That book you purchased

But have never read

Says

“Read me!”

And the empty shelf 

Says “fill me up with more.”

Some possessions warm and nurture

While others distract, dissuade, and even harm.

If we are not careful, the things we own

Can siphon off our strength.

Or they can build us up,

Make us better.

So choose carefully what you own

And don’t be afraid of letting go

Of a thing 

When it no longer serves 

The purpose for which it was purchased.

And that’s true of me, I think. 

I wander, wander,

Never sure

Exactly where I’m going,

But also not without a rough idea.

The inner light points in a direction

And I begin to act, to move step by step

Toward the place where it feels that I should go.

And I trust the way to open up before me.

And it does. That’s the miracle

Though it does not come

Without the work

Of exercising faith.

I relate to the albatross and its endless worldwide journeys.

It is said that the albatross can travel ten thousand miles

To bring home one meal of oily vomit for its chick.

Yeah. I think that’s it. Ten thousand miles

To find one little treasure,

One morsel 

To regurgitate here upon the empty page.

I find myself wanting to expand upon this work.

To share more of what I see and feel,

More of the people that I meet

As I wander, wander,

Round the world.

It is possible to serve the light

For your own sake?

To be 

Dark inside,

Filthy with secret pride

While outwardly stacking up

Your achievements, 

Allowing others

To laud your name, 

And never once realizing

That your soul is lost,

Not in gross immorality,

But in the actor’s game

The hypocrites play.

Listen closely

To yourself.

Is your story one of redemption?

Or is it the hero’s myth?

They are not the same story.

I have a deep distrust for the latter

And an unfailing affection for the former.

So don’t tell me how you slew the dragon.

Tell me about the dragon inside of you.

That’s the story I long to hear

Because he lives inside me too,

And it is all I can do

With the help of God

To find my way.

And there is the part of me that likes 

To come back home.

And both play a part in the strange way 

That I support my family,

My family.

And you are part of my family.

I go out, and I come back home.

And I share the wisdom that I’ve found from the road

With the ones I love, the ones I love.

I love you, and I pray 

For you in your own journey.

Perhaps one day, you will grow up

To go out and come back home

And share your wisdom

From the road.

And the cycle goes round and round,

You are my children. And one day

You will have children

Of your own.

Who helped prepare me for the road.

To view previous lessons, find my playlist entitled: Raymond Lessons.

Lesson 11: All Day Long

I almost didn’t mention this one

Because it contradicts 

Something else 

That Raymond said.

But it has become applicable.

You see, I was skeptical 

When he implied

That everything came to him without asking.

Sometimes, maybe. But always?

And so I asked Raymond,

Do you ever have to panhandle

To get the things you need?

“Yes,” he said.

“How much?” I asked.

“All day,” he said. “Every day.”

“Oh…” I said. And I didn’t like that answer.

Because now it appeared that our good fortune

Was a special providence, and that

I would not be able to escape 

The work of asking.

I stand on the brink 

Of, yet again, a leap of faith.

And somehow, it feels as if 

These little thoughts

Might just not be enough,

As if I should be, do,

Something more…

Something more…

And I wonder,

Is it enough?

What do you think?

Might the world feed me and my little tribe

If I just keep showing up…showing up?

Soon we will find out,

Won’t we?

Turned brown and drifting downward

Toward the emptiness 

Of summer skies

When the snow flurries

Upward toward the starlit heavens

And the moon looks down 

Upon the restless hopes

Of careworn souls

Who daren’t 

Believe

That anything

Could be so real 

As the grind of wheat upon the wheels of time.

And the feet of those who’ve gone before

In the dusty tracks of them

Who couldn’t find

Their way.

I wonder, If I were someone else,

Would I be just like them.

I can't help but think

That to some degree, I would.

That makes me think that it's just me

Walking around and being everyone.

So many people can't help but be themselves,

Just like me, just like everyone.

I wish that I could be 

A better friend to them

And in turn, a better friend to myself.

God help me to see it deeper

To feel myself in the others

That I meet each day

I pray.

Note to self:

People want what they want,

And some graciously give,

God bless them.

But when it comes to making a living,

It may be better me to focus on what others want

Not what I want. Sell them something

That they are already looking for.

And then use the surplus 

To graciously give.

One day, the world will change

To an economy of gifts.

I look forward to that day.

But in the meantime, it’s a balance.

We work. We sell the people what they want.

And then we give of our surplus property.

It is an imperfect system. 

But it works.

And perhaps we can use it as a tool 

To shine a light on the coming world of gifts.

The thing unseen.

I am

There but you can’t see me.

You think that it is you,

That it is he,

But it is we

Three.

Remember. Oh, remember.

And when you think that you’re alone

Draw deep from the unseen place that lingers

In the memory of what you were before you sprung

Up from the ground so many years before.

There we were together.

And though

You cannot see me.

I have never left you and I never will.

I am the source, the wellspring of your deepest desires. 

And one day, when you’ve grown tired of living,

And fall down hard to the unforgiving soil.

There I will wait to meet you deep

In the hollowed end, 

That is beginning.

Thank you

For letting me nourish you.

I am the roots, and I love you

And though you think that we are separated,

We are not. We cannot be, we three,

Are knit together in oneness

Always.

Or it escapes me. I have to ask myself,

Do I find meaning in what I'm doing now?

I ask it all the time, of myself.

And to my surprise 

It often says, 

Aye, there's meaning.

And that's classic, to find it 

In the most unexpected ways and places.

But it's not enough to find my meaning 

I have to see it in others also.

I have to hear the stories.

I have to watch their

Sacred paces.

And the sight, the sound, of it

Restores my faith in meaning itself.

And as, like a flood, it washes over me,

I am restored to the unnameable meaning of it all.

But I am not sure why.

There are those

Who choose hell in this life

When the light shines the day long.

I can’t imagine that the next life is so different.

But I also can’t imagine 

That the light doesn’t shine brighter there.

But that means that the darkness 

Must also be deeper,

The contrast more stark.

There is always hope for those who want the light 

Though they flounder and fail to find it.

I do not worry about them.

But there are also those

Who do not want the light.

They seek out the shadows.

They revel in causing pain.

And you cannot force a soul to heaven

Though you extend the hand of mercy the day long.

Not a system of belief,

But the Man 

Himself.

For I am cradled in his kindness.

My home is in His heart-

And though I wander 

O’er the earth

My pillow a stone,

My shelter rain,

I am at home

In Him.

It makes me think of those

Who have no home

In the love 

Of One.

It makes me want to wrap them up

In the harbor of my heart,

To clothe them with acceptance,

Peace, truth, and kindness,

And to free them, 

Like birds

To the belief that they are loved,

How is it done, I wonder,

When I, myself, 

Am yet like sparrows?

It seems so little to love.

And yet it, so often, has been 

The only thing I had to give.

The spoil that you have taken,

Sits rotting

Under your canopy.

“But I could pay,” you say,

“I could pay. And here is the receipt.”

Fool! You believe that you are the hero,

The saver of the day, the victor

By the thickness of your pocketbook.

And what’s more, that you have escaped

The eye that sees all things,

When in reality,

You have dealt treacherously.

You have whisked away the hearts

And the very souls of men

For your own pleasure.

Bring them back, I say!

Bring them back!

Before, with fierce anger,

I come into your house to repay.

And your family is stripped from you,

Your pocketbook emptied.

Your soul ravaged 

Of solace,

And you left desolate

Amid the furious winds

Of the desert of the soul.

Old friend, we are still friends.

But know that you can’t go on this way.

And I mourn to see the future that awaits

If you do not swiftly change your ways.

Good people will have to stop fighting.

It is not enough for good people to be good.

Being good has a blind spot. It makes you think

That you are justified in fighting for what is right,

In making war in defense of truth

And to preserve your freedom.

But freedom doesn’t need to be preserved.

It lives within the heart of those 

Who can’t be persuaded 

Not to speak the truth

Even when the enemy rages 

And the tyrant oppresses.

So be good. Speak the truth.

But also be kind. It is the way 

That leads to peace.

I am going overseas.

I don’t know how I’ll get there.

But I’ve never known how I’ll get there.

And isn’t it strange that I could know such a thing?

And yet I do.

How long will it take me to get there?

I don’t know.

How will I support myself when I get there?

I think I know. More on that to come.

But in the end, God only knows.

And how long will I be there?

A year, a month, a day,

A lifetime?

God only knows.

One thing I know.

My path is a surprise.

And the joy is walking it with Him

Wherever he leads me. That’s enough.

And stop thinking quite so much

I think I’d be better off.

So long as our intentions are good,

I don’t know that it matters that much

What we do so long as we do.

Do, do, do. In all things, do.

That’s what bodies are made for.

Do the best that can be done

Under the circumstances

And then move on

To another do.

I wonder if it’s the long-term 

That gets us thinkers into trouble.

We try to make choices 

That we can’t yet make.

I am sure there are some

Whose problem is the opposite

Who get themselves into trouble

Because they don’t think quite enough.

