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June 26, 2000
Ah, my dear A,
. . .No question about it, you are a busy one, challenged from all sides by demands for attention and energy. The competing needs of others create a kind of outer-directed chaos, of course, rendering you poly-psychic, dancing as fast as you can, fulfilling just about everybody's needs and wants — yikes, not easy!
How good it is that once in a while, such as on your recent West Coast trip, you can lie down in a quiet place, perhaps listen to serene music, have a person massage you, pay attention to you, let you float and dream a while, and create a psychic space for you in which you can ride your bicycle across the full moon, like those wonderful children in Spielberg's ET.
And I know you love swimming. I used to take a deep breath, dive down to the bottom and semi-sit there, eyes open, listening to the near-silence, feeling a kind of suspended bliss unlike anything I had ever known outside of mummy dearest's womb, the peace, the quietude, the sensation of eternity, infinity, inner wholeness.
So glad that in the midst of the whirly-swirl you remain aware that there are things within you that need nourishment. You mention Jesus & Buddha in your letter. They talk about these things a great deal. Wholeness, selflessness, creativity, self-love and love for others, compassion, unity-consciousness — these and other psycho-spiritual realities flower from within the depths and heights of stillness, silence, mental stasis, where the inner lake is as clear and quiet as a mirror. Of course, you already know this. And when the time is appropriate, you will find the way to find the way; I am only rubricating what you sense and feel.
Not everybody cares about this sort of thing, you know? Many people simply pull on a belief system like a new sweater. It feels comfortable and looks good and helps them translate experience in ways that console their troubled mind and diminish fears. The mind may still remain troubled, but one does not feel it as much. And the fears may remain in the psyche and the soul, but they are pushed down into the basement. Belief systems give us the illusion of knowing and help us escape from ourselves.
But some people do care, because, sometimes only dimly, at other times acutely, they are already aware of what they need in order to come to love themselves, to come to self-reliance and autonomy, where they can stand on their own, detached from approval or things or respect or power from others. They are aware, sometimes intensely so, that they need the kind of time and space and uninterrupted stillness in which they can settle their mind and allow the soul-light to illuminate their own being from within. Once that happens, they can bring new energy and new light to everything they do, great and small. It is not an escape from the home and the marketplace, but a transformation of daily life.
I feel so impressed by the ways in which you manage your activities. You are busy do-do-doing all these things, and yet within you there is a voice that speaks to you clearly, compassionately, and quite consciously about the deeper and higher You whom you also love, cherish, and wish and need to nourish.
Like all of us, you identify with your distractions. But you also have a full moon inside of you that whispers love songs and encouragement — sometimes while driving on the freeway; at other times while setting the dining room table or rushing to answer a telephone; sometimes even in the middle of conversation while listening to somebody talk on and on. There, behind your eyes, in the center of your heart and soul, the full moon shines, and the light of who you are is there, awake, smiling gently at you, saying, "Take your time. I am here when you need me. When you are ready, we shall grow ever higher, fuller and deeper together."
So glad you are exploring Jesus and Buddha. I hope you are doing so outside of institutions that have co-opted their teachings to serve their own agendas. Tell me what you are reading these days, won't you? I know it must be difficult to find time to read, but perhaps there are one or two books/authors you have found meaningful. Let Sonia and me know who they are, will you? We read a great deal, and might be able to recommend this or that book or writer you might enjoy to the hilt and find interesting and nourishing as well . . . .
Let me recommend a CD, terrific music — laid back, sensual, quiet and uplifting, energizing in relaxing, positive ways. It's called Dewachen (a Tibetan word meaning "The Great Bliss"), by Kirby Shelstad (on the Love Circle Music label). Great to listen to in the car, or when you can't sleep at night, or when you're writing, whatever.
