Imagine, walking through your mind and finding yourself lying at your feet. There you are, washed over twice daily by the sea and twice by the sky.
Western thought would call this a random collection of stone and kelp and sand, interpreted by a kind of projection of self called anthropomorphization, or “making human.” Whew. Try saying that with stones for eyes, kelp for hair, your eye a dry tide pool in which a stone fish swims, and with a fish’s mouth stuffed with sand on top of it all. You might want to get someone else to try to speak it for you.
You might want to look deep into your mind and find the earth staring back.
Or you might want to be alone with your thoughts.
Or someone else’s.
All of you approaching Earth and Sea for the first time together, without words, every day, every moment.
Or you might want to find yourself…
… and know where you are.
Or you might not and live in mystery, broken occasionally by primal breaths of air.
Whatever you choose, remember: it is often the most obvious that is the most strange.
~
Ozette Beach & Ruby Beach
Categories: Artificial Intelligence, First Peoples, Gaia, Land, Nature Photography, Other People, Spirit, Water
Okanagan Okanogan 
Human thought religious fantasies have destroyed the world and Western thought fantasies have painted us in the corner as well. Science is too slow and isn’t designed to give answers just create arguments. Writing poems and telling stories of real experiences are the only way. Keep it up.
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Thanks. Coyote has taught us both, I see. Great to have you along on the journey.
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Thanks for the invite. Each of us lives only once, and for the first time.
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Something Other than Prose
When I write a poem it’s like scholarly research; I make raw discoveries every time.
What I find in the tunnels, streams and caves of my brain Refreshes me, leads me on like a coyote.
I write to keep a record of
The holes I fall into and vistas that open.
A poem gives me a view up my tributaries, They’re eyes into my wellsprings.
I appreciate the poems that you share with me
And those that come from other shaman friends,
Because each poem is perfect and real, alive.
It looks through its own eyes like a deer or a trout, Tremulous but steady, it breathes in like a fern,
Like a pine on the ledges, or ancient sequoia making a circle.
Writing in prose saps my strength.
I would have to convince others of something I already know? Prove it for what? What a waste of time.
Getting an “A” doesn’t give us our identity.
So I will always write in something other than prose.
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Yes, and yet, patiently, haltingly, we must move forward, bringing in the lost poets in their fields of prose, nurturing them, and sending them on. Some days it’s hard though, isn’t it.
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O Water Baby, child of the Inner Ocean:
Be gentle with the world you see–
It was not prepared
For the likes of Thee!
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Ha,
my inner ocean has titanium ear implants.
Me and the Russian Everest Team. We’re tight.
😉
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