But for those of us whose addiction

Is trying to work it all out beforehand,

The antidote, it seems to me, is DO.

Who helped prepare me for the road.

To view previous lessons, find my playlist entitled: Raymond Lessons.

Lesson 10: Keep writing. Tell a story. Disappear.

This one surprised me.

It came in the days that followed.

Raymond had given me 2 books,

One deep, the other bubble gum.

Couldn't get past page 40 in the latter.

Couldn’t put down the former.

The author of the latter 

Was all over.

But I could not find a single word

About the author of the former,

It was published in 1939,

And the writer had disappeared from history

To spite the fact that his book

Was one of the most meaningful, 

Well-written, and moving stories I’ve ever read.

And in those two books, Raymond’s message 

Came through crystal clear:

Tell a story. Tell it well.

Move the people,

And then disappear.

Don’t try to be great.

Just try to tell a good story.

It’s enough.

But not my apples, your apples,

If you'll let me.

You planted the tree with good intentions

But we all know how that goes.

And they'll soon go to waste.

I'll also clean your windows,

Mow your lawn,

Walk your dog,

If you let me.

You planned to do it all,

But we all know how that goes.

I'll even take out your garbage 

If you let me, so long

As I can rifle through your trash.

You bought that stuff with good intentions

But we all know how that goes. 

And I can make a living of your waste if you'll let me.

And what's more, don't put it past me to wait

Until you're bothered 

By the unused scrap of land

And are ready to let it go for a song.

I'll sing the song if you'll let me.

And pound out a golden paper

If you'll let me, if you'll let me.

I am the care-free scavenger.

My life is easy, risk-free, almost.

Because I know how that goes.

And I am willing to work and wait.

That serves a better future.

When you do something you regret,

Rewrite the experience in your mind.

And give thanks for God’s grace

In helping you to choose the better part

Even though you did not choose the better part.

Be descriptive in your re-writing,

Enough that gratitude wells up

For making the right decision.

See it. Feel it. 

Resist the tendency to disbelieve.

And you will actually create another reality.

Yeah…out of fantasy. 

But your brain doesn’t know that it’s fantasy.

It experiences those good feelings

As if they really happened.

If you do this consistently,

Sooner or later, you’ll discover

That you start doing the right thing

So that you can experience more 

Of the feeling you felt

In your made-up past.

It is a strategy for the weak

Who wish to be made strong through belief.

Is very much like a cold water plunge.

It brings me into immediate contact

With a cold harsh reality

That is at the same time

Shocking and invigorating.

Holy cow! What a reality check

To face the unrelenting numbers.

But I love it. 

Every expense, however minute, counted.

Every dollar added up and carefully budgeted

With single minded intent toward wise investment.

It turns out that I don’t make as much money as I thought!

And that makes me disinclined to waste a single minute.

I can’t afford to. They are too prescious.

Most of my life was laissez faire.

I trusted God to provide 

And he did.

But this new thing of facing the numbers

Is also precious. The God of Truth

Is also in the numbers.

The cold water.

He is in the miracles.

But he is also in the math.

He is in the wandering wilderness.

And he is in the rocky soil we must plow

When we reach the promised land.

Where the broken waters flowed,

A covenant to purchase

All the land they have disposed,

The barren wasted places

That the Spirit only knows

To feed the broken family

That in my heart like flowers grow.

It is being claimed by the owls 

And by the finches,

By the little birds

And by the great big bears.

For it appears that despite the grasping hands,

That the pebbles fall between the fingers.

For the time is up.

The lease has been reclaimed

And soon, it will be turned loose to the wild ones 

Who have no other place to go. But fear not, 

It’s just the land you haven’t used.

You won’t miss it when it’s gone.

You may even rejoice

To be spared the taxes.

For a curse is decreed upon the land.

Hear it, oh people! I say again,

A curse is decreed

Upon the land.

And now

Behold the One who watches over sparrows

Come to give homes to those

Without holes. Behold, 

He comes 

With lightning in His hand.

And there is no way to cling anymore 

To anything but that which you most cherish,

So choose well.

• Tao Te Ching, Ch. 67

Who would have guessed?

But think about it,

If I am an extravagant landlord,

I can't afford to give you a break 

When you lose your job 

And can't pay the rent.

The same is true 

If I'm in debt.

The bank is relentless 

And so must I be.

Only the frugal landlord,

The one who buys with cash

Out of a fraction of his means

Can afford to give the honest man a break

When he really needs one.

Only the frugal man can remain human

Because he's free from the machine.

And a thought came into my mind

That had been brewing since yesterday:

“Investment is more about valuing what you have 

Than it is about the acquisition of property.”

Is that really right? I wondered.

And then the second part came:

“If you make good use of your present means,

Property will fall into your hands.”

And I was blown away,

Fall into your hands!

Incredible!

It’s been so many years since I sang.

Perhaps I will find a choir.

The thought feels like home.

And yet I live in the boonies, 

Not many great choral groups nearby.

If I do join a choir, I want to find 

Some people who take it seriously,

Not professional musicians, but musicians,

Not just a handful of parishioners 

Looking for something to do 

On a Sunday afternoon.

I wonder, do you too love choral music?

If so, what does it do for you?

Am I alone in the sense of home I find in it?

I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments.

More like a merchant, less like a poet.

I am intrigued by watching money,

Seeing it slowly trickle in,

Marking down the numbers

Alotting the returns

And pouring a portion of my means,

Into the opportunities that wait.

And what’s the point?

To grow in wealth.

How vulgar that once seemed.

And yet, as the rivers flow into the Ocean,

I am drawn unto this end,

As if from the beginning it was 

And always has been my sacred pledge.

And as the rich despised my poverty,

The poor will hate my wealth.

How strange. And yet,

I cannot but follow 

The Voice 

That now prompts me to do it.

My life, my fortune, is forfeit unto Him.

Spirits long to test the waters,

To experience all they can.

They want to try this

And try that.

They are curious.

And they grow in light

Then fall behind, then grow,

Then fall behind.

And it’s similar for old souls,

They too want to know what’s out there

But with a different motive.

They no longer 

Believe that they can grow

By experience alone.

They forsake 

The thing they want to know

For the unseen guiding hand.

They say “not my will be done,”

They let go of all their dreams

In preference to the will

Of the One they cannot see,

And so grow brighter and brighter.

They become ONE THING.

And that thing gets added upon eternally.

And isn’t it the same with earthly experience?

As children, we want to be a fireman,

And a pilot, a cowboy or a movie queen,

A housewife, a doctor, and a veterinarian.

But in the end, we must eventually choose.

Or not. We can choose to remain children,

Moving from this thing to that

But never really growing 

Into the thing we’re meant to be.

And it’s all ok. Some grow up fast.

Some take a little longer. 

Some are old souls, giving again and again,

Becoming more and more themselves.

And others paint the planet 

With beautiful colors

As they try this thing and that.

It is the way of souls to be curious.

And it is the way of old souls 

To be even more curious

About the will of the unseen.

And when we can’t, it’s over.

And that’s it. 

That’s the story of life.

People living, people dying.

Some live well and some are lost

In the problems they find along the way.

But that’s all they are is problems.

And all the problems are connected

To the little life that’s ours here on this earth,

Nothing lasting. Nothing eternal.

So long as we can see it that way,

So long as when we die, 

We are not bound to this earth

By a thought that wants to stay,

A bone to pick, a price to pay.

For myself, I’ll fly away,

Just like the old song says.

I’ll fly away, oh, glory,

I’ll fly away.

When I die, Hallelujah, by and by,

I'll fly away.

It’s just a matter of time

And patience

And movement 

Toward the destination.

No more striving for the prize.

It’s over. I’ve arrived

At the place

Where every want 

Has been supplied.

So that finally

I can rest

In silence.

For the word.

Sitting.

Listening.

Looking steadily

Into the unseen place.

Dancing into darkness,

Forsaking all

For the shadow 

Of the ones 

Who’ve gone before,

Paving the way

For future generations,

Not children of the body

But children of the soul,

They transcend 

The dark.

They are the fathers, 

Mothers of us all.

And finds me at my dest

Still working.

And that feels good,

Not because it’s virtuous

To work till the sun goes down,

But because I want to keep on working.

The uppermost tips of leaves

With the day's first rays of microscopic bliss,

And as the birds gather to the warmth 

Of the summer morning,

Even so, I sense 

The hope of healing

In the outermost corners of my consciousness

And draw my focus upward toward the warmth 

Of the thought of a body renewed 

In strength and purpose and vitality.

I flap my wings. I move my body

Upward toward the light,

I sing the song.

I feel the vibrations fill my chest and abdomen.

It pulses through my limbs and outward

Shaking lose all darkness,

So that in, in, flows the light

Penetrating every organ,

Every dark and damaged part.

And I live in the future day of health.

“Thank you for this healing,” I say

So that its reality fills me even now.

And also beautiful.

