It rained heavy one evening when I was sitting alone after work, drinking a glass of red wine. I like my wine with a nice dinner; no sin in that. However on the night of the pouring rain, I looked at my wine differently and imbibed on a curious journey of thought in which I neither recognized myself nor remembered how I came to become the echoes of a distant memory. The wine was different, almost melancholic and sad in a way. We were one.
All around me was a sense of awareness; forks clanked and spoons clinked on fine china, inaudible conversations muffled the dining room, and busy servers crossed paths like well-suited fireflies--a timeless performance done at a familiar mating dance tempo. Yet, within my own thoughts, a labyrinth of bottled up emotions and vicarious adventurers spurred on by alter-egos and collected scar tissue material, I found for a moment the resonance of contentment. It was and is the best I can do in a confusing world before me.
My mind began to drift along corners of what-if's, should've, could've, oh fuck its...and then blankness. I let go, forgot the Day Planner scripted notes, embraced self-actualization, and slowly massaged my emotions. I think my meal digested better, I think my wine tasted sweeter, I think I forgot to think and just sat there...meditative, content, and unusually aware. Mind you, I was no where near nirvana. I didn't have the meditative skill or posture of Bodhidharma. I could not hear the wind speaking to me like a Lakota Medicine Man, I could not see the universe unfold before me like Siddharta before attaining buddha, and I could not hear a grasshopper fart like Kwai Chang Cane (as in Kung Fu, starring David Carradine).
All I could do was hear my mind rest with every breath. I finished the wine. The rain was beautiful, and it was a lovely drive home in the middle of the night.
All around me was a sense of awareness; forks clanked and spoons clinked on fine china, inaudible conversations muffled the dining room, and busy servers crossed paths like well-suited fireflies--a timeless performance done at a familiar mating dance tempo. Yet, within my own thoughts, a labyrinth of bottled up emotions and vicarious adventurers spurred on by alter-egos and collected scar tissue material, I found for a moment the resonance of contentment. It was and is the best I can do in a confusing world before me.
My mind began to drift along corners of what-if's, should've, could've, oh fuck its...and then blankness. I let go, forgot the Day Planner scripted notes, embraced self-actualization, and slowly massaged my emotions. I think my meal digested better, I think my wine tasted sweeter, I think I forgot to think and just sat there...meditative, content, and unusually aware. Mind you, I was no where near nirvana. I didn't have the meditative skill or posture of Bodhidharma. I could not hear the wind speaking to me like a Lakota Medicine Man, I could not see the universe unfold before me like Siddharta before attaining buddha, and I could not hear a grasshopper fart like Kwai Chang Cane (as in Kung Fu, starring David Carradine).
All I could do was hear my mind rest with every breath. I finished the wine. The rain was beautiful, and it was a lovely drive home in the middle of the night.
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