Metta and the Cultivation of Loving-Kindness

Metta from the Pali language, the language of many buddhists sutras, is often translated as “loving-kindness”. Additional meanings include friendly, benevolent, kind. From “A Guide to a Simple Life”: 

Metta is goodwill, loving-kindness, universal love; a feeling of friendliness and heartfelt concern for all living beings, human or non-human, in all situations. The chief mark of metta is a benevolent attitude: a keen desire to promote the welfare of others.” 

Metta subdues the vice of hatred in all its varied shades: anger, ill-will, aversion, and resentment.   

Often metta is translated as love. I hesitate some, when I hear that because when I hear the word love used, it triggers a wave of conflict in me. It is used so indiscriminately: “Luv ya!”, “You have to love your family.” “making love”, “love the one you’re with” and redhearts all around. There is even a chain of truck stops called Love, not to mention the chain of sexual support stores. The origin of the English word for love is associated with the Sanskrit word lubh that translates as lust. In this context “love” may be defined as a passion for something that one wants to possess, sustain, or be attached to. In Northern Eurocentric cultures we often hear that love is something virtually impossible to reach or achieve but something everyone should have in order to have a fulfilling life and maybe get to heaven. Metta is not like any of these and that is the source of my hesitation when using love. 

Metta  is the inherent, true nature of being in relationship with oneself or another. It is the capacity to be fully attentive and present in an interaction. Loving-kindness arises; amity, benevolence, accord, all arise, out of this inherent quality of being, as symptoms or manifestations of Metta. Yet no single concept or experience encapsulates the absolute nature of it. Metta can not be encapsulated, held, defined. It is immeasurable.

When I am open and at ease and listening in Nature, I observe metta as a constant activity of all the organisms and the manner in which they interrelate; being alert, sensitive, responsive and equanimous. Humans tend to use violent, conquest related terms like battle, waging war,  overcoming, wiping out, to identify the interactions in Nature between predator and prey, invasive species and endemic, ocean and land. In my observations, it is only humans who have these dominance-seeking approaches to interactions with others and we project them onto the natural world; often to justify our own behavior. “Survival of the Fittest.”

Once, while in the Amazon, I was walking, at ease in an open state of mind and sense, when I was overwhelmed by the density of interactions in the forest; the deafening sound of insects and birds, the etheric pulsations of the plant beings, the tsunami of smells. While sitting I noticed a giant elder tree that had pierced the canopy where I could see a clear blue-white sky outlining the leaves like grout on a mosaic. The power of that tree rumbled through the soil beneath me and it was almost as if all the beings of the forest were offering homage to the elder. Then I noticed a body-wide vine entwined around the tree from exposed roots to crown. It seemed to be writhing as it used the elder to climb into the canopy and I realized that this vine was not only using the giant elder to reach the light of the sun, it was also draining the life essence of the tree and soon would pull it to the ground, like so many others I had seen scattered on the forest floor. A mournful cry welled up in me and I could feel my anger burning as my mind demonized the great vine for killing such a magnificent being.  Beneath that rumbling rage, there was another sensation almost like a voice, filled with ease and equanimity. If I were to put it in words it would have been something like this:

“Be at ease little one.

This is the way of all life in the forest

All of us, from smallest fungus to oldest tree,

Strive to live with all of our being and in every moment

While striving to die with all of our being and in every moment.

For living brings death and death brings life.

Look around and see.”

I did and I saw.

Metta is an unconditional, relentless, living and dying. Metta is the activity of the sun, non-discerning, non-judgmental, non-discriminatory until they burn out; like the vine and the tree, like the wolf and the deer, like the microorganisms and the rotting flesh of life. 

When I reflect back on my time in the Amazon forest and especially now, in the wake, and as a result, of the meditation Practice, I see the Natural world as a teacher manifesting the qualities of metta. The “chief mark” of which  is a benevolent attitude: a keen desire to promote the welfare of others.

Metta is the unending and ever-creative evolution of diversity which develops in order to enhance interactions, and create more effective interactions. When humans consciously cultivate metta, there is no discrimination for who will receive and who will not, who is deserving and who is not, who earned it and who did not, who has been naughty or nice. Metta rays out into the innumerable pores of all beingness.