It is beautiful 

Because it is cold and harsh and plain.

It is one thing in life that you can count on

To remain the same.

You bend to its reality 

Or crash against its solid frame.

Two plus two is four. It is the terrible truth 

That most men can never wrap their minds around.

One day we will escape into a math that bends reality.

But that new reality will require a forsaking of the old.

Until then, we face the horror of a truth we can’t escape.

And that truth is both terrible and wonderful

Depending on whether we humble ourselves enough 

To slow down and know the numbers

Or race on toward the doom

That awaits all those

Who won’t.

It says that it loves you for your hard work,

When in reality, it covets or clings to your ability to profit.

It claims to respect your responsibility,

When in reality, it just wants a piece of your acclaim.

It is a jolly mate at sea, 

A bosom friend 

In arms.

And how it clings to its fellows 

When the rough seas of commerce

Toss the collusion into upheaval.

But how quickly it turns mutinous

When one among its ranks 

No longer serves 

The gain.

It is a barrel full of fat hogs

Rubbing up against each other

Each rolling, laughing, in the mud

And clinging to the warmth of the other

While despising anyone who will not play the game

And hating even more those who've tried and failed.

Especially when it is for a worthy cause.

It is that you do not have to think

About your problems.

And there is a gift in believing 

That people are supposed to have problems.

It allows you to go to work 

And let go of other people's problems. 

Of our ideas are hairbrained.

Only by trying do we find out if we're right.

So step into the action.

Do something, anything 

Based on a best guess 

And find out if you are right?

I cannot chase you any longer.

What I have, what I am,

Will have to be enough,

Since to chase

For me means death.

And so, I forsake your pretty feathers.

I wear my rags with dignity

And nurture these old bones with kindness.

Come close, little bird. I will not grasp you.

I will not harm you any longer.

Come and perch upon my finger

And then climb up up on my shoulder 

And sing your song into my ear

While I am living.

Be my friend,

Little bird.

Do not leave me to the forest

Dark and wide and grim and open.

I am a white man still and do not trust myself

To the ravages of nature, but I’m trying.

Be my friend, little bird,

And together, perhaps,

We will survive.

You the policeman,

I the wandering vagrant.

You upholding the laws that join house to house

And field to field til there is no more room left in the earth.

I complying, moving on from place to place.

But everywhere I go, you find me.

You are the policeman in every town I come to,

The good guy, the one with the law on his side.

But you remember that we were once of the same tribe,

Friends and brothers,

And you take it easy on me.

I remember that you crept into my home and lay with my lady.

That you took advantage of what you perceived as weakness

To steal my children and to paint me in their hearts

With the darkest shades of black.

And I can live with that.

I hold no resentment.

But all the same,

I miss them.

My soul longs for my family.

And I try to hint, to plead, that you could help me bridge the gap.

But it falls on deaf ears

Til finally, exasperated, I cry out, “I hate you, how I hate you!”

You recoil. You draw back, surprised.

“No, no,” I say. “Not really!”

And then from someplace deep inside,

“But you have no idea, how what you've done has hurt me!”

And finally, recognition sparks within your eyes.

You stand aghast at the realization.

And then I wake up

And wonder…

Did you hear my cry?

And there's nothing I can do about it

Because I can't afford a lawn mower right now,

Not even a $40 used lawn mower.

As at other times in my life, 

I find myself waiting,

Wanting to do the socially acceptable thing

But unable to do so because of finances.

And so the grass and weeds grow up around me

With the flowers, flowers everywhere,

In and amongst the weeds,

A gift from one who years ago

Cared enough to plant them here.

And until last night, I fretted about it.

I concerned myself with neighbors

And chiggers and ticks 

And dogs.

But last night, as the sun went down,

I thought I heard another voice say,

“Perhaps it's supposed to be this way for now.

Perhaps this is closer to reality.

And perhaps it might soothe your Indian soul to let it be,

And even to embrace it for a while.

After all, you are half-wild.

Only a part of you 

Wants the white man's ways.

The rest, and perhaps the deeper part

Longs to let things fare according to their nature.”

I know that one day soon,

Probably not too far into the future,

I will be able to afford a lawn mower.

And I will mow the lawn

Or let somebody mow it for me. 

But when I do, I wonder if it would be wisdom in me

To find another way to let things be,

To grow my hair metaphorically,

To wander through the woods,

And to be plain, and open, and wild, and free,

For despite my genealogy,

My soul is only half civilized 

At least half of me stands naked before the sun 

Loincloth hanging down from my hips,

My skin brown, my arrow raised,

At one with things as they are, 

Not longing for anything

Except to live

And be.

Putzing around the house

Doing this and that but with intention,

Letting the oil of relaxation, repose, and recreation

Seep in-between and lubricate 

The little movements

That I might otherwise call work,

As if there is enough time, enough money, enough love

To nurture, ease, persuade, this frail body

Into another year of living.

Who helped prepare me for the road.

To view previous lessons, look back through previous episodes

Lesson 9 - Do It for Yourself

I have always struggled with this idea

Since it seemed self-centered.

But I have to admit that when Raymond said it,

There was a ring of truth.

“I had a woman,” he said,

“Down in Springfield.

She was gorgeous

And she wanted me to stay.

But I found myself saying ‘I’ve got to go.’

I’ve got to do this thing!

Though I hated to leave.”

And I think he meant that he had to find a home.

“You’ve got to do it for yourself,” he said,

“Before you can do it for another.”

And I think that he was right.

A country, forest, mountain, plain,

Where nobody owns a single thing.

And the residents dwell there alone,

Alone and with their neighbor. 

And yet, they don’t protect. 

They don’t defend.

They don't pretend that it is theirs.

They renounce and renounce,

And renounce again

With every breath their sacred claim 

Upon even themselves, 

And by so doing

Claim 

The right to the world, the sky, the stars,

And all that’s in them.

And this is the paradox of true ownership.

All else is usurpation. 

It seems to come to those who wait for it

But who don’t waste time

While they are waiting.

But that's not the same thing as being busy.

You know when you're wasting time.

Just stop doing that

And opportunity will come to you.

Is actually founded in a moral absolute.

Some things are easy. Rape is always wrong.

But it is the grey areas that make us wonder 

If there is no firm moral law.

But when we look closer,

We discover that circumstance decides.

There is still a right and a wrong answer.

We just may not be wise enough to see it.

And there are even times

When the right answer 

Is that any choice will do.

But in those circumstances, 

Choosing to not worry about it

Is still the right thing to do.

And those who keep that law

Are blessed with sanity.

Those who violate it

Fraught with mental instability.

And it all depends upon the circumstance,

Upon the person, the place, the situation.

So, when our world presents us 

With a thousand shades of grey,

Where do we turn for the right answer?

To God, and to that Spirit which is Holy

Which will tell us all things that we should do.

Who helped prepare me for the road.

To view previous lessons, find my playlist entitled: Raymond Lessons.

Lesson 8 - Keep Asking

“Make a trade,” Raymond said.

“Ok,” I said. And off we went.

We tried a dealership

But they were closed.

And then we tried a guy

Who just sold cars but he said no.

“Do you know of anyone who might be interested?” Raymond asked.

“Yeah, so and so.”

“Ok,” we said.

And we tried them, and they said maybe.

“Ok,” we said.

“Do you know of anyone else who might be interested?” Raymond asked.

“Sure,” they said. And just like that, we kept on going.”

And Raymond drank Vodka. “I want to be authentic,” he said.

He was. And more and more merry.

Till finally, we were done.

We both knew it.

We had enough leads.

And one of them turned out.

They leave and come again.

They are the fertile soil

That works its way 

Between the toes of his imagination

And prod and shift the kindling fires

Of his unknown, unseen, deeply buried passion.

And, in time, with much wrestling, 

They bring forth the most delicate of flowers,

Perfect curves and colors

For the reader’s pastime hours.

But little does the reader know what strivings,

And what great waves heave within the soul.

At times, the poet wonders if he’s been swallowed,

Buried whole. But he wouldn’t have it any other way.

For so are flowers made

That sprout and bloom

Then fade away.

In the fishing, the ricing, and the dance.

But they will not find it there.

It was always found 

In the need

That they had for one other.

That was what gave meaning to it all.

Lose the need and you lose the culture.

But the witness of God is the same

To the heart and soul of man.

And he who has experienced it

Knows it.

Who helped prepare me for the road.

To view previous lessons, find my playlist entitled: Raymond Lessons.

Lesson 7: Tell them

If you are to receive the things you need,

You will need to let people know 

What you are about

So be authentic. 

It is how every needful thing will come.

Who helped prepare me for the road.

To view previous lessons, find my playlist entitled: Raymond Lessons.

Lesson 6: Only Ask for What You Need

“Only ask for what you need.

Calculate how much gas you’ll need 

To get to the next town of any size.

And then ask for that amount.

If they give you more,

Give it away.

“This is how it comes to me,” he said.

And as if to punctuate this point,

A little later, he came out of the grocery store.

