"Winter Solstice"
There I was, alone,
one Thursday night,
on the longest night of the year —
the Winter Solstice.
I was not solemnly observing
the Death and Rebirth of the Sun,
Nor gasping at the Stonehenge sunrise,
Nor sowing the crops for next season,
Nor was I longing to take a yuzu bath,
or to bestow alms to the needy . . .
Nor did I write down this year’s trials,
or childhood shackles,
to be cremated in a burning bowl ceremony.
Nor did I create a mandala of orange, yellow, and red flowers,
or fashion a protective amulet.
Nor did I eat pomegranate
while reading Sufi poetry,
Let alone reclaim Santa Claus as a Pagan Godform!
No.
I wasn't doing any of those sacred things.
Bed Bath & Beyond was now my temple,
its entrance regal and embracing.
Why?
To move into my new refuge,
a resplendent, state-of-the-art trailer in the woods,
with double-paned glass and solid pine,
(and a redwood deck for foxes to play on)
as I was fleeing from a mold explosion
in my previous, funky abode
in the middle of the night.
My mission was clear:
To heed the call of my next aesthetic station —
upgrading my three-decades-old
bathroom and kitchen accoutrements.
Each decision,
each and every item I wanted
presented far,
far too many options.
Each item,
a test of my ability to coordinate
style, size, and color.
Each item,
a test of my ability to think Green,
to reconcile where each item was made,
(and by whom) . . .
This auspicious multitude of choices went
beyond my current lifetime.
Yes, they were duly registered in the
Akashic Records.
My aesthetic evolution
to be eternally evaluated
by all beings, future and past.
Three-and-a-half hours into my journey,
a very wise man (the manager, no less)
came unto me and said,
“Lo, rest thy weary feet, and have some cider.”
December, 2019