When we become ignorant of this Nature-al quality, or live in the realms of forgetfulness, metta pushes on our consciousness like an infant crying to be fed, like a glorious blossom signaling to be pollinated, like the call of the moon to the tides. This forgetfulness of the reality of things as they are, and the resulting attempt to impose a hierarchy of beings, feelings, actions, beliefs on an innately equanimous reality, causes suffering and separation, and isolation and an experience of being trapped in the cycles of Nature rather than being freed by them. Meditation in general and the cultivation of metta, in particular, lifts the weed blocker from the gardenscape of life, a Natural life, and allows an experience of circumspherical interrelatedness, a celebration of diversity, and an end to suffering.

In the upcoming Spring Equinox retreat, we will practice the cultivation of Metta  and the activation of Generosity. If you are interested in joining the retreat follow this link:

Spring Equinox Retreat. Cultivating Loving Kindness and Activating Generosity

or continue reading below. If you would like to sit and Practice meditation please email me and I will provide the schedule and links.

In the names of all teachers, Buddha’s bodhisattvas and enlightening ones, seen and unseen, known and unknown, heard and unheard, I offer these words.

Warmth and ease,


Spring Equinox Retreat. Participation is free and everyone is welcome!

Dear friends,

In the spirit of the unending, unconditional kindness and generosity of Nature, which is so prevalent in Spring and especially after a particularly harsh winter, I’d like to invite you to join us in a virtual retreat.

Spring Equinox Virtual Retreat:Cultivating Loving Kindness and Activating Generosity.

The retreat is free and everyone is welcome!

Saturday March 20, 5 PM PST – Sunday March 21, 3 PM PST

Through gentle “rewilding” of our connection to nature, spontaneous writing, meditation, and Council, we will explore our innate capacity for loving kindness (metta, S.K.) and discern obstacles to its fulfillment. While cultivating loving kindness, we will activate the bodhisattva way of embracing a life of generosity (dana, S.K.) and develop unique ways of practicing these capacities in our daily lives.

Please register at:…/retreat-registration…

If you have any questions, please do not hesitate to email me at:

I look forward to retreating with you!

Warmth and ease all around!


Spring Equinox Retreat. Cultivating Loving Kindness and Activating Generosity

Dear friends,

In the spirit of the unending, unconditional kindness and generosity of Nature, which is so prevalent in Spring and especially after a particularly harsh winter, I’d like to invite you to join us in a virtual retreat.

Spring Equinox Virtual Retreat:Cultivating Loving Kindness and Activating Generosity.

The retreat is free and everyone is welcome!

Saturday March 20, 5 PM PST – Sunday March 21, 3 PM PST

Through gentle “rewilding” of our connection to nature, spontaneous writing, meditation, and Council, we will explore our innate capacity for loving kindness (metta, S.K.) and discern obstacles to its fulfillment. While cultivating loving kindness, we will activate the bodhisattva way of embracing a life of generosity (dana, S.K.) and develop unique ways of practicing these capacities in our daily lives.

Please register at:…/retreat-registration…

If you have any questions, please do not hesitate to email me at:

I look forward to retreating with you!

Warmth and ease all around!William

The National Memorial for Peace and Justice

There is no truly adequate way for a White person to pay tribute to the Black men, women and children who have suffered, and are still bearing the intergenerational imprints of suffering, brought on by my ancestors. However, visiting this sacred site in reverence and humility is a step in the right direction. On the journey on the civil Rights Trail, I became even more aware that there is not only intergenerational-trauma, there is intergenerational-perpetration of trauma, and that I am the racist, the slaver, the lyncher, the greedy dominant, the oppressor, the cause of this suffering.

In my journey through Washington, Idaho, Oregon, California, Arizona, New Mexico,Texas, Oklahoma, Kansas, Missouri, Mississippi, Alabama and the panhandle of Florida, I also saw intergenerational indoctrination of White children that promoted and still promotes the superiority of their skin color. And although I thought it would more prevalent in some areas than others, it was consistent and persistent throughout all of these areas.