“Someone just gave me $35,” he said.

“Come in and I will buy you lunch.”

“Did you ask?” I said.

“No,” he said.

“Something like this happens every day,” he said.

And when we had eaten, 

He gave me seven dollars

And spent the rest on 

Cigarettes and alcohol

So that the $35 was spent.

And I don’t need cigarettes or alcohol,

But there are those who can use what I don’t need.

And I thought this sounds familiar - a life of daily faith.

Constantly letting go of all I do not need,

Trusting that more will come.

Who helped prepare me for the road.

To view previous lessons, find my playlist entitled: Raymond Lessons.

Lesson 5 - Count on Miracles

“Let go of what you do not need,” he said.

“And go to the place you feel.

I have take my shoes off on one side of the bridge

Because they were falling off my feet,

Walked across the bridge

And found another pair waiting for me.

I have felt like going beneath a bridge

To find a woman there, drunk,

And delivering a baby.

Several times, I have gone to a place, not knowing why

To discover a person dying. I told them it was time to go

And they were gone within the hour.

It has happened enough times 

That I have begun to think of myself 

As a kind of angel of death.

Trust the voice that leads you from within

And you will be provided for,

You will be used

By the unseen hand.

Because I'm broken to the grind.

I can't go back forever.

But by the grace of God

And the help of friends, there is some rubber

Turning down beneath my wheels

As I move down the highway,

And gas within my tank.

And I trust that it will be so

For as long as He sees fit, perhaps forever.

Wouldn't that be a miracle?!

But if it ever changes

And I am seen for what I am,

I won't complain. Did you know

That once He said that he wants the world

To see me how He sees me.

Perhaps that is why,

For I

Have found rich and unseen treasures.

My mind has seen things I struggle to describe.

But I will try. I will give the world 

The riches in my mind

If I am able.

Who helped prepare me for the road.

To view previous lessons, find my playlist entitled: Raymond Lessons.

Lesson 4: Have lots of homes

Raymond says, “The guy at the thrift store says 

I can sleep under his awning.

And many people in this town have said 

That I can sleep on their porch.

I am the homeless guy 

Who everybody knows.”

And I think, what a mercy in the rain

To have a porch that you can sleep on.

But Raymond spreads it around.

He doesn’t stay too long.

And that seems right.

My home, too, is on the road.

And because I forsake a home

I will find many friends, many homes. 

But none too much, too long.

A day here, Two days there, maybe a week,

And then move on.

And what do I offer as payment, 

Except myself, a word, a conversation,

And a prayer for those who help me along the road.

Who helped me prepare to live on the road.

To view previous lessons, find my playlist entitled: Raymond Lessons.

Lesson 3: Sleep Out in the Open

“Don’t sleep in some hole,” he said.

And he warned of tweakers.

And yet, he also said 

That after thirty years,

He had never had any trouble.

I decided to try “out in the open”

On my first night back on the road

Mostly because of the discomfort

Of trying to sleep in the car.

It was a pavilion in a park.

And the next night I tented,

And tented once again.

And then last night, back in the open.

“You want to be able to see people coming,” he said,

And you want to be able to be seen.”

That seems right, somehow.

But we’ll see.

And no need to be anywhere 

Anytime soon.

Who I met in Missouri, and who helped me 

When I was preparing to make my journey by foot.

If you are tuning in late and want to see previous lessons,

Find the playlist on my channel entitled: Raymond Lessons.

Lesson 2: Travel light

Raymond had no more than a backpack.

A hybrid kind, not a back-packers pack

Just slightly larger than a normal backpack,

But with straps.

And for that, it was half empty.

What was inside I am unsure, except he said

He had a bunch of empty little bottles

Cause he drank 100 proof all day.

And he slept on a thin baby blue blanket

Which he bunched up and sinched with a strap.

“If you have too much, they won’t give you a ride,” he said.

“Well, what about my dog,” I asked.

“Oh, that will help,” he said.

“They love that dog far more than they love you,” he said.

“But make sure you have water!” he said,

“For the dog,” that is,

“Lest they worry,

And believe that you’re abusing him.”

“Ok. I will,” I said.

And I thought, “you know, that’s right!”

“That’s just what I had in mind.”

And yet, now that I am on the road,

I have more than that. 

Not a whole lot more,

But I don’t think that’s the point.

The little pack represents what I really need.

It is a good image to keep in my mind all the time.”

It allows me to shed when I need to.

And why can I let go of all the rest?

Not because I am a survivalist,

But because I know

That if I need to go through a narrow place

With nothing more than me and my little pack,

That on the other side, there is an unseen providence

Awaiting my arrival to the next phase of God’s abundance.

No man’s lands - you cannot hear.

And they are coming in the winter

They fall silent on your ear.

The peace of a land forsaken

Because nobody can hold it.

Do you hear the land a coming,

In the empty, longing, open.

It is coming, It's a coming,

Though it pass through all you fear.

It's the open sacred spaces

That nobody can hear.

But I hear the open places

Falling softly on my ear.

I find the open places

In everything you fear.

Who I met in Missouri, and who helped me 

When I was preparing to make my journey by foot.

Lesson 1: Don’t do it.

This actually wasn’t the first thing he told me,

But I am putting it first so that well-meaning friends won’t worry.

It’s a hard life, he said. And when you fall to the road,

It can be hard to get back up again.

And even then, 

You can take the man off the street,

But it is harder to take the street out of the man.

I wasn’t necessarily set on hitchhiking.

It was simply the only option I saw.

But Raymond convinced me to make a trade

That made it possible. And so, a little car was the result,

And I see, I saw, that it is the fulfillment of a prophecy of sorts.

Nonetheless, much of what he said about the road, still applies

Since the car is not my home. My home’s along the road,

This place and that. And the car is just a way to get there.

What I learned from Raymond,

A homeless man I met

In Missouri.

When I met Raymond, I had decided 

That I would continue my journey on foot

And was pondering how I would survive out in the open.

Raymond was lying under the awning of the thrift shop

And I almost went over to talk to him

But decided against it. 

But then to my surprise, he sat up and saw me 

And began waving his arms to flag me down.

What ensued was a bit spectacular,

One of those rare encounters

That leaves you wondering 

If you’ve spoken with an angel.

If so, then Raymond was a salty angel,

And the wisdom he imparted was wisdom for those

Who believe that one day they may be called 

To step out of all they know and rely on God alone.

If that sounds interesting, stay tuned.

When I pressed into the load

Deeper, longer, than was necessary

And deprived myself of rest, of peace,

Because I believed that it was righteous.

And now I pay the price of such ignorance.

I have decided that I will no longer do that.

I will choose to rest myself into a heaven on earth,

And trust that an unseen heart cares 

For this frail body and beats 

In time with this faint heart

And waits with unseen hands

To deliver me from the buzzards 

That circle over my head 

And hope for my demise.

My life is forfeit.

My future lies

In rest, in Him.

And if this life, this rest,

Is of use to anyone, I will let it be 

The work with which I seal my life,

And the stone which He will place upon my grave.

The world tries to do much.

And so the world must do most things for itself.

Heaven, and the heirs thereof, move slower.

They do not try to do too much. They wait upon God.

And so, most things are done for them, before they even ask.

“I don’t know where to go from here,”

I was lying to myself. I knew where to go.

I knew what to do. But I was hesitating,

Halting between two opinions.

And so, I renounce hesitation.

I will act. I will move unhaltingly

Into the thing I know

Trusting that the thing that’s right

Will lead to the knowing 

Of the next right thing.

Written upon the whisper 

Of an electrical thread, Nay less,

A whisper on a wave 

That passes through your head

On its way to your device.

But I tell you that what I write 

Is written in heavy volumes

Upon indestructible paper

Bound with adorned leather

And illustrated with vibrant colors,

And that those books are guarded 

In the unseen library above

Where they will not perish.

I write, not for the day,

But for the age.

I write not to the few,

But for each and every soul

Throughout the width and breadth of eternity

Who might be benefited thereby,

And I trust the unseen hand 

To dispense my work

Through unseen carriers of light

To each and every soul who longs for what I am,

Or rather, what he has made of me

And may just as easily destroy.

But know this, each word,

If it is His, if it reflects

The library on high,

Has always been

And will remain

When the libraries of men

Decay and crumble away to dust.

And I think, why write, if not unto this end?

I stopped and picked it up and said,

“Thank you, God, for this 

Unsought sign of your abundance.

Thank you for providing for me in just this way.”

But most will see it as ruin

Until they realize 

That it has freed them

From the twin tyrants 

Of complexity and control.

Little wheels, a tiny trike 

For a great big man.

And he sports some shorts and baseball cap.

From his shoulder hangs a fanny pack.

And from his mouth a cigarette

Hangs down from the straight line

Of a mouth set in the sternest of faces.

Round and round the parking lot, he rides.

And I laugh, but he doesn’t see me.

