I know I'm right where I'm supposed to be

I sit on my carpet

Dusting my book and CD player stand

 

Jon Kabat-Zinn, one of my favorite meditation teachers

Advocates getting down on the floor at least once a day

Be it for yoga or praying or sitting to read a book

In touch with the Earth

Humbling yourself

Putting yourself in perspective

 

I look out my living room window

Across the parking lot that is my perpetual view

Up to the top of a street pole

That holds a street lamp

 

There I see a crow

Looking out from above the lot

Over an entire swath of this town

It knows its place, and I realize mine

 

And I know

On the carpet, among the stacked books

With dust rag and spray bottle in hand

I am right where I am supposed to be

honor the dead

honor the dead

with bad love, awkward kissing

with laughter and salt

tears for the gravy on their biscuits

offer them a smile

a memory so gently held

it may flit from your hands

take to the sky

to space beyond

where they dance for you

delighted you are well

(oh, so much better than you think)

 

they celebrate your joys

rain healing of eucalyptus gel

on your deepest sores

your most devious wounds

call you forward

not to the tomb

but to the edge

where you will hedge

for the rest of your mortal existence

always missing out on the sensation

of the infinite plummet

of flying like Supergirl

or Superman, or Superdog

 

instead, you will forever feel

you are not enough

forever try

to be more

cyclone

as if the clock, damn cyclone, does not

tear through this life quickly enough

 

and we kneel, devotees of love, we imagine ourselves

dumbly away from the swollen sun of the heart

 

we do not see until we see

always too late, always, right on time