Riding that pale blue dot.
Yet got a flat earth feeling
with a wish for solid ground.
Just a clown, a root bound
pretender.
Sometimes I know better.
With every sit asserting
the open, uncertain space,
the face before parents
and the pause between breaths.
Where our deaths and the great emptiness reside,
inside.
And out.
Riding that pale blue dot.
My last breath ahead and that first one, so far behind me.
Cultivating everyday illusions,
and grandiose delusions
of you and me and our permanence.
Sometimes I know better
and weather the ride
till I know, really know.
As the great Sage knew.
That we are everything and nothing,
dot riders always,
in love and in wisdom,
and into that Kingdom Come.
Dr. Bob's Blog 