At this point I don’t claim to be a yogini or have the chops for sitting still on a floor clearing my mind. I’m just an unenlightened wanna be, I guess. Joseph Campbell, my inner buddy, was asked by Alan Watts: “Joe, what form of yoga do you practice; to which he answered: Underlining sentences.” His response brought me permission to give myself a hall pass on the notion of “real” meditation. Just like Joni Mitchell opened the door for me to write poetry any way I wanted. Rumi and Hafiz did that when I found those guys in my 20s. In 7th grade I discovered an unexpected form of what might even be meditation-ish practice. Sitting on the concrete driveway in front of my parent’ house, I used an abandoned Chianti bottle & broken candle to begin my accidental ritual. I felt so cool to have a real wine bottle with its basket-like bottom I had seen in some old movies. With a box of brittle crayons beside me, I lit the candle stump I had crammed into the open top. The kitchen matches (contraband) were struck & leaned against the crusty wick. Magic. A piece of broken crayon was balanced next to the flame drizzling the first color down the glass. My mind was undistracted and one-pointed. The crayons became my unstoppable point of focus as they melted & rolled, liquid color. Folding clothes, sweeping the floor are as holy for me as they lead me to page and pen to pour liquid words onto a found piece of paper.
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