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.

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I Relax My Toes, I Relax My Toes, My Toes Are Relaxed

So I've been writing a journal nearly every day since 1992. This activity was suggested to me by Julia Cameron in her book The Artist's Way. I write and write and write, I do not reread my words, and I delete my journal immediately after I write it. Until today. I've decided to share a typical journal of mine. Yes, I've reread this one. It's kind of an update to where my head is at these days. I thought it was relevant. Here it goes.

People are hurting. Ego is running rampant. I've been contemplating some old song and dance about suffering, you know, the wheel of dharma, life-death-rebirth, mindless wandering. It is happening all over the place. I feel it too. I was getting buried by it in NYC, and I spent the last three years in Virginia deconstructing self. I locked myself in my apartment. I got out every once in a while because I thought I needed to. I took some photos. I taught a few classes. It all felt like a struggle. I'd run a few laps on the Dunbar track. Finally I realized I hadn't done a headstand in over a year. So I did a headstand and I felt my internal organs squish all over the place. I told Dee that I wanted us to meditate together. That didn't go so well. I was out of practice. I turned to my bible for guidance—The Sivananda Companion to Yoga—which I bought used, for $5, back in the late 80s. I read the book nearly every day now. Dee asked if we could do some yoga together. I thought being a teacher had some real upside, so I said, sure, let's get on our mats. I bought a URL that would support the type of yoga I wanted to teach. Blah, blah. This is a terrible journal. But anyhow, we have been dancing every night for a good while now, so I figured, let's do the yoga every night too. But it was actually Dee that has inspired both the dancing and the yoga. I think she knows that both of those things have helped us stay sane and loving and together. I think she is changing her name to Elle, or something like that. She's going to get a tattoo in Baltimore. I think. I support all of her. She has saved us. And our yoga is nutrition and positive thinking and meditation and asanas and breathing and rest. I am practicing being a teacher by instructing out loud. I say stuff like, until we realize that we are all part of pure consciousness, we will forever continue on the wheel of suffering. We, our ego, is not separate from the world spirit, the Absolute. So we sit with our wisdom hand supporting our compassion hand and we relax. We detach. It's been going well. I am thinking about becoming a certified yoga teacher. I have one student that keeps showing up, every night. I can tell that she is goodness and positivity. It is in her voice. I am her.

At peace, relaxed, and liberated.

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Whose Legs Are These?

I have two legs and my Chevy Colorado has four. I evaluate and maintain the strength of my legs by walking and dancing. Living in Manhattan for over 20 years made me a strong walker. Loving to express my inner feelings by spinning around in circles made me a confident dancer. When my strength is on the decline and my confidence wanes, I often crank up my writing as a means to fill me with hope and lift the spirit. With this new found optimism, I get back on the track, run some laps, and rebuild the endurance to face another day. And then sometimes I'll over do it, tweak the knee, then I'm back on the yoga mat stretching out the hammies so I can walk again. When the tires of my Colorado need help, they communicate with me via the tire pressure monitor system (TPMS). A diminutive light on my dash turns yellow and begs for attention, especially when it is cold outside. But finding the time to put air in the tires is kind of complicated, mainly because most of the air pumps in the Hill City require quarters and I never have change. In fact, I haven't had an actual dollar in my wallet for months. When I look at the tires on the Colorado they look ok. Not too flat. Gauging air pressure from the naked eye is kind of hard for me. But the TPMS light, although tiny, burns bright. I cannot peel my eyes from the yellow icon, which looks exactly like a flat tire. So I got it in my head that a tire or tires need air. The time to act is now. I will make this a priority, today. I am under pressure to make this right, my tires rely on me, I need to lift them up. I am a decent person. I care about the Colorado. I'm concerned about safety. And that little light is driving me insane. While cruising to the Food Lion, I noticed a gas station that had an "Air" sign and a rolled up blue hose next to it. I pulled in hoping for the best. I asked the attendant how the air works. He said, just use the hose. "Is it free?" I asked. "Sure is," he said. I shook his hand vigorously in gratitude. I was stoked. He was amused at my enthusiasm. I felt empowered. Per Chevy, my front and rear tires should be at 32psi. Cool. I bet these badboys are way under 30, for sure. I am going to right this wrong. I am going to silence the TPMS warning light. Everybody get out of my way. The attendant asked if I needed an air pressure gauge since the hose didn't have one. Got it, "Yes, please!" I said. He handed over a simple apparatus. I was feeling more and more invigorated by the second. Sheee-it, let's do this. I started with the front left tire, which was closest to me. 36psi. What?! Ok, ok. Let's try the back left tire. 37psi. Wait a second. Then I checked the tires on the right. One was at 35psi and the other was at 36. Hmmm, so this is how it's going to be. Thankfully, the air pressure gauge I borrowed had a bleeder valve, which came in handy. Instead of inflating the tires I ended up deflating them. Weird, and totally counter to my internet research that said cold air decreases tire pressure. I dismissed logic with a flick of my wrist and forged on. If the TPMS light goes out, this is a win day for me. I cranked up the Colorado and continued on my way to the grocery store. Within seconds the little yellow flat ass tire icon was laughing at me. Rat. Bastard. I pulled into the Food Lion parking lot and shut down the Colorado. I sat in the truck and meditated on my life. The dash was silent and dark. When the days are cold, perhaps this is the time to hibernate. Do less, not more. Let the air out. I felt content, and it was high time to buy that box of bold, dark, jammy red wine. Night was falling. I exited the Chevy and chirped the doors. When I turned to take a loving glance at the Colorado my legs awkwardly tangled and I twisted my ankle. Mother...fff.. My hysterics echoed off the hills of Boonsboro. I rested for a second on the cold, damp pavement and admired the glowing marquee. F-O-O-D backlit by white fluorescents. Pretty sweet. But it was Saturday wine night and I needed to get up. Dee would be texting me soon. We were planning on a dance party and that’s serious business for us. But tonight, and I can dig it, my vintage spins would be replaced by smooth, subtle, shoulder shimmies.

These are my legs, and these legs love to boogie.

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