1
eighty orbits of the sun
and now… a time of bemused adjustment,
of disappearing off the radar,
released
to sweet pastures of irrelevance
taking respite in ‘care’ means easing
into unfamiliar practices –
learning to manage external plumbing,
finding ways to avoid malnourishment,
speaking it clear: for me, solitude is oxygen
I bow in respect and gratitude
before strange angels,
scrubbed-up ones recording vitals on screens,
graphing this body’s beingness,
its tenacious aliveness
I’m told that back-to-back surgical encounters
aren’t trivial (“Please respect your DOB!” scolds my GP)
vintage marbles, morphine and anaesthetic
are surely not good bedfellows
and yet
they gift the luxury of repose, and
somewhat ruefully, I smile, reflecting
upon our fruitless efforts
to tame this inherent wildness;
to paint legs on the snake of suchness
when the knower and the known
merge into seamless knowing,
notions of attaining some transcendent state
prove to be fishy fantasies,
off they swim, red herrings all
2
I raise my glass to this crone-creature; she
who ceased comparing the craziness of her life
with the norms of mainstream abnormality,
who tirelessly delights in the effervescence
of rogue questions
who abandoned fickle faith
(which is to say, every imagined story
of meaning and purpose for “humanity”)
and entered the dark temple of devotion
to life’s unimaginable capacity
who has no idea who she is
aside from others’ stories of her;
who doesn’t know where she came from
or what lies ahead; who did a banzai jump
and landed in solid space
who groks the gist of the game, i.e.
no one gets a manual for this voyage, kiddo;
we fly solo
each finding our own true north,
vagrants all, on a tiny blue planet
3
vast aware aliveness is my true north
my motherground
devoid of anything to transcend, attain, argue, fix,
preach, prove, promote or sell, it knows itself
as sole conjurer of this appearance called world
I cackle at the idea of cracks
where light gets in or out;
no gap separates us from the intimacy
of this life-womb – listen
there’s no greater relief from existential angst!
the hair shirt of ‘shoulds’ gone
– unravelled
by the quickunpick of inquiry –
a cloak of quiet
wraps the space that calls itself ml
gratitude, gladness and mercy surge
from their inexhaustible source
in this garden of the ordinary,
the inescapable,
the wondrous what-is
and so, this geriatric bhakti-babe totters on
impelled to track the questions
that unfold her via creativa
still awash in wonderment
still saying “yes!” to the imperative:
leave no trace, save the telling about it
– mls
Byron Bay, Australia, 2024 – 2025
It’s taken a long time to be ready to write blog posts again. If you’re still receiving notifications and reading my offerings, thank you. You are cherished.
This birthday poem has been slow in emerging. It’s a year late, and I confess there were times when it felt more like a farewell poem, a final missive of gratitude and wonderment.
Yet here we are, still alive, back in our space-slippers, eagerly eyeballing the upcoming orbit…
Netsuke: Japan, Edo (1615–1868) or Meiji period (1868–1912), Ivory, 4.8 cm H, inscribed ‘Hide masa sai’
Collection https://www.metmuseum.org
echoes from emptiness 
