The Journey. The Destination.

I don’t know which I enjoy more, the process of making matcha green tea or the tea itself. Just as that dilemma crossed my mind, an epiphany of the journey and the destination sprung into light immediately after. How can something so simple as a handmade clay cup and a bamboo whisk inspire profound contemplation?

There is something innately gratifying about a ritual. Tending to something with multiple, easy to memorize, steps brings a calm sense of purpose and affirmation to the soul. Done again and again where it becomes an effortless process allowing the mind to meditate, or at least reach a relaxed state. And like that, the moment passes. However, in that brief moment I enjoy the state of being present with the ritual itself, not thinking about the outcome or final product, just the shared instance with tools to create. Tools which have been created and shared with many people and ceremonies before me.

As the journey comes to a close, it opens the door to experience the destination. A cup of docile matcha green tea. Movement causes reverberation on the surface of the tea which tells the story of those who developed the ritual. While the ascending steam shares the magnificent smell, gifting the surrounding senses.

I may never settle the debate of whether I enjoy the journey or the destination more. Maybe I don’t want to. I enjoy what it is now.

The Cyclist. The Seafarer. The Wind.

Invisible adversary.
At a stand still, a flat uphill.
Held in place, evil spirited zephyr.
On two wheels, furious.
Yet, motionless.
Invisible adversary.

Invisible ally.
Swiftly about the sea, wandering at will.
Fly freely, deity of breath for feathers.
Bloated canvases, curious.
Set, ocean crest.
Invisible ally.

Wind enemy. Wind friend.
Seed of immobility. Motion fulfill.
Incoherent movement. Stagnation untethered.
Frustration is hideous.
Yet, to know is blessed.
Wind friend. Wind enemy.

Open Range

Are they really about the Old West “hang ’em high”?

Open range neighborhoods, loud banging pipes.

Cutthroats living like as seen on TV, seeing but can’t see posing for selfies.

All cities got them, weekend warriors getting into problems.

Modern day Doc Holidays but the weapons changed.

Six shooters turned Desert Eagles, lethal weapons one clip no sequels.

Out getting rings like the Spurs, dipped in camouflage but only move with the herd.

Plagued with a short fuse losing it first, the turn over rate is intentionally blurred.

It’s gone from high noon to go out and find doom.

Seems like the harder you are gives you the right to,

Man handle issues demanding fist fulls, grandstanding both hands fanning pistols.

Crime wave hang ten war on pavement, clutter up the block with stains and facelifts.

Lost desperados looking for love back, click-clack crimes define the times reminiscent of,

Dirt roads tie up my horse and saloon life. Bunny ranch eyes and vice grip thighs.

Hush the crowd in creeps a so-called, “Patriot” with a chip on his shoulder nicknamed, “I told ya’ll”.

Grim faced ready for action, the innocent hit the deck when panic attacks them.

Forget a ten pace, all hell blazed led smacking ricochet. What a shame.

Because the Monument still standing, the democracy and the people will do the same.

Never lost in narrative fog.

Cos-play commandos are the imperative flaw.

The Plague

Outside there’s a shivering cold war. With no score.

Every street I walk is drenched with folklore.

Some get caught up in it. Some live to go far.

My being complete, all present and accounted for.

On the front line battling plague. Rage against ways.

Underpaid, empty handed, still bringin’ pain.

From top of milk crate. Spill out the ill taste.

Mind and body connect. The weapons for this ill waste.