Once again, dear Adele, thank you so much for taking the time to write these letters. Whenever you feel like writing anything whatsoever — up, down, sideways, quirky, happy, sad, mad, distorted, chaotic, clear as a Tibetan bell at dawn — whatever you feel like saying and however you feel like saying it, feel free to say it to me, to Sonia, too. We are on your side, with you on your journey, accepting of you every way you are, wishing you well . . . .
P.S. I wanted you to read two poems, attached. They're from my new assemblage of poetry entitle, Warrior, Lover, Mystic. These two are called, "Where the White Swans Fly" and "Three Eyes". (In "White Swans," Lake Manasarovar is a lake high in the Tibetan Himalayas where white swans live. Every autumn, they fly south to India. Every spring, they fly back. For millenia, these swans have been a symbol of beauty, grace, compassion, virtue, serenity.)
Much love,
Lee
Class Reunion: Singers In The Wild
March 27, 2002
Hi, Troy,
Thank you so much for the invitation to our class reunion. Apologies, but I don't think I will be able to attend. By way of response, let me pass on to you some of the thoughts your invitation awakened in me last night. Hope you have a delightful time visiting with old friends. Be sure to say Hello for me, will you?
Appreciatively yours,
Lee
And so he found himself listening to Crosby, Stills and Nash, riding the Marrakesh Express with their singing youth, his own head out the train's window like theirs, wind whip-whirling his hair, time rosy in his cheeks, adventure sparkling in his eyes.
He knew the girl he saw in his mind's eye was as alive today as she was in those vibrant vanished yesterdays. Even as he heard far away in the mist, far away in the ambience of the modern cabin he lived in, far away through 21st Century stereo speakers, even as he heard far away the music of 40 years ago, he knew those glistening moments were here, now, forever shimmering alive and golden in every throbbing beat of his singing heart.
Not for a moment did he apologize for himself, or overestimate his remaining energy. Still alive, still feeling the ferocity and love and heartache he had felt for many years, he trusted the intensity of his remaining time. Combined with what he had learned, the sorrows he had known, the glorious bright-light remembered loves that still flamed in his mind, he sought only to give credence and viability to the life he had lived. He sought only to snatch from amorphous dreams and memories those flashpoint illuminations that existed then, existed now, and would forever exist — until the gentle blanket of ultimate peace fell upon him.
So strange, he thought, how the present seems to exist independently from the past, and yet we know it doesn't exist that way at all. It is one thing, a totality of past-present, a vital element of who we are now, today, even as it was a vital element of who we were waaaaay back then. Yesterday is herenow, a mere heartbeat from today. All time past is yesterday. And yesterday is herenow present, yesnow, herenowyes.
Recalling those brightlight days so long ago in junior high school when he was in ninth grade, he mused —
I see Troy and all the rest of those people from Big Spring, Texas, as clearly in my mind as I see this oak tree and flowing stream in front of my cabin. I hear the voices and music and laughter of more than forty-five years ago singing and laughing just as clearly as I hear the sound of running water immediately below my window.
And yet I know, too, how the song of today cannot fit with yesterday's smile, how today becomes obliterated when confronted with the sparkling eyes and eager questions emanating from memories of 30, 40, 50 years ago.
When we see the face and hear the voice of today, but peer through the eyes of yesterday, we cannot truly see the person we are talking to. Nor can we be seen as we are, but only as we were. All of us cling to what we know, and everything we know is time-past.
In a class reunion, we come together knowing only our yesterdays. We can neither see nor be seen as we are. What we know now is only what we knew then. But what we are IS now. And as now, we are unknown, unseen. My weeping heart. We are strangers, face to face with each other, terrified that we might not be seen and loved for who we are; even more terrified that we might not be capable of living up to the other's vision of what we might have been or expected ourselves to be after all these years; worse, that our wrinkled faces and caved in cheeks and protruding bellys will only betray our dreams of self and other. Even in fulfillment, we are the ruins of yesterday's youth.
