The Garden

If you could have something named after you, what would it be?

“As you approach the end of the coastal trail, you are invited to sit and rest at the richly landscaped Garden of Meditation. Here, a variety of evergreens and perennial flowers call to songbirds year round. You are welcome to sit and relax on one of twelve hand-carved benches, each adorned with a brass plate bearing a word of reminder about things we consider fundamental to our life together on the planet we call home.

“You are invited to Breathe, Listen, and Give; to Sing, Rejoice, and Forgive. Take time to reflect on Love, Compassion, or Gratitude; Peace, Mercy, or Truth.

“Enjoy one of the most beautiful and scenic views of our coastal region while receiving the gift of rest and renewal.”

The Garden of Meditation was made possible by a gift to the State Department of Cultural Enrichment from an anonymous donor in 2045.

Flow-State of Being

Neanderthal bone flute of Divje Babe

So – where are we? Here we are, in a flow-state of constant becoming. Out of the messiness, the humanness, of us,

(dissonance and harmony, distortions and clarities, visions and nightmares). We are these self-contained xenomorphs,

somewhat strange to ourselves, somewhat a mystery to others, but nonetheless learning who and what we are.

We really are in a state of flow between then and now, between now and when. We make of our art a day, and our day an art.

We write scripts for how we work and play, playing while we work; not to box ourselves in, but to set us free from wandering

around with nowhere to be at any time. We come into a space and make ourselves at home in these houses of skin and

bone, as if we belonged there, which we do, because that house was made for you.

There you curate your business – the very thing you are doing now – and listen to the deepest voice of things for instructions

(who will oftener say: make a choice and trust it). Then we practice stillness and trusting in the doing, unlike the one who is

constantly anxious that something could go wrong. We aren’t forcing a thing, but allowing energy to move through us.

Then, thus sifted and sorted, filtered and lengthened, we find ourselves opening out like petals onto pages and find we are

flowing in stages, and we dance ourselves into being.