In the same way that Black people have awakened to an understanding of the multi-generational imprinting of slavery and racism and how they have been struggling to undo its impact for over four centuries, White people must awaken to an understanding of our multigenerational imprinting of fear, greed, dominance, hate, and oppression of anyone not white, and how we now must be in a constant state of reflection and awareness to undo this imprinting.

In these coexisting processes of undoing there is a great resistance to true freedom and a clinging to what we have all considered the safe ways of being, or the only ways to keep what we have, in an attempt to make life free from struggle and suffering.

This has only resulted in even greater suffering as we have clung even tighter to our belief systems. As the great awakening to these realities unfolds, many of us will lose what we hold dearest; our livelihood, our property, our family, our belief systems, our entire way of being. This fear of loss will cause some of us to hold on even tighter and, in the process, be willing to threaten the life and limb of others or sacrifice our own life and limb and of those we love.

We have a choice. We can loosen our grip on our property, our pleasures, our belief systems our entire way of being and through that process of loosening and opening our hands, hearts, and minds, we will make room for being with instead of being against.

People of Color and Native People have been doing this work with a minuscule amount of White self-awareness or participation for centuries, even millenia. It is now our time, the White folk’s time, to awaken, understand, and undo, without any preconditions or qualifications. From the entire political, spiritual and emotional spectrum, Left to Right, Religious to atheist, righteous love to righteous hate, we must loosen our grip. We must loosen our arthritically tightened fists and allow ourselves to be led by those who have already walked this path. We must close our mouths and quiet our minds, listen like a still pond, and relinquish our authority to humility. If we do not, we, the White folk, will lose our place in the evolving cosmic consciousness as we claw and cling to the crumbling cliffs of our history and tumble into the abyss of an even greater, and endless suffering.

A Meditation on Harm While Traveling on the Civil Rights Trail. (Remix)

(Mural: “Roadkill” by Roa, Chicago,Ill)

There’s a dead opossum in the walls of this newly built house.

They cannot be located but by the smell of their passing life;

Trapped, sleeping, while the insulation, wallboard, tape, and paint

Were urgently applied to get the job done.

It will take a smashing and drilling and ripping of the walls

To get to the remnants of the carcass of harm

That is causing a persistent suffering stench 

Permeating this newly built house.

Conscious, intentional, and perceptible harm  may cause immediate and maybe even indelible results, 

but that harm is there, available

To be raged at, to be swung at, to run from, to apply bandages to, to tell someone about, to seek support for, to choose a reaction to,

Before the studs go in

And the insulation is sprayed.

And the wallboard tacked and taped

And the coats of paint applied.

It’s the harm that arises from the dying opossum in the walls of the house

that lies in wait, hidden from consciousness, 

that, at its inception, cannot be raged at, swung at, run from, bandaged, spoken about, soothed, or reacted to;

It is the harm from 

preverbal imprints, childhood violence, or subtle emotional manipulations, silent neglect, subtle sarcasm, lifelong lies, or constant diminishment;

Or even more, 

The insidious carcasses buried 

In the foundations of lives, families, societies, genders, races, cultures and karmas, genderism, racism, classism, culture-ism, faith-ism, lookism, ageism, privilege, dominance, slavery, supremacy, competition, ignorance, egoism;

It is these hidden or forgotten harms that are initially unseen in the flurry to rebuild and repair and are seemingly impossible to root out, because they are imbedded in the foundations of the skyscrapers of lives, and the ways of living that sustain a desire for permanence, and drive the fear of its loss.

– Eternal life is the promise of religion,

– “Long lasting” is the gold standard for things, relationships, occupations, wealth, deodorant,

– Endurance is the epitome of the idea of physical well being and emotional strength.

– Perpetual legacy and continual recognition are the goals we are taught to strive for.

Threats to self importance, to spiritual superiority, to material dominance.

threaten this body’s existence and to all of the beliefs in a permanent existence;

stirring up fear, aggression, jealousy, hatred, clinging and attachment;

the ingredients for a perfect, concrete mix to conceal the rotting carcasses of harm.