Fear, discomfort, shyness. Unless we have something to brag about, we cannot bear to be subjected to that god-awful question: Did you live up to your hopes and dreams? If we did, if we are rich or famous or respected, then it is easy. All we have to do is trot out the medals society has awarded us (and hide behind them, so easy and quick to do). People successful in the world of power, profit and prestige easily attend reunions.
But those of us who do not stand at the top of the mountain, or who move outside the mainstream on the fringes of conventional society well ahead of today's slow-moving masses, do not always find it so easy. There are those of us, quick, intelligent, wary, sensitive, alert, free and rebellious, who do not find it a simple matter to return to a place where once we were young and beautiful and full of hope and life and expectations, a place where now, today, we might be called upon to proclaim our achievements and stand tall amidst our accomplishments and celebrate our successes in the societal domain of money, power, respectability, and give credence to those who demeaned us in our questioning years and would now subsume us and co-opt our glory for their own credit.
To the contrary, we might find ourselves standing upon a podium in the midst of flames, howling retribution to those who condemned us for attempting to lead them beyond their ignorance. Yes, there are those of us who never saw past the quickly fading glory of our brightly shining innocence. But there are others who, like metaphysical outlaws, lone wolves of the psyche and the soul, have moved far beyond and cannot rest comfortably within the arms of conventional values and unquestioning orthodox perspectives. We, the singers in the wild, cannot bear to bestow praise upon those who crucified us then for leading them beyond their thick-headed blindness, and crucify us even unto this day.
Yes, yes, I would very much like to attend a reunion of my long lost still dreaming fellows, knowing so many things now that I did not know then. But I would like to do it invisibly, a participant without vulnerability, a presence without tangibility, a mind and a pair of eyes seeing but unseen. I would love to listen to conversations, see the looks in people's eyes, hear the laughter, see doubts flicker across faces, and, after all the chit-chat and bragging and cigars and jokes, hear our vibrant heartsongs whispered between the lines we speak so carefully between measured cocktails.
But I prattle. We were a separate generation, the class of '57, not only in Texas but in upstate New York and Washington, D.C. and elsewhere too. We were a strange class, lost, unfocused, incoherent, scattered juveniles, a group of unrelated, atomically alienated individuals who never created a time or a place or a purpose in the world. Those before us had their Hitler War with its clarity of simple good and bad. The Baby Boomers followed, with their inventiveness and extraordinary vitality. We were a culture in between, a transitional people, with no genesis of our own and no place to go.
And so we wandered, lost, faceless, and faded into the American tapestry, never having an identity or a moment in history. We adopted the Deans and Brandos and Monroes, bless them all, but never had the place or time or solidity of the generations who came before and after.
And yet we still live, and give life to the children we love, and the grandchildren who follow, and thereby assume our dignity in time's fabric. There is glory to all who yet live and love, glory to all who aspire and succeed or fail, glory to all who see these shining stars in the glorious night and recognize how wondrous is this life's fleeting moment. What glory in our sad or optimistic songs, what everlasting sparkle in our smiles and dancing musics, what hallelujah beauty in every conscious breath we take and every loving smile we share with each and every child.
I sing the heart of life itself and hold out my hand to all. Let there be love. Let there be creativity. Let there be sanity, peace, brotherhood, and joy for every living being the wide world over.
LU
Joy Is Every Moment
April 20, 2001
Dear E,
How good it is to hear from you! Thank you so much for the thoughtful Easter card and the nice note. . .
All's well here. We planted flowers at the beginning of April because the sun was shining every day. But then the snows came again. So I carried a dozen or so flowerpots into the house and set them on a counter in the kitchen. Some were hurt by the cold/frost/ice/snow before I got them inside, but most are surviving and doing well.
Spring is such a wonderful time of year, isn't it? We've got splashy red-and-yellow tulips, purple tulips, red tulips, daffodils, white daisies, yellow daisies, a host of red/yellow/purple primroses and a lot of other flowers I don't even know the names of. What a riot of colors!