It’s something that I say to thoughts

That arise with accompanying anxiety, ingratitude, or distrust,

No matter the familiarity, plausibility, or apparent wisdom they seek to convey.

And then I turn my mind toward the loving peaceful void of not knowing what is good,

And wait for new and better thoughts to arise, 

Revelations out of the unseen place.

For how else will we be led out

Of damaging paradigms

Without renunciation

Of all that comes not bearing light.

That made him weak and frailer 

Than the next bloke.

And he was plagued by a grief that was stuck in his lungs

That now and then made him cough.

But he traveled on,

Traveled on,

Believing that to spite all that, he’d carry on.

And he did carry on, carry on, carry on,

While the host of men gave up the…

Well, I hate to say it out loud,

But you know how it ends 

For most.

But not this bloke.

Eventually, of course,

He carried on to the great beyond

But it was different for him.

I won’t relate the strange particulars,

But I will say that he was around far longer than other blokes, 

Because, somewhere along the way, 

He chose to carry on.

This is for you. In other words, 

If it visits but does not reside.

In other words,

If you don’t believe 

That there is a reason to be anxious

And find that it presses in but does not arise

Or generate from deeply held beliefs 

That you nurture inside your mind.

So, if it’s not your own, here’s some advice,

Or rather, something that I’ve tried

And found effective now and then.

When anxiety comes for a visit,

I don’t just welcome it in,

I wrap it up in my embrace. 

I pull it in, pull it in, pull it in.

Not the worry but the feeling of discomfort

As I would a laughing child who tries 

To wiggle its way out 

Of my embrace. 

And upon encountering such love, desire, and acceptance,

It seems to flee. I don’t know 

If that’s what really happens,

But that’s how it seems.

This is the work of the soul.

And that the needs of tomorrow 

Will come tomorrow.

And when you are afraid of what’s next,

Don’t spend much time thinking about it.

Simply take a step, and then another step.

Step into the thing you fear

Imagining all the while

The deliverance

That you know is coming.

And if you are led by providence

Comfort will come in the movement.

But don’t imagine worst-case scenarios.

Picture best-case scenarios as you step, step, step

Into the thing that requires faith.

And every want must be supplied.

But my life is an experiment

To see the unseen hand provide.

And all I own fits on my back,

A little backpack at that,

All on my back.

What a relief!

And when anyone has found a piece of heaven

It is because they chose to ignore the hell that raged

And that choice, the choice of love and peace

To spite the hell that rages, I think, perhaps,

Is the stuff of which heaven's made.

And on my way, I pick up diamonds 

And bring ‘em back up

To the surface.

But nobody wants ‘em

Except the occasional crazy loon.

But I'm not crazy. I dig for diamonds

On my way to the center of the earth.

They stepped out into the storm,

And some into the forest,

Some to the desert.

And we haven't seen them since

Except in dreams and in our imagination.

They haunt us there. And everywhere we turn,

We find their absence calling us into the unknown.

And the world is worse off without them,

It grows darker and darker every day.

How we hate Him for taking the best,

Almost as much as we hate ourselves

For not having faith enough to follow.

We retreat, retreat, retreat,

Until, if we eat,

It is because we are fed by angels. 

And then, there, we find the sacred place,

A world apart. It is a land of miracles.

And it now dawns upon the world by faith.

To be around, then disappear.

It is in keeping with my nature,

To pack my things by moonlight

And be gone before breakfast.

And I swear that when the heavens 

Rolled forth into existence that I knew

That this would be my calling,

To witness with my presence,

And let Him witness 

When I'm gone.

My face is toward the light-filled place

And I will not turn back anymore forever.

A reasurring gesture, a friendly touch.

There is so much

That we don’t understand.

And demons wait in the wings

To seperate us from the ones we love.

But I have not forgotten how the world began.

It rises in my sacred imagination. 

And I see you there,

The sacred one,

The friend that I’ve forgotten.

And from that place, I reach out 

To put a hand upon your back,

A reassuring gesture, 

A friendly touch.

Dear God, please wrap us up

In the love of friends that we’ve forgotten.

And the hope of a world that one day

Will return to how it was

In the beginning.

Laying down cement.

And I like it. Long hours and 

Heavy work in the wet Missouri heat.

And when we’re done, we eat and eat.

There is a kind-heartedness about them,

A purity and generosity that the world is missing.

And it’s all about the family, the family.

The ties of Father Abraham.

And the branches have reached over the wall to me,

As if, for this little stint of my life, I am one of them,

Adopted in the very center of the love

Of the Old Patriarch himself.

But if we do it faithfully, 

And consistently,

Over time,

It adds up to a lot.

That’s how it seems. And I wonder

How much work I can accomplish

In the service of the Great Unseen

Before it’s time to go.

That life will soon be over.

Think of it. All that we think we are

Is temporary. And yet I suppose

If you believe that you’re “all that”,

Then the thought that it will soon end

Is not so comforting.

And as we slow down,

We will rise

To meet the angels 

Who have time to spare.

But you knew that. You knew

That all the rushing, toiling, pressing, and grinding,

Was blocking your other ears, your other eyes.

So slow down. Take time to listen.

The new world can only come 

One hearer at a time.

In the midst of pretense.

And where there is any

There is hope.

Or rather, growls, but under his breath

As the storm clouds gather on the horizon.

He’s seen it a thousand times in his long dog life,

The white, the grey, the nearly black,

And he knows that it will rain,

Like cats and dogs,

Like cats and dogs

They say.

Why do they put it that way?

He doesn’t rain. He sits and stays,

And watches the horizon every day.

And because of that, he has seen rain.

Rain that drives the birds away.

Where do they go? he wonders.

Far away, he thinks,

But not old Joe,

He sits and stays.

Except for the time when the twister came.

It came on a day just like today.

And blew and blew

The house away.

And old Joe wasn’t there that day.

That’s why he’s here to tell about it.

And we went down to the dealership

And he bought a new truck.

The color was black.

The Interior was tan.

And it smelled like new leather.

We drove to the edge of town,

And past, to the border of our state,

And past, to the Canadian Border,

And past, through Saskatchewan, Alberta, and British Columbia,

And past, into the Yukon Territory,

And past, until finally, he arrived at Inuvik.

There we boarded a ship and traveled to the North Pole,

And past, into the hole that everyone knows

Is found at the top of the world,

Where the heat rises from the earth’s core

Making the water and the land inside so warm.

And there he stayed. He didn’t come back.

He became an inner-earther.

And the tribe made him one of their own.

And he said “Goodbye Jack.”

And I said, “Goodbye,” 

And then came back.

And of an evening, she steps out of this world

And into the otherworldly light

That can only be found

On rooftops.

And she keeps it a secret,

Lest her neighbors suggest

That she entertain them there.

But one day, she thinks

That she will share it 

With someone special.

Until then, it is her private portal,

Her sacred chamber, 

Her hidden temple.

And yet,

I see her there

From across the way

And avert my eyes 

From the sacred place

Pretending not to notice.

Where?

Out of all you know?

Why?

Because it’s over?

Why?

I don’t know.

But I have bills to pay.

I know.

And a mortgage,

A career, and dreams,

And people who rely on me

To negotiate our little piece of hell.

I know. But it’s over. Let’s go.

We do not need to fight about it.

Because He’s here,

We can have peace.

And it’s ok that some

May be wrong about it.

We will not resist evil, 

As he said.

But I say unto you, That ye resist not evil: but whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also. Matthew 5:39 

You will be always panting after something

That is just beyond your reach.

And the books will pile high.

And you will grow old

And die

As you turn the leaf

Of yet another volume.

And it’s because the thing you seek is hiding.

And only an unseen hand

Can turn the key, 

Unlock the mystery,

Open the door to the thing you seek.

And once it does, you’ll finally stop seeking it 

Where it cannot be found. And it will well up inside of you

A fountain of living water. And you will no longer thirst,

No longer think that it is just around the next corner

Or behind the next page as the case may be.

Knows that what he does in silence 

Is very important.

So long as we pray for what we want.

We must learn to pray for that which hurts.

“O my Father, if it be possible,

Let this cup pass from me:

Nevertheless not as I will,

But as thou wilt.”

It appears that this is the example.

And why? Because, while veiled in flesh,

We do not know what is good for us or for the world.

We have but two eyes, one life, one brain.

And so we seek the will that is on high.

And trust the eye that sees us all

And the mind that knows

What we can’t know.

And this kind of prayer, the prayer of sacrifice

Will change the world and turn it ‘round 

Into a thing that looks like heaven.

And the closer I am to home.

I will dig, dig, down deep

Toward the silent place

And there, draw nourishment 

With unnumbered tentacles

To feed the leafy branches

Light years away.

And little will they know that it was me,

That fed their best dreams of all that’s real.

And I will sleep in silence

As they praise the light

And say, Oh God,

How great! Oh God,

How perfectly sublime,

The message of our life 

That unfolds day by day!

And so I say to myself and God

Dig, dig, down deep beneath it all.

And let me disappear.

That they may know

You better.