What would happen if the wisdom of 


replaced the desire for


Would the wallboard crumble?

Would the insulation vaporize?

Would the studs rot away,

Would the foundation dissolve?

Would the source of the insufferable stench be revealed?

Would we let go of the need to rebuild?

Would we ever harm again?

The Mississippi

I wanted the Mississippi to be bigger.

As big as its name.

I wanted her to overpower me with strength and width and inspire me

like the thousands of writers who have eloquated about her.

I wanted the Mississippi to threaten me, to rile me up, to quake me,


But it can’t.


It is too burdened with the weight of a thousand rivers

Pouring themselves into her come-at-able depths.

Rivers carrying the prayers and despairs, the hoping and coping,

The aspirations and desperations, the crying lying, and dying

Of a nation in the depths of coming to terms with its karma.


The Mississippi doesn’t welcome this burden, nor reject it,

Neither takes it up or puts it down, neither absorbs or repels it.

She just consumes it and filters it,

and moves this country’s ills

to the Gulf, to the Sea to the Ocean to the Sky,

to the Mountains and back to the Land;

Purified, scrubbed clean,

to fill the springs and the creeks and the streams and the rivers

that absorb the pollution of America’s greedy dreams,

its painful arrogance, and the blood of its self righteous wars.


Soon though, she will stop.

She will clog up the mouths of those rivers with unmetabolized waste,

and those rivers will dam up the confluence of the creeks

which will back up the springs

which will have nowhere to run and will remain underground,

hiding, waiting, for this eon to pass.

I’d like to say now, like Lascelles declared in “The Box”

“But there is a way to stop it all” (sic)

“All it takes is wisdom.

”But I am not “absolutely sure” that there is a way.

Except perhaps for some global pandemic

That threatens the lives of all of us


.…But that’s not working either.


So perhaps Lascelles is right that

“No one seems to want to save the children anymore.”


It doesn’t seem to matter to the Great Mississippi.

She just keeps on rollin’

Until she doesn’t.

Until she does.


The coldest part of the day is the hour before dawn.

In all of the adventures that have unfolded on this journey; sublime, exhilarating, frightening, shattering, settling… like the dark-cold before dawn, it is the time immediately before culmination of the insight, the light, the heart warming, that I feel farthest from the ultimate essence of the revelatory experience.

Cold has been large part of this journey. Cold is similar to Wind  (see “Storm’s Movin’ In“) except that it doesn’t announce itself. It is just a present, permeating, relentless force that consumes. From soothing gentle cold to biting, cutting, debilitating cold. In each experience of the drop in temperature, I have contracted and drawn in on myself, collapsed in a defensive curling-up; trying to defend against an enemy that is relentless and unrelinquishable. 

At some point I realize that all defenses are useless and molecule by molecule, microsecond by microsecond, I shed my armor and Cold transforms from needles to wintergreen laden feathers, brushing away the dead cells that have died due to lack of circulation. I sense the firm gentleness of a practiced hand, meticulously cleaning all the crevices and chasms where I have stored my weapons against its teachings and I finally lay down, defenseless. 

Cloud Mountain, Big Bend

And then, as if it were a fragrant oil carried in Cold’s medicine bag,  Warmth drips, coats, soothes the newly raw exposed interior of my being and the relentless sorcery of the Cold is now teacher, healer, awakener.

The way that the dawn insinuates itself on the night is similar. Night will draw back in a defensive posture and barrier itself against the first silver spreading, using the brightest stars or a full moon or a blanket of heavy clouds, but Dawn changes tactics and colors and sometimes the direction of the assault as it lights up Western horizons or mountains with pastels. Each moment is different than the last and Night’s arsenal of defense, though stockpiled to the stars, is never enough and it relents to the onslaught. And then Night too, with its cold light of stars and moon, is known as teacher, healer awakener, for its pointing to my clinging, my attachments, my unhealedness.

And so it is and will be, for in each and every night there is the willingness to be shattered by the dawn no matter how long it takes, and in each and every cold is the warm medicine just waiting to be received.