And all the trees are rebirthing, bright light-green leaves appearing; long grasses growing in the meadows; new birds in the neighborhood; squirrels coming out of hibernation; whole choirs of singing frogs! It is such a celebration of life. Indeed, when lived right, life is light. Life is joy. Life is celebration.
Those who live driven by fear never come to know this, of course, and they usually do everything they can to send to the scaffold those who do. However, I don't trouble myself about them anymore. Let them cherish their misery (in the name of "life" and "realism"). Meanwhile, I will continue to do everything I can to bring to this ol' world more beauty, vitality, love, joy, happiness and Springlike celebration.
Existence is perpetual creativity, isn't it? By attuning myself with existence, I attune myself with creativity. I infuse my work with love; and love the work I do. In this way, every moment is joy, and joy is every moment. Even when circumstances become difficult at times, the underlying energy is love, creativity, offering to existence the life, love and laughter of my own life, which in turn makes this ol' world a better place than it was when I arrived. A small gesture, to be sure, but every drop in the ocean changes the ocean as a whole.
Much love to you and J. Be sure to let your wonderful grown-up kids know we think of them often, even as we think of you.
From Sonia, too —
Love,
Lee
Courage, Patience, Trust
March 16, 2000
Hi, John X,
So sorry your broken finger has not healed well, and that you are still unable to play your beloved bass. I hope and trust the ol' pinky mends soon so you can jump back into action.
Print this total e-mail out, yes? It would warm my heart if you to keep it around, and referred to it once in a while. Would you do that for me? Thanks, old friend.
You just wrote to me —
Hey Lee,
I am really getting bugged! I can't play, do what I have
fantasized about, done did, lived for, kept me going! I can't find
more than one person that hears my "Blues In The Night"!
My fault initially, but due to not seeing, not wanting to see. The person that should have cared, but didn't really give a shit, [was] seeing me through their own fucked up neurotic self. Who's to blame? Could say me. I should have dealt with the reality of the situation. But dear friend isn't that that the fault with all of us? Living within our precious childlike hearts? What do I do if I can't play? What do I do if I can't listen, say "yeah" and jump on my ax?
M came over for dinner last eve, loves my photos. . . Says forget music, let's do some video. . . He will produce, buy state of the art camera.
Drunk talk, has the bucks but always on a fantasy trip, keeps him going,the rose colored cloud. We all have them but there comes a time when you have to commit and go "somewhere over that rainbow!"
It truly for us is smitten — Is all that there is. . .
Huggies,
John
Hi, John,
This is such an odd day for me. Have spent much of it reading (Bhagwan, Jeffers), writing a couple of e-mails, listening to Miles and my close buddy Coleman Hawkins. Usually, I'm up early and working right from the get-go, first building a woodstove fire for Sonia, feeding dog and cats, then to computer, writing, thinking, creating, putting things together, then checking e-mail, writing letters, etc., finally crashing around 5 p.m, eating, watching a movie or two, zzzzzz. But today has been different.
I've already completed the Blue Melody Timmy book, the liner notes to the [Buckley] Morning Glory anthology, put together a book of poems (Warrior, Lover, Mysic) — and everything is done. I figured I'd just lay back, let the voices guide me wherever they want to for a while.
And so today's been an odd one, maybe not odd, but unusual — not the usual thing, much more free-wheeling, unfocused, dispersed, a kind of meandering from one thing to another, with each thing being extremely intense and quite beautiful in and of itself, even as it has produced a little anxiety, a little discomfort — not because of subject matter, but because the day and its activities have not fit my usual notion of who I am, what I do, what my schedule usually is, what I think it should or should not be. My activities today don't comfortably fit my idea of "me," you know what I mean?