And everything you think.

There are no formulas

Except to Hear Him.

On and on goes the railroad man,

From place to place 

And on and on 

He goes

Without stopping.

And without a home goes the railroad man

The railroad man goes on without a home,

Because his home is every place.

Yes, every place is home to the railroad man.

Can you understand it? Probably not.

Because you’re not like that,

Are you?

But that doesn’t matter. 

Because the heart of the railroad man 

Is broad like every place.

And in his heart 

Is a home.

Will you choose the home that’s in his heart?

And let your heart travel far and wide 

Upon the beating heart of the railroad man?

If so, then truly you will travel far.

And you’ll have a home

In every place.

A home in the heart of the railroad man.

Great sheets of rain, nonstop.

I am from the west,

I am not used to that. 

But I’ll adjust.

I love how wet it is, and wonder,

Will that last? The love of wetness,

For a while at least. But for now

It is so nice after so many years

Of the mountain desert.

Where they’ve sworn off technology,

And people love each other and God.

I like it there. And if it weren’t for the call to wander,

I might just stay. All the same, I wonder

If I might just make it my home base,

For a while at least, until it moves.

Sure. Why not. I cannot find a better place,

And though I have not forsaken my cell phone,

I doubt that I will find a people so in keeping 

With the simplicity of my soul.

For it is almost always tarnished

In the service of transcendent good.

So let them drag it through the mud,

And content yourself 

With the approval of immortals.

To spite the fact that he knows it’s not enough,

For the factory man is a family man.

He wasn’t “smart enough”

To refrain.

And so he’s rich at home

And poor when it comes to the bank.

All the same, he keeps on going to work each day.

And one by one the bottles pass his way.

And he counts them and checks for mistakes,

Day by day. The factory man. And that’s the story.

There’s not that much to say. And yet, I cannot help

But sing his refrain, for he is the mass of men, not the exception,

To spite the fact that the movies don’t make it look that way.

Sits nestled in between the tribes of the North

And the tribes of the South

As an ever-present reminder

That war is not the way.

And of a Sunday,

The people of the surrounding towns

Come and picnic in his shade.

A place to organize and ponder, to reflect.

And the rain beats down.

And I wonder,

What will the summer bring?

I once thought that I could plan my life.

But, more and more, I relinquish my hold.

I surrender to the road, to the path that leads my soul

From place to place. And I don’t know what it means or where it goes.

But somehow I trust the thing that’s coming

Even though I have no idea what it is.

An early sign of hopeful spring. And someone

Is asked whether she still breeds the kind of pups

That he once bought many years ago.

She does not, “But call me,” she says.

“Alexander has a dog that he’s thought of giving up.”

And he says he will.

And all along the upper half of the wall, there runs,

Like a ribbon, the route of old Highway 66,

With the cities listed one by one.

And right in the middle of the line

Sits Tucumcari, the almost proud little town

Nestled nearly halfway along 

The once-famous highway leading down

From the windy city to the sandy beach of Santa Monica.

And would you guess, that the people there are just like us?

That’s how it seems anyhow. And I am grateful to have stopped.

But are inseparably bound,

Your creative work

And your means of livelihood.

The first is the way you serve the world,

And the second is the way 

The world repays you 

For your generosity.

He does not say a word at leaving.

And ruin follows in His wake,

Precious ruin.

And it will claim all those

Who wanted Him in the first place.

And to refuse to victimize,

It is a mystery for the man

Who finds that he is worn out in the fighting.

And how is it done? By walking away,

And by not needing the things that they provide.

Can you find safety without the need to enforce any laws?

And can you find freedom without the need for an army?

I have. And it follows me like the dome of heaven.

And I am walking away from war.

And that’s ok. Good men go to war.

Me too. I war within myself

For the principles 

That will free me from the need to go to war.

It is the last frontier,

It is the war 

That, when men, finally, are willing to fight it,

Will end all wars.

In the middle of a grassy field 

Beside a stream. And nobody sees.

Or at least nobody notices.

And it feels as if it was made just for me,

Just for this night. I am amazed at the way

The world opens up for heaven

When we believe and keep moving on

Toward the thing we know is right.

That was full of worldly wisdom.

It was advice for how to prosper

In this world so wily and unpredictable.

But after I did, I felt discouraged and tired.

I put the poem away and broke with my own advice.

I decided that perhaps better advice

Would be to follow Jesus

Out of the world

And into the road of sacrifice 

That leads to renunciation.

And I know that many of you,

Perhaps the very ones 

That I want to reach

Will turn away upon hearing that

Because you think I mean to get the old religion.

But that’s not the case at all. 

It is not the idea of Christ, but the very Spirit of Christ that changes.

It enters into the heart and offers new choices 

When it appears that war is the only way.

And it seems to me that it is found most readily

In the experience of total silence

And the hearing of genuine praise.

Is available to each irrespective

Of religion or lack thereof.

So that He can be had

For the reach.

Because I forgot all of the things they told me

When I was a boy at school,

Like don’t take home baby birds. Look for a nest. 

It’s mother can take care of it better than you can.

Oops. But now it’s here.

It cheeps in my living quarters.

Tried to feed it. No luck yet. And I think to myself,

I am not good at this. I should have remembered what I learned.

Later today, I’ll go back and look for a nest 

In the hopes that the mother is not far away.

And I don’t know what to say about it

Now that I’m the one in charge,

Other than, I’ll remember next time.

When the letters rule, it's one size fits all,

And who wants that? 

Is obedience to the still small voice.

And be careful not to be lured

By that which costs too much

Of your precious time and means, 

Especially by that which invites to MORE

When MORE is obviously too much

Or comes laden with complexities and waste.

Except in the listening for

The next word

That leads on to the New and more abundant Life

Where everything is provided right here

And without reaching out for more.

I see the past diminish out of sight.

And looking into the future 

Of the promise that’s decreed,

I see the hope of restoration of all that

Which I have lost in choosing not to fight.

And then I woke up from the dream. 

For a long time, I mourned 

Over this decree.

But now, I see

That it is a relief to know

That it will roll out in waves.

So that, I can notice my progress and say

Not bad for the first five years. Let’s see 

If I can hold on to the new life

For a little longer next time.

And all of it so that

My children’s children’s children 

May enter in to go not out forever.

And completely unprepared for life.

So was I. I had no idea what it was like.

But that’s ok. He’ll live it anyway. And so have I.

Surely he’ll break up and flounder.

And maybe he’ll get “right”.

I don’t know if I’ve ever done that.

But that’s ok. I live it anyway.

And he will too.

And it is the best we have to give.

And when we love each other, that’s still something.

I wonder where they land.

Somewhere. And I don’t understand

How they do that. But they do.

I am like a balloon 

Now that I think about it.

That’s right for now. For now,

It’s in your power to endlessly seek gain

Without a thought of those who have no place.

But the tables are about to turn everlastingly

In the favor of those whose home

Is not of this world.

That they meant to work faster,

To be more busy,

More rushed.

Hustle is the word that comes to mind.

And I’ve never been good at that. 

I struggle to sustain it

Since it so often comes with a kind of anxiety 

As if I am making up for an inherent deficit.

But I have found a new meaning for “work harder”:

Work more consistently, without stopping, overthinking, or getting distracted

As long as it takes, until the project is completed.

I find this definition to be far more useful.

It is extremely effective for getting things done

And much more peaceful than what I thought they meant.

Were robbed, beaten, sometimes raped, and then cast out.

I'm not sure if that's completely true, but if so,

No wonder such a city met with fire from the skies.

I once heard from a homeless person 

That the hardest city to survive in

Was the second-largest city

In the state that makes its living

From gambling and prostitution.

Lure them in, take their virtue and their money,

Leave them broken, then spit them out,

Chase them away, from the sight of those

Who make their living on the process.

And I can't help but think that fire waits

To pour itself down on such a place.

After others have retired from the game.

It is not the kind of power that will save your soul.

But it is good for getting ahead when you’ve fallen behind

So long as you have shed unnecessary incumbrances

And embraced simplicity and frugality.

From the far reaches of heaven.

So that I needn’t seek or reach.

Sits hunched around us,

With its windmill

That no longer spins,

And its fallow fields surrounding.

And we sit, retired, in the porch swing,

Rocking ever after, 

Grateful for the ruin of that 

Which once we thought was so important.

And the children watch with wide eyes 

From the parlor window,

And wonder at the love

That once they thought had died 

But that now they plainly see 

To their amazement

Has only begun.

Meal by meal, moment by moment, 

Is that he wants to see us more often.

He wants to have the interaction,

To rejoice in the exchange.

Me too. I like to serve out tidbits day by day,

Meal by meal, morsel by morsel.

I like to see you here,

To feel the warmth of your embrace.

But the world seems to have the attitude of

“Let’s take care of the needy in large waves

Let’s stock them up and streamline the process.

Let’s have less contact, less interaction,

But give them more stuff in the exchange.

That’s good if the goal is to move more stuff.

