“show me something not the Buddha”

As the sun was going down last night I was sitting in my lop-sided recliner looking around the room I have called (some of my) home these last 20 months. A fabric kittie, a rubber kitty, painted-wood kitties. Pictures on the wall of my four grandchildren. Lots of art, mostly my own, some of others. Four house plants, at least two of which seem to be in it for the long haul. A bookcase full of books – poetry books, books on writing, most importantly my ‘Zen’ books.

Yesterday afternoon I met Ann’s friend Nicole at a coffee shop in my old neighborhood of Golden Hill. Nicole’s something of a marketing guru and we met to talk about my book “Joy in the Journey”, which other than a guy named Bill buying something like 40 copies to give out to friends, acquaintances, and ‘newcomers’, I’ve sold nearly none. Mostly we talked about Zen.

Man, other than a 2021 three-month stay in a drug-infested, ant-infested, undependable wi-fi room in a house in Encinitas – following my Portland divorce – I landed in a room in the heart of Golden Hill, and walked my broken-hearted, all-alone sorry butt over those Golden Hill/Sherman Heights streets over and over and over. I don’t know. I hear some people never leave the town they grow up in. For me, there’s always been new streets.

Fortunately, I wouldn’t trade a minute of it. I’m still here. I still get to be surprised by it all.