Seems to me the alteration of a deeply ingrained point of view is one of the most difficult things in life. We see ourselves in a certain way, identify with that self, love it sometimes, hate it sometimes, but always come back to it, find it meaningful, and pursue it until — until we fulfill it or lose it. Only then, after the fulfillment or the acceptance of the loss, can we smoothly, easily, naturally move on to another thing, to something new, perhaps an extension from the old, or maybe a new dimension or level or realm. Maybe even a complete break from the prior identity. With either a fulfillment or an indubitable loss — done.
Then comes limboland, where everything hangs in suspension. No yesterday, no new day, just limbo. Fear creeps in. Frustration, assertion, heatedly focused will power. Or anger, more frustration, maybe beyond fear, into terror. The great terror, the great angst. At this point, we may retreat back into the known, the familiar, and there spend the rest of our days huddled in familiar rooms, re-running familiar well-worn thoughts and feelings, clinging to well-known identities, processes, methods. Indeed, especially when the new beckons to us, not because of fulfillment but because of necessity (a change of fortune, relationship or condition, such as a broken finger), that terror can easily descend and enfulf us, drain our courage and leave us broken and weeping, lost to fear, running back as quickly as possible to the familiar. It takes enormous courage to press on, pass through limbo, move on out across the waters, through the fog, to the far shore. Every moment temps us to turn back, to forget the "far shore," which, because it is new, remains unknown. Every moment temps us to re-embrace that which is safe, familiar, comfortable.
But if you can't embrace it? If your finger is broken? Or what if other conditions or circumstances prevent the return? Well, there's always oblivion, and oblivion is tempting, that's for sure. The old identity is shattered. The new has not emerged — and maybe never will. What is the point? Why not? Temporary oblivion, permanent oblivion, what's the difference? I understand that call better than I wish I did.
But what if we choose three things first and above all: courage, patience, trust. Courage to keep sailing through the fog across those waters, a courage which sustains confidence that there IS another shore, and confidence that we WILL reach it. Patience, not pushing, shoving, demanding, hurrying, but waiting, open, receptive. And trust, knowing that nothing stays the same, everything always changes, and, if we keep our trust alive, that which is within us and about to be born, that within us which is conceivable, possible and doable, will rise up and reveal itself. The fog will drift away, and the new self will stand newly born before our very eyes.
It's like Basho's haiku —
Sitting still,
The grass grows
Spring comes
By itself.
Courage, patience, trust. Courage to sit still, without will. Patience enough to let the grass grow. Trust, that Spring will come in its own time — it has to. That is nature's way. That is our way, too. Fear, frustration, anxiety? Forget them. In their place, consciously plant the seeds of courage, patience, trust. I know you have done it before. You were one of the people I learn these things from. And such planting may not even be necessary now. But if it is, maybe this is the way to go, do you agree?
As I think about your situation, I recall that you know the piano keyboard, and the Midi works with that, does it not? Even if it doesn't, even if it works with buttons and knobs that you have to learn, there are tremendous possibilities with the Midi for new sonic creations, new improvisational ecstasies, new compositional challenges, satisfactions, fulfillments.
And with a little encouragement, your friend M. might find himself interested enough to actually do what he fantasizes about. He probably needs somebody to push him a little, get him off his duff, take him seriously, challenge him to put into action what he claims he wants to do — a buddy-sidekick-partner such as yourself. The two of you might be able to help each other — you both might prefer to follow than lead, but if you led for a while, then he led for a while. . .Buddies generate energy, ideas, concepts, goals, ways to get there. And before you know it, new energy and interest is born and out of the relationship, new identities, directions, meaning.
And why not? What is better? Bowling? Football? TV?
Riverbanks, night time, fog clouds rolling across black waters — scary places, John. Yesterday may be what we think we want, and tomorrow may have no appeal. But if we release yesterday with love, and embrace tomorrow with courage, the new takes on substance, flesh, warmth, energy, glory, meaning, delight. It's like the Phoenix, right? —
From ashes
Reborn
Into Light
Lubs ya, guy,
Lee
A Yellow Rose, A Grain of Sand, River Time
October 27, 2000
Dear E,
For your 44th 39th birthday, I thought it would be nice to send Birthday greetings to you from both of us — Happy Birthday! It is always a joy when you call and say hello. I relate our conversations to Sonia, and she and I have often spent time talking warmly about you and your wonderful family.