But I think I like His way the better.

I hope so, because I miss you.

The soul of man is drawn toward God

Then falls into decay. And round and round,

And up and down it turns, but not quite.

It is more like the orbit of planets around a sun,

Not a perfect circle, but an imperfect eliptical pattern.

Out it flys away from the souce of life 

And into the cold unfeeling void.

Then at it’s outward limit 

It turns back toward

The source of life

Hurdled by the need for warmth

And draws as close as it can get without

Being burned in the brightness of the sun’s glory.

And for a season they rejoice in each other.

Until the planet, once again, feels the need

To wander far from home 

And gain experience.

And round and round it goes.

And such is the journey of the soul.

We like to think that it is an all an upward path to glory.

But we forget that even He who rose to be

On the right hand of The Eternal

First had to wander far

Into the depths 

Of the cold black night, an there be forsaken by the warmth

Before He was able to make his way back home.

It’s a story that I heard 

From a child.

And I have tried both.

I have raced for the finish line.

And I have done my best to be steady

In the endless pursuit of more.

But the race itself seems to imply

That what I have is not enough,

That I must rely upon my wits,

My inward tortoise or my hare.

But what if I am already rich 

And do not need the prize?

What if it’s enough 

To be rich inside my mind?

And what if every little thing I need

An unseen hand, had promised to supply.

Well, then that would be a different story, wouldn’t it.

Just a few miles away, 

Homelessness is everywhere.

And every store has a security guard.

And here, in the suburb, there aren’t any,

Homeless people that is, or security guards.

And I don’t know what to say about that.

It’s just an observation. 

And yet, it’s also a comfort that if I choose

I can put some space between myself and the world

Where I have to constantly think about things being stolen

Or where to park because they patrol the parking lots at night.

But it also means that I must venture out 

If I desire to be touched by those

Who are different than myself.

Though you didn’t know you did.

And I heard the sound

And answered,

Though you couldn’t hear it,

Or perhaps you did,

And answered on the wind. 

And perhaps I will hear the sound of your reply 

One day, in a song, or in the way a leaf blows in the wind.

And round and round we call, round and round,

Until finally we come back home

To the very sound

Of each other’s voices.

Won’t that be well? Yes. 

That will be well with us both.

God give me patience for the day.

A flash of unexpected perfect light.

And it colored my morning

In the beauty that is only you.

And I realized to my delight

That we were not so far away

From each other as we thought.

And now I sit as patiently as I can

Awaiting the rising of your essence

Into the middle of my sky. How I long

For your face to shine down upon me,

Sweet child of my delight, estranged,

But ever in my heart. It’s you for whom

I have been waiting. And I can barely breath

For anticipation. But take your time. Rise, rise,

Slowly, and only by your own intent.

For I have been up waiting,

Waiting when the storm clouds gathered,

And the terrors gave you fright.

Yes I have kept my vigil

Through the darkness of the night.

And finally, after all these years, it’s time.

About a perceived misallocation of means.

True reformation begins in the heart.

It is an inward motion, a conviction 

That one's way of being needs to change,

Which inevitably results in a reallocation of means,

The means of the individual.

Knit together with the chords of love and sacrifice,

And the hope of what we were before we fell.

And the One who knows sheds the sacred comfort

Through grace upon all those who turn to Him,

And through knowledge to some few

Who sacrifice in similitude

Of Him.

And in the movement we have life, the life that moves

At the breath of that silent voice that speaks

In whispers, out of the unseen place.

So that, the right way is the way

That hears and moves

And changes,

Humbling bending, blowing, finding life

In the most unexpected places.

John 3:7-8 Marvel not that I said unto thee, Ye must be born again. The wind bloweth where it listeth, and thou hearest the sound thereof, but canst not tell whence it cometh, and whither it goeth: so is every one that is born of the Spirit.

But I no longer care to play games I cannot win.

Instead, I skip ahead to the final thing I hope for.

I imagine the end result clearly as if

It has already happened

And give thanks.

And if

There swells within my bosom

That unmistakable joy of confirmation,

I simply believe that it will be so.

If it does not, I let it go.

It is a way to stop trifling with God 

And begin the work of aligning our will with His.

Don’t look back. 

Some are lost in a cause.

And others can’t forgive.

But you will not help them 

By pretending that darkness is light.

All the same, be kind.

Kindness is part of the way.

And toward what, toward what?

Toward the light that shines out of the Holy Place.

We would see eye to eye. And we would not think

That we were better than another.

It is only this earth

That makes it appear so.

Up there, we are all the same.

And there is a mystery in it. 

But we can believe it if we try.

We can imagine how it might be.

And such imagining brings humility,

And love, I think. At least it does for me.

It makes it look like the only kin we have are the ones 

Whose DNA most closely resemble ours,

When in reality we are all one.

And so the only way to love the ones

Who do not look like us is to imagine 

That the foreign ones are ours.

It is not a natural thing to do.

But if we try, we can find ourselves loving all sorts of people

In the way we love our own.

Another thing that the world hides is the love that falls.

There is the love that loves. That one we know.

But there is also the love of the one that condescends

To fall from heaven. Sometimes I wonder if it is the greater love.

This world makes it look like the ones that cause us pain,

The ones who hate us or persecute us

Or cause us the most trouble 

Are our enemies.

But it is possible to imagine that they are our greatest friends, our nearest kin.

And doesn’t that make sense? Is it not those who test and try us 

That cause us to grow more close to heaven.

So that through imagination,

We can even feel love flowing from those the world calls our enemies.

I know that these ideas are antithetical to the thing we call reality.

They may even be considered evil by those who can’t imagine

That their enemies could have, through love,

Made a conscious choice to fall

In that eternal world from which we came.

But since the practice of imagining these things has caused me to love more

And to feel more love, even to feel at times that I am in the midst of heaven,

I am persuaded that it is the world's reality that’s off.

His job is to present precious light.

And in the presence of that light

The lovers of light, of their own accord,

Move toward the light, and by doing so,

Necessarily, move away from darkness.

All else is contention. And contention, in the end,

Robs you of even the light you already think you have.

It appears that we are because we can agree 

To some extent and in some things.

And that is an old comfort,

But one upon which

I no longer rely.

All the same, I am grateful that our lives have touched,

And I will hold you in my heart to spite that fact,

And trust, that both of us are being led 

To the place we need to be.

And in that, we are not separated.

And some see the problems of the seen

And those that travel toward the unseen place

Cannot find reconciliation with those whose eyes are here.

Because those who see the seen alone

Believe that they must rectify

The problems that they see.

And those who see the unseen place

Renounce their ability to change the seen.

They leave Egypt to its own devices.

I will do more by praise

Than ever I could

By precept.

The work that will yield immediate reward 

Is more difficult and pays less,

Whereas the projects that promise long-term 

And more substantial gains

Require less of my already limited physical strength

And more mental stamina, more patience, more persistence,

But with a larger payoff if I can forestall immediate gratification.

So it seems that the task in front of me, once again is faith -

To work at things that don’t pay right away

And to believe that my daily bread 

Will be supplied in the meantime.

Clear your mind of it and relax completely.

To do this, you may need to lie down.

Take some time. Make sure to let everything go,

Including the problem itself, especially the problem itself.

I say let go, but of course, it’s there in the background, 

As if your subconscious holds it by a flaxen thread.

Then listen for anything that seems obvious.

Often we are not looking for a new insight.

We are searching for what we already know but cannot find.

And so it’s kind of like noticing something that was already there

But that you couldn’t hear for the noise.

A little work is enough for me.

After that,

Something begins to shut down

Because the soul has asserted itself,

And it claims more 

Of the bits and pieces of my time 

That I once paid for a seat

On the Rocket Ship of Life.

In short, my one-way ticket to the stars

Has been exchanged for a seat 

In the slow boat that drifts 

Down the lazy lagoon,

Because that is all I can handle

Which makes me poor at life for now

And rich in other lifely light.

And that is right for me,

So right,

And I am grateful.

But know this, 

That there are unseen treasures

In the depths of the slow.

There are pearls

In the lagoon.

So don’t be surprised 

When I rise with gold glistening.

Just when I think that I can’t leave the tension,

I find it in that state that comes just before sleep

When I am still awake, but my mind has already begun

To dip into the place of dreams.

Things get clear there,

And my soul finds peace and promise.

When I quiet down enough to hear. 

I have begun to make it a practice

To stop and take a quarter-hour or more 

In complete silence and relaxation

Before I begin an endeavor or make a decision.

And I am amazed at the clarity that comes

And the peace and encouragement I feel.

It makes me want to find that frame of mind more often.

And dipped into the state trust lands

For a place to camp just outside of Tombstone,

Town of infamous report turned tourist trap.

But I like it - the little shops selling this and that,

The dusty street where they tore up the asphalt 

To make it seem more real - and it worked.

I can’t afford their trappings 

Nor their fare or lodgings.

But I don’t care.