In the words of a new hero of this age, Amanda Gorman:

When day comes we step out of the shade,

aflame and unafraid

The new dawn blooms as we free it

For there is always light,

if only we’re brave enough to see it

If only we’re brave enough to be it.

Amanda Gorman from the Inauguration of President Biden

All photos except cloud mountain are from Woodbridge primitive camp near Lawrence, Kanas.

In This Place. An American Lyric by Amanda Gorman Poet Laureate for Biden Inauguration

There’s a poem in this place—
in the footfalls in the halls
in the quiet beat of the seats.
It is here, at the curtain of day,
where America writes a lyric
you must whisper to say.
There’s a poem in this place—
in the heavy grace,
the lined face of this noble building,
collections burned and reborn twice.
There’s a poem in Boston’s Copley Square
where protest chants
tear through the air
like sheets of rain,
where love of the many
swallows hatred of the few.
There’s a poem in Charlottesville
where tiki torches string a ring of flame
tight round the wrist of night
where men so white they gleam blue—
seem like statues
where men heap that long wax burning
ever higher
where Heather Heyer
blooms forever in a meadow of resistance.
There’s a poem in the great sleeping giant
of Lake Michigan, defiantly raising
its big blue head to Milwaukee and Chicago—
a poem begun long ago, blazed into frozen soil,
strutting upward and aglow.
There’s a poem in Florida, in East Texas
where streets swell into a nexus
of rivers, cows afloat like mottled buoys in the brown,
where courage is now so common
that 23-year-old Jesus Contreras rescues people from floodwaters.
There’s a poem in Los Angeles
yawning wide as the Pacific tide
where a single mother swelters
in a windowless classroom, teaching
black and brown students in Watts
to spell out their thoughts
so her daughter might write
this poem for you.             
There’s a lyric in California
where thousands of students march for blocks,
undocumented and unafraid;
where my friend Rosa finds the power to blossom
in deadlock, her spirit the bedrock of her community.
She knows hope is like a stubborn
ship gripping a dock,
a truth: that you can’t stop a dreamer
or knock down a dream.         
How could this not be her city
su nación
our country
our America,
our American lyric to write—
a poem by the people, the poor,
the Protestant, the Muslim, the Jew,
the native, the immigrant,
the black, the brown, the blind, the brave,
the undocumented and undeterred,
the woman, the man, the nonbinary,
the white, the trans,
the ally to all of the above
and more?
Tyrants fear the poet.
Now that we know it
we can’t blow it.
We owe it
to show it
not slow it
although it
hurts to sew it
when the world
skirts below it.       
we must bestow it
like a wick in the poet
so it can grow, lit,
bringing with it
stories to rewrite—
the story of a Texas city depleted but not defeated
a history written that need not be repeated
a nation composed but not yet completed.
There’s a poem in this place—
a poem in America
a poet in every American
who rewrites this nation, who tells
a story worthy of being told on this minnow of an earth
to breathe hope into a palimpsest of time—
a poet in every American
who sees that our poem penned
doesn’t mean our poem’s end.
There’s a place where this poem dwells—
it is here, it is now, in the yellow song of dawn’s bell
where we write an American lyric
we are just beginning to tell.

Copyright © 2017 by Amanda Gorman. Reprinted from Split This Rock’s The Quarry: A Social Justice Database.

Storm’s Movin’ In

Sitting in the protective barrier of Lion Mountain, I watch the first major winter storm for thirty years for this Bend in the Rio Grande. North of my perch, above the plateau that spreads out for several miles before being cracked open by Arroyo and Wind, rests Lion Mountain; a great, maned beast watching over the East and the Great River. The storm which will eventually bring 24 inches of snow in less than 24 hours, barrels down the valleys to the East and West leaving the place, this perch, dry and wind blown.


The Element aka GRW, rocks in the wind like a young child shifting from foot to foot in excited anticipation of their first roller coaster ride. GRW, like the mountain, feels like Protector. Even with the newly smashed window left by some suffering, desperate soul, GRW shelters me from the gusts and will shield me from the oncoming onslaught of the impending storm. If GRW were to have sentience, I imagine that they would feel confident and even proud of how they have in the past, and will tonight, take the brunt of the knocks, rocks and rolls of this journey.


