John Blossom is a painter and an educator living in West Seattle, WA.
I am small, yet my little finger is big enough to change the direction of winds. I have nothing really to say, yet waves of radiation pulsate perpetually from my mouth. Oh, I am busy, so busy, spinning out the diminutive fabric of my business, thinking it cozies everything but knowing beyond admitted awareness that it only covers the tiny openings of my eyes. My tantrum-ed feet, inches long, spider off quakes, and dust storms block the sun as my hair dishevels. You can't win a power struggle with an insecure child, but tell that now to the shouting earth.
My friend Chris says life happens off the meditation cushion. Accomplish love he says, as if it's an achievement, like enlightenment, available daily along with commuting and a paycheck. Oh, but throw in prayer, he says - that's key. I stare intently for hours at what is without deeply wanting what is not yet. I like my complications fully complicated, my efforts at effortlessness concentrated, regular. The price of my animal's consciousness with awareness is hours on the mat. This morning a black kitty curled up on my crossed legs and fell asleep purring out her encouragement for the resident amateur.