Saturday, August 18, 2012

Under a Banyan in Brooklyn

Under a banyan in Brooklyn, this little Siddhartha sat.  With lotus clam shells spraying high above.  Two mermen with conch horns serenaded my thoughts, while an aqua Adam and Even bather in the plaza.  Cross-legged on the marble, a Brooklyn buddha observes.

Under a banyan in Brooklyn, this buddha began to write his own story.  A flurry of flourishes and the pen begins dreaming.  How many angels on the head of a pen?

On the Q to Island of Coney, an impressionist blue and white cloudscape covered across the sky.  The high-definition widescreen was the window of the Q.  The day before it was the bus window, as the Bolt sped back to Gotham via a bay detour (Seagirt and Dundalek, two great words that taste great together).

A yogi grows in Brooklyn.  On the pier over the water, I practiced my posture.  The Coney Island Ashram.  What I love about New York is that as strange as I can be, I still don't hold a candle to the rest.  In the big apple, I am only marginally more eccentric than the average bear and still on the low end of the spectrum.

From Warrior II, I pointed toward the clouded horizon of the Atlantic Ocean.  Towards a metal clasp bridge that connected beach to island.  A humbled warrior pointed back towards the luna park and the block buildings that lined the beach.

And what is the grand enlightenment of this Brooklyn buddha?  A double eureka- one to share and one that will take time.  Simply feeling comfortable in the present.  Comfortable with my own age.  Comfortable in my own story.  Priceless wisdom indeed, especially because I traveled long and far to find it.

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