees of my crossed legs. 

Looking at my posture, the student mimicked my pose and easily twisted their legs into a perfect lotus. "I'm pretty limber," the student said. 

We sat silently for a moment before I asked, "Why didn't you share a photo with the class today?" 

"All my photos are black."

"Do you mean underexposed?" I was certainly curious.

"No, I mean black as in …" the student searched for the perfect word, "sadness." 

"Oh, cool." I might have said that a bit too cheerfully, but I was a huge fan of the tender heart. "Can you show me one of your photos?" 

The student straightened both of their legs and leaned way back. With a moan and a bit of tug, the student proudly revealed a beat-up digital camera that was wedged deep inside the pocket of their jeans. "Here we go." The student turned the camera on and said, "Ok, here's a photo I took yesterday," and then effortlessly settled back into a lotus. 

I studied the black screen for a minute. "Tell me what you see?"

We looked at each other and adjusted our poses. We straightened our backs and aligned our chakras. Without rushing the student eventually spoke. 

"Well, I was chilling at home thinking about the assignment. You asked us to capture a still-life of something that made us happy. I had just poured a tall pint of hot tea hoping it would open up my—you know—creativity. I wanted this photo to be great. I thought the light coming through the drape was perfectly soft and kinda trippy. I rested the camera in my lap and really studied the composition. I was mesmerized by the colors and the textures and the simplicity of it all. The tableau was incredibly soothing. My body felt so relaxed. I connected with all the goodness in the world. Was it my spirit? The primordial love of being? This was existence without thought. There were no words. I lowered my gaze in honor of this profundity. Then I remember my head started to bob and I think my finger triggered the shutter because when I woke up it was totally dark and the camera was still in my lap and the chamomile was cold and this is what happened."

"I love it.” We sat in stillness and continued our meditation of slow inhales and exhales. "Your photo is very Malevichian."

"Oh I think he's a wonderful actor. But how so?"

"Not Malkovich. Malevich."

"Say what?" 

"Kazimir Malevich created a painting in 1915 called, Black Square, which was an experiment of his Suprematist principles of art. Malevich stated that Suprematism is abstract art based upon the supremacy of pure artistic feeling rather than on the visual depiction of objects."

"Pure feeling," the student muttered. 

"Malevich was a rebel of sorts. Brave. His concepts challenged the Russian politics of the time which attempted to limit artistic freedom. He was like, nah."

"I can dig it."

"So how did your photo make you feel?"

"Happy I suppose. Content. But kinda sad too. I want to have better control of my feelings. I don't want to sleep on happiness—that would be lame."

"You are doing just fine. You have the miksang! That's Tibetan for good eye." 

The student laughed, "Thanks." 

"In regards to your question, why don't you set up that chamomile scene again and do exactly what you did the last time. Relax your body, connect with your spirit, and tame your inner dialogue. Perhaps you can lift your gaze just a tad? This helps me from falling asleep." 

As the student grabbed their backpack and slow-rolled towards the exit, they remembered their camera was still on the meditation cushion. "I almost forgot." 

In reverence I said, "You are the sad photographer." 

The student picked up their camera and with a stunning pirouette of grace and precision exited the classroom and whispered, 

"And that makes me brave."

⌘