Kerrville, Texas



he strikes the gong-
many notes merge as one
and vibrate deep into night


San Francisco

I took a hard look tonight. When I sit studying the corriders of Facebook, what am I really looking for? What is missing in myself that I don’t hunt for permanent housing, or get the enthusiasm to pursue even a perfect job?

It’s an odd aim for a martial arts group, but it seems to me a lot of the Shintaido practice I participate in is geared toward opening up, social and physical reprogramming us people who aren’t so good at intimacy to offer of ourselves and to learn to receive.

We don’t talk much about love because the word alone is an empty cup. We can’t just decide oh yeah, love, the purpose of humankind and our martial arts, we’re gonna love everybody. And maybe it's kind of a secret aim. But we do decide to participate in activities to enhance connection--with self, others, nature, and however each of us experiences God. (Not so different from Girl Scouts!) There are lots of little games and traditions aimed at supporting that intimacy building.

Being human, though, I do the best I can to resist what I'm aiming for. But I'm hanging in there, trying to get past my flawed perceptions and techniques. I figure it’s so worth being patient. This is an essential study. Without love, why bother? Without love, I could sit parked in my room forever. Without love, food, job, nice place to live, none of it’s worth a dusty penny on the asphalt.

In Texas along Fitzhugh Road, every time I brought the kids to school or picked them up, I drove across a low water crossing. On the south side of the creek was a small fenced area with three horses. The ground sloped, and consisted of hardscrabble: dirt and rocks like ball bearings. The space was so small, it was always overgrazed. The horses had eaten every sign of plant life. But they were healthy looking; the owners cared for them. I’d see the horses tugging hay from a mound in the center of the enclosure. But it was a small space for that many large animals, no room to play or explore. They’d stand gazing from behind the steely fencing.

My car would carry me across the creek, and right on the other side lived two horses on a piece of land covered by lush grass. The fencing was lower and more rustic—cedar post and wire. These horses got to roam several acres, dine on winecups and Indian blankets, and graze in the shade of stands of oak.

I would see this situation day after day, and never could come up with a point to the story. No wisdom. Just awareness that the horses inhabited almost the same spot on the planet yet their lives were so different. Just that this was what was.

(That was the original ending of my post--but in the writing, I shifted. Tonight, sitting so far away, I wish I'd been more imaginative. I wish I'd nudged things a bit, come up with a reason to meet the owners. Or I could have left paper notes like colorful flags along the fence: "We deserve more space, please!" "Ouch! These rocks hurt our feet!" Maybe the horses' lot would have changed, maybe not--but I would have changed. I've changed just in this writing.)

He saw drama coming,
and stepped to one side.

'Hey, anyone else noticing the dance? Yeh, seems that I’m a
choreographer by chance and oh, don’t it seem they left some detail
out. Oh, try to make some sense of it we twist and shout.
Can I know what I don’t know I know? Can’t I see that I don’t know I see nothing? And nothing keeps me dancing...'

Dancing About the Enigma
Ron Nottebart

Rain throws itself hard
against the window pane.
My hands smell of ginger.