We are so happy [your eldest son] is doing well. No question about it, he shines like a star. Now is his time, and he seems to be fully involved in fulfilling himself through his work. Sonia and I wish him well, even as you and your husband do, too.
I know this time of life can prove difficult and strange. You are 82 now, right? And your dear old husband is 86, but one's 80s can also be approached positively. In a profound sense, this time of life need not be seen as an end to growth. In a certain way, it is the greatest opportunity for growth and learning that we have. A friend of mine pointed out how we can now allow ourselves to become quiet inside, and in that silence we can hear our own intuitive wisdom. The ignorance of childhood, the fevers of youth, and the conflicts and confusions of our middle years are behind us. We don't have to continue frantically collecting new experiences. To the contrary, we can now empty out what we have collected so we can clearly experience this living moment, what is happening right now. In order to hear our own wisdom, we need only experience our inherent inner silence, and this time of life is ideal for that.
We can shift our perspective from the "I" to the witness of "I," where we stand outside whatever happens, relocated in the witness, which has no fear, knows no pain, but only watches with awareness. It has no senses, is not a material thing like the body, and is not a thought or a concept like the mind. We can shift into it by being silent within and without, by being in the moment and simply observing, still, quiet, aware, not dwelling in the past not anticipating a future. In this witness perspective, there is no more fear, suffering or anxiety, because the witness knows no fear or suffering. It knows no beginning, no change, no end. It is not born. It does not die. It is eternal. It is outside of time, in the now.
Our body or mind may be in pain or fear, but we can ask ourselves, "Is there a part of me that is not in pain or fear?" — and instantly the witness is there. It has always been with us. By consciously relocating our perspective within it, we step out of River Time. We no longer fight, struggle, feel fear or the desire to escape. In the witness, those real torments may be present, but they release their grip on our minds and hearts, and we are free from them, centered in compassion.
There is enormous value in slowing down and attuning ourself to the now. There is such richness in the vibrant present — sunlight streaming through a window, the musical sound of bubbling tea water, a picture of a child sitting under a tree, someone's laughter heard down the hall. . .and especially the peace and beauty of inner silence, without thoughts and dreams, without divisions between "me" and "not-me."
In silence, there are no boundaries and no time. Free from divisions and barriers, we can feel the whole of existence by being completely present with a yellow rose or a single grain of sand. Sit, relax, experience the silence, merge with the moment, be still and know the ecstatic connection. In quietude, there is bliss and love, courage, compassion, unity, joy and boundless peace.
Love from both of us to both of you,
Lee & Sonia
Plum Blossoms
September 4, 2000
Dear friend of these many years,
I think of individuals as being concentrated points of light, as if the pattern of all that exists in the universe is concentrated in and through us, much as the great sun is concentrated into a small point of focused light through a magnifying glass. It seems to me that the whole of existence is Spirit, or Light, and we are individual expressions of that Light. We are the Light itself, in individual form. We are universal beings having a personal experience.
I think we are not born into existence. We do not come "into" the world. We come out of it, as expressions and extensions of it, rather like waves in the ocean. We ascend from the ocean, we wave as an expression of the ocean, we merge back into the ocean. Forever we have been, and continue to be, alive and singing, for we are not separate from the ocean. We are the ocean itself.
A friend of mine quoted a haiku poem by Issa:
Plum blossoms:
my spring
is an ecstasy
Then he said:
"Just visualize:
Plum blossoms:
my spring
is an ecstasy
"If we start looking silently at things, the roses will become our ecstasy, the mountains will become our ecstasy, the naked tree without any leaves will become our ecstasy.