Raven, now steers themself toward Lion Mountain, losing as much air as they gain in the stormy gusts. There are not enough “stones to swallow” to keep Wind from throwing Raven back and back and back again until finally surrendering and dropping out of their prideful effort to find sheltering in Arroyo, hunkering down under scratchy limbs of Mesquite.


Wind is at a sustained 20 mph with gusts up to 30 or so mph. Once on the sandy shores of the great Columbia, GRW withstood 45 mph winds with gusts up to 60mph. I recall taking down the tent during that storm and having Wind lay it down flat in the sand before I could unstake the poles. Although the sound and the rocking seems threatening tonight, I know what it is like to lie awake through a night on open ground with Wind double what it is now.


Of all Earth’s apprentices; Fire or Rain or Quaking or Cold or Wind, Wind is the one that is the most unsettling for my inner being, especially when Wind is relentless like tonight. But even as a gentle breeze, when it is as constant as this storm will be, Wind gets deep inside me, finds every crack and crevice, every loose board, and everything not nailed down in my sense of self and works at dispersing, breaking open and disintegrating them all. And the concepts that are concretized are worn down and weakened until they are loosened as well, and identity, stability, and the Self itself is left somewhat shattered. Surrendering to Wind takes me to the edge of what some might call madness and what I experience as the freedom of complete selflessness and open sky awareness. Just like when Sky is swept clean to a clear azure blueness in the aftermath of a storm.


Lion Mountain remains still in Wind’s onslaught, offering Wind all of the dust and debris and rock granules, that are no longer serving. Asking Wind to carve away everything to leave only Lion Mountain essence or as Dogen teaches in “Moon in a Dewdrop”; “mountain flowing”.



Wind reaches deep with in my being and releases Fear which starts as a churning in my belly as if a tropical depression had begun there and is quickly building to a category 5 hurricane. As the storm of Fear builds and all loose and solid attachments are threatened, I experience the clinging and gripping that mind does to maintain its throne. I can sense the deepening, welcoming warmth of Space as Wind whips Fear up and out, scrubbing this interior spotless and spaceful.


Winds tulmutuous song plays the desert shrub, yucca, chollo, and GRW into a cacophonous chorus of tympanic tumult. My mind tells my hearing to shut it all out and keep the threatening noise from subsuming and overwhelming its stable throne of concretized concepts. But the warmth arising from the fear-carved space in my belly is like Lion Mountain in its resilient surrender, and as mind senses an inkling of ease through the wall of Fear; a sense of no longer needing to cling onto Self or to protect itself from dissolution, begins to slow to rest, to celebrate the vast, open emptiness that is and always has been here.


Rain is like a quiet snare drum in the midst of the percussive Wind. It seems to soften WInd’s mania, transforming it into a swell of effusive orchestral strings. Eventually rain transforms to Snow and takes the solo like an oboe and the music lulls me into an edgy but restful sleep.


Watching Dawn try to push their way into the fog-frozen night which, after much resistance, finally yields to reveal Snow Lion Mountain. Dawn has often been the time in a journey when Fear, Clinging and Desire sneak in and today is no different, as I look out and realize that Snow has blanketed the entire landscape and GRW, except for a circular area leeward that was shielded from it all by GRW’s bulk. The rocky, riveted, wash-rutted roads had not been too much of a challenge for GRW, but add several inches of snow? Stuck? Stranded? Isolated? Then the practice kicks in; Tea, Sit, Study, mind spins but does not dominate and motivation to explore the newly snow-blanketed land comes from the deeply abiding celebratory Joy of Nature’s beauty.


I walk. and take up one of the indications for practice from Dakpo Tashi Namgyal  to chant and make offerings if Mind is being persistent and undermining. So as I walk, I sing a wordless offering to Nature and Buddha and Freedom. I call on Wind and DesertShrub to join and Rock People to accompany. I dance in the sunless white Dawn while Snow Lion Mountain flows in and out of the risen frosty fog. And there is just




and all Mind’s chatter dissolving as it arises and is embraced by Snow Mountain Lion singing, dancing flowing.