I sit in my box truck,

A few miles out of town

And watch the sunset in perfect silence

As I eat macaroni and cheese I got for free

Because it was all I could afford. 

And tomorrow, I will sell my wares if they’ll have them, 

And offer to wash their windows if they’re dirty,

And soak in the people passing by

And be grateful to share in their vacation.

The simplicity of a new economy,

More slow, more simple, more abundant,

Allowing us to relax into the more important things of life.

And it begins by looking close, not far away.

It is nurtured in the fertile soil 

Of gratitude and faith,

And best of all,

It rounces 

The trappings of debt.

I see, a few generations off,

A generation of simple people

Around whom springs every needful thing.

And their principal work is praise.

Into the sky above the desert valley.

And by night, it blew a hurricane, a monsoon,

A late winter rain mingled with snow,

So strange. 

And I crouched low within my sleeping bag

And plugged my ears from the thunder

As Joey ducked for cover.

A late winter rain mingled with snow,

And the mountain shakes its shoulders 

In the white draped frock it dons,

Showing what it can do

Before the desert sun 

Chases it back into submission.

One, Two, Three Cinemas,

But not enough for the buzzing crowds.

They have moved on to busier venues.

And as they move out, I move in,

Into the parking lot at least.

And we sell our wares.

We wash the windows left behind

For the poor folk that rent in the dilapidated part of town.

How I love abandoned, broken, things.

How I love the fertile soil

From which springs

Abundance,

And not the type

That demands your soul,

The abundance that falls into your lap for a song.

Yes. But until we die or He appears, we must imagine.

For I myself live in a tent, a car, 

The back of a moving van,

And I like it that way.

But the world would have me put them up in a hotel,

To take out a mortgage, to put myself in bondage,

So that they can go on living like the world.

And I wonder if that was what Christ was trying to say

When he said that the foxes have holes

And the birds have nests,

But the Son of Man has not a place to lie his head.

It seems that he was warning us 

That if we fully give way 

To the Spirit he possessed,

That it will prompt us to forsake our hopes of home

For the home we find in Him.

Surely.

And that’s a hard pill to swallow.

And when it sets it shrouds my little camp

With velvet black and starry glow.

And I, between two cedars,

Drift off to sleep

In the silence

Of a world apart.

And the sun rises over the open valley down below.

It crosses the sky and paints the clouds

In white.

Poem 1 - Between Two Cedars

My tent is strung between two cedars,

Old and wide. And I, alive to the gift,

Give thanks.

And when unseen, seek light through revelation,

You will interpret the text, the person,

The past the present and even

The very thing you worship

Through the lens of your ideology 

And your particular predisposition.

But if you seek the living Truth

It will reveal itself to you,

And when it does, 

You will be shocked to realize

That it is not what it was made out to be.

Allows you to act today

In such a way

That provides for unseen tomorrows.

The opposite is also true.

Feeling like there's not enough

Will rob tomorrow 

To pay for that 

Which you believe you lack today.

To get a digital copy of the book or to view more books by J.A. McCormick, go to https://www.thetracklesspath.com/books.html.

• Here it is - my latest book: The Rise of Silence - A collection of Poems and True stories. 
• Just click the link to access the Digital Version, the Audiobook, and the Easy Print Version.
• Softbound copies: Amazon and I are parting ways, but I printed 5 copies of the Easy Print (8.5x11) Versions and have 2 left. If you want one, just respond to this email to let me know and we'll arrange to get one to you.
• If you'd like to print your own, please do so! Here's the link for the files. 
• The fictional short story that I had intended to include (Over - A Cosmic Apocalypse) is not included. But you can find it here, and the Audiobook here.
• Just a note for those who do not receive my daily poems / stories to their inbox, here's the link if you'd like to subscribe. -Or here for YouTube, or Tiktok, of in your favorite podcast app under the name of The Trackless Path.
• Also, please feel free to share anything I publish if you believe it might be a blessing to someone you know.

Thanks again and God bless,

Jonathan McCormick 

The Trackless Path

When it meets with the approval 

Of your best inner conscience,

Don’t complain. Don’t explain. Just act.

Keep your silence. Let it work its mystery.

Act and let your action speak for itself.

If you do, you’ll be a mystery

And do far less harm

If the secret that you keep

Is in keeping with the will of the Great Unseen.

Or in other words,

Letting the enemy win the war,

Take the spoil,

And leave you poor, 

Puts you in the proper place

To receive the spirit of humility.

Whereas winning the war breeds pride, 

And those puffed up with pride grow fat and weak,

And sooner or later they start losing,

Not just with outward ememies,

But with the inward battle 

For unseen things.

But not so with those

Who turn the other cheek.

They already know their weakness.

It is their constant companion.

And in it, they grow strong in faith,

For faith is the only way they can survive.

And armed with faith and humility,

They win an inward battle

That lends itself 

To perfect strength 

And stamina in suffering.

And you can write this down:

That those who suffer the longest always win.

Imagine that the strangers you meet are them.

Love deep into the foreign one

And it will seep into the very ones

You miss and cannot see.

Democracies and fascist regimes,

For all their pomp and pretension,

In the end, are temporary.

They have a beginning,

And they have an end.

But family is eternal.

It is the bedrock of existence.

And the family of God is the only order

Without beginning and without end.

Just think about it, 

What are you 

When all else is stripped away,

But a child of God,

So that your deepest definition 

Is in relation to a Heavenly Parent.

It is the ultimate identity,

And it is the only authority

That transcends

The grave.

Is not a part of any cause that I can find

Except the family. It doesn’t seem

To take part in debates

Of doctrine.

It doesn’t argue.

It doesn’t try to prove itself at all.

In fact, it is most often found 

In the unsolicited praise

Of those that it inhabits.

And when those who have it

Try to describe relationships in its context,

They inevitably are cast back upon descriptions of the family,

Father, son, mother, daughter, sister, brother,

These are our closest approximations

To the love that we’ve found in Him

And in those in whom he dwells.

And isn’t that a surprise,

That in Him we find a family,

And in the family, at its best, 

We find something of Him.

Its banners waft in the wind.

But there is no earthly power

That has found the peace within.

Their heart is bent on anger.

Their will is set to win.

And until they forsake winning,

They’ll war and war again

Until it works a cleansing

A change from deep within,

And then, Oh then,

When men are free 

From the need to war, to win,

Will the unseen peaceful kingdom

Come to Earth again.

I stir the bushes.

Fly away. Fly away.

Take to the sky, you little birds.

Take to the heavens, you big birds.

Don’t stay long! I say,

Just long enough to leave your curse upon them,

Or in other words, your blessing, 

The blessing of the ruin that you took early,

The one that they’ll find late which they’ll find out

Is the key to their deliverance.

But whatever you do, move on.

Don’t stay long, lest you take sides in the coming battle,

The last and most senseless battle of them all

When the earthbound folk will kill 

For the sake of killing.

You don’t yet know

How anger can clip your wings 

And wet your feathers.

And drown you 

In a cause

That you’ll regret long, long, after they are gone.

And it’s coming soon. It’s coming soon.

But not for those 

Who can still fly away and keep on flying,

Not for those who keep on moving out

Of the life that was expected

And into the voice 

That points the way 

To the Unseen Holy Place.

And I live my life mostly by my gut

And prefer to deal with people who do the same.

But it becomes impossible to do that when organizations get too large.

And so I have finally stopped shadowing their thresholds.

Because if I must fill out papers before we look eye to eye,

I am not interested.

If you need to ask me a set of questions that you’ve written down,

I’m not interested. If you don’t know at a glance,

And if I don’t know at a glance

That it’s right,

I’m not interested.

There comes a great de-centralization through chaos.

And in its wake will flourish

The private enterprise,

And laughter,

Sweet, childlike merry-making,

As the little ones chant and sing upon its grave.

And we will do business with each other once again

When the great Leviathan crashes to the earth

And the children of the kingdom

Feast upon its ashes.

I move and keep on moving.

And it suits me fine. It suits me fine.

I knew an old man who lived by the ocean.

And he said that once, years ago,

It made its way into his house.

And so the old man and his neighbors 

Pushed it back. They pushed it back.

With rock and sand and a crew of engineers,

They pushed the ocean back.

Can you imagine that?!

And the man lived in a little shack. 

For that, they pushed the ocean back!

Because they could not keep on moving with the tide.

They could not keep on living with the seasons.

And I realized as he told me the story,

That we were very different.

I would have moved on, I thought.

I would have moved on without a thought.

And trusted that an unseen hand had better plans.

Yes, an unseen hand has better plans.

If we can only see them 

For what they are.

And the clouds light up with color

As the cool rolls in off fields of green.

The smell of earth. The sound of bees.

The mountains looking down 

In loving, purple, rocky grey.

And I alone with the silence,

No outlet, but to write 

Here on this page,

No pallet, No colors, No music.

Just the words, the gratitude, that rolls 

Through my brain and down my slippery fingers 

Onto the emptiness of the barren page.

And almost stormclouds