"The ecstasy is a deep inner silence, watching, witnessing the tremendous beauty that surrounds us. As we experience in deep silence this wondrous beauty all around, we forget about small things. Our life becomes a golden life, an ecstasy. We need only silence and awareness in order for gratitude and wonder to well up in ecstatic appreciation. It may bring tears to our eyes, for we see that simply being here, now, and silently looking at the plum blossoms, we disappear as separate beings. We suddenly realize who we truly are. The plum blossoms are ecstasy. The spring is ecstasy. We ourselves are ecstasy, and there is no separation."
Love to you,
Lee
The Gift of Laughter
January 19, 2001
Dear Jane,
Well, hello, gal! Here your 75th birthday has come and gone, but because I am 104 years old as of last October, not only could I not find my glasses, but neither could I find my teeth or my memory. By the time I looked at the calendar, January 7th had come and gone, but then so had my middle age and all my hair, so what the hell. Here it is the 19th, and I figure I'd better get to it, and wish you a
HAPPY BIRTHDAY!
before my shoes rot, my fingernails grow too long to type, and my dog Buddy gets gets so old he can't spritz all over the bushes any more.
I kid you not, this monkey moron George W. Bush turns my skin purple, but then I figure America deserves what it gets, and it's about time we throw the right-wing facist contingent an opportunity to prove to us that they can annihilate the economy, murder the land and destroy peace-abiding nations the world over faster and more efficiently than Democrats ever dreamed of. By this time next year, I expect all of us to be dressed in rags and standing in breadlines, so I figure I'm gonna take my little Missie Sonia and my above-mentioned dog Buddy with me, and head for the mountains.
Since we're already in the mountains — Yosemite's only 13 miles up the road — that means we'll just set up our tent down by our own stream, spray it all over with anti-nuclear dust paint, and huddle inside until the Republicans blow themselves up. Then we'll step out, stretch, yawn, welcome the dawn, and set about creating a new civilization.That should be a pleasure, of course, because it will be based on love, life and laughter, just the way you and I like it.
There will be lots of dancing, music, picture painting, joke telling, love making, weaving, sculpting, flower gardening and mutual assistance on all practical levels. There will be no profit motive, no money, no political parties, no isolated nations, no geographical boundaries, no armies, no churches, no leaders, followers, authorities, saviors, or priests. One humanity living in one world, psychological and spiritual unity, with all differences treasured and all diversities honored. In joy and love we will trade whatever we have in abundance with other places and peoples for whatever they have in abundance. If we grow wheat and they grow rice, we'll trade. Those who have much will share with those who have little. The only rule will be love; the only value, understanding; the only treasure, peace. Of all of humanity's gifts, the greatest will be the gift of laughter. Instead of wallowing in envy, desire and their resultant miseries, we will treasure the present, appreciate every living moment, see the sacred in the mundane, and base our lives on celebration.
I figure that by the time me and Sonia and Buddy get that job taken care of, I will have aged probably a month or so, at which time I will return to the tent, sit outside in a rocking chair and enjoy the sunset, while all around me I'll hear the music of the mountain stream and wind in the trees. I'll listen to the music of people talking and laughing and making love, and of little children squealing in delight as they slide down a slick rock into the streampools.
I'll listen to the birds in the pines, the bees buzzing 'round the flowers, and the voices of long-lost loved ones whispering inside the breeze, "Lee, you do pretty good. But you know who does even better? That sweet Auntie Jane of yours, that's who. Ain't nobody does it better than she does. She brings more laughter, warmth and bright-eyed cheer into this doggone world than you and all your crazy friends put together. You just turn your face toward the East and gently blow her a kiss into the sunrise. She'll softly close her eyes and see you shining inside her heart. Let her know you love her, and fer God's sake don't forget to wish her Happy Birthday!"
Luv to you, dear Jane,
From Sonia, too —
HAPPY BIRTHDAY!