I bow deeply to all Teachers, seen and unseen, heard and unheard and dedicate all of my lives to this freedom from suffering for all beings.


(Click link to hear song)!AgilQIyI_eolhWWZODWpE-1Y60pg

Storm, movin’ in, 

movin’ in, to the city. 

Storm, movin’ in,

movin’ in, dark and pretty. 

Storm, you make me laugh,

you make me laugh…

Storm, movin’ in, 

movin’ in o’er this canyon.

Storm, movin’ in, 

movin’ in, with black abandon.

Storm, you make me laugh,

you make me laugh…

Storm, you don’t give a damn,

you don’t care about my worries.

You big ole’ storm, you saved me now,

I’ve moved into your flurries.

Storm, you don’t sympathize,

you don’t see these eyes, cryin’,

your vast expanse blows through me,

I feel the power of you drivin’.

Storm, you make me laugh,

you make me laugh…

Storm, you make me cry.

  vocals, guitar and arrangement – Bruce Gambill

  lyrics and melody – Stephen Gambill

  strings – Tim Lorsch

Grand Canyon

Being in the Grand Canyon and trying to take a picture, or afterward seeing professional photographers’ work or artists’ renderings; no matter how beautiful or breathtaking these renderings are they never capture the experience of sitting with this Grand teacher.

As I sat on on outcropping off the trail leading down to the Esplanade, I pondered on this. “How do I share what you are with those who have not seen you, been with you, in you?”

Raven arrives and rides the thermals like a child running through wind. Wind arrives, strong enough to jostle my stability and spark a fear of tumbling over the 1500 ft drop to the esplanade below. AncientSeabedSand crumbles under my fingers and slips quietly down the slope. Sagebrush and Rabbitbrush whisper in the wind and call me to run my fingers through their stiff locks that shine iridescently in the noon sun. And me, sitting awake, alert, aware, sensing through every pore of my being and non-being.

“I cannot be captured in a moment of photography or a memory of an artist, because I am ever-changing time and space and I am not Grand without the play of Raven, the strength of Wind, the loaminess of AncientSeabedSand, the whispering light of Sagebrush and Rabbitbrush and the ones who sit, awake, alert, aware and sensing. Without all of these and the infinitely constant unfolding in the silveriness of the moon and goldenness of the sun, the blue-blackness of the open sky and the turquoiseness of the river, the ancientness of the rimstone and the unearthing of the new sediments, the earthness and the skyness and the spaceness; without these I am not Canyon, Grand or otherwise. And each of these are not each of these without Grand Canyon.”

“I see”, I said, bowing deeply as Grand Canyon, Raven, Wind, Sand, Brush, Sky, River, Sun, Moon, Earth, Space. “I am not me without all of you.” 

360 From the outcropping
Looking down Deer Creek

Over the edge toward the Esplanade.
Looking Southwest following the Colorado River

The Desert

The desert offers you nothing

and demands everything in return.

The delusory appearance of lifelessness

empties out the senses 

in their longing for affirmation of purpose.

“What good am I if there is nothing to see?”

“What will I do if there is nothing to feel?”

“What will i judge if there is nothing to smell?”

“Where will I find joy if there is nothing to taste?”

“What will I think if there is nothing to hear?”

And then a deathening quiet.





Raven floats over gurgling

or were they laughing?

Wind rumbles like a distant train

before forcing ancient dust 

down your agape mouth.

the sky drones 

and the stones sing

the sages illuminate

and the cacti practice.

Suddenly the empty nothingness that the desert first offered

is luminous with the infinite





Just as you reach out to grasp the offering

The desert wind roars ungently through

the ebony, moonless, star-painted, shadow laden night,

scattering stability and haveness

wringing out the mind of any possession

and dashing new realizations on the sandy wash.

Stumbling into the orange and tourquoise dawn 

the first despondent thought is 

“I have lost everything.”

Raven floats over gurgling

or were they laughing? 
Wind rumbles…