A turning point.

I am writing to you from the desert
Where I have wrung myself out
Like a damp flannel on an airless day.

There is nothing left here to offer.
No deep well of intuition. No gleeful spark.
The dusty casing discarded by an insect.

I turn inside to drink from my creative source
And, head back-tilted, feel my teeth meet
The lip of an empty metal water bottle.

I call deeper. Still nothing. My own self
Is an empty cave and my longing
A hollow echo coming back unmet.

Not even rising panic. Not even deep despair.
No jittery nerves to light the fuse of nervous action.
A void. A loss. An inconsequent emptiness.

There is nothing to do. Nothing to do
But listen to the low static hum of
Some future agitation waiting to make itself heard.

I let go of the flannel. Let go of the desert.
Let go of water bottle insect cave.
I let go of longing for a longing to call me.

A still point. The brow of the hill.
The tide not in, not out.
A dial turned to zero with a click.

When I stop. When I stop and stand still.
When I drop to the floor and lie looking
At the world going by. Then the world goes by.

Two birds cross my path. Three. Four.
The wind runs through wasteland grass
And through the treetops that mark the horizon.

Soft breathing. A whistle song from this tree
To that. A crow. A car. A train. A dog.
The low static hum of distant traffic.

I am an empty page. I flip the switch
From output to receive and let the world write me.

I am the bud of the bud of an early flower
And the weight of one sunlit drop breaks
And floods me with the brilliance of rain.

I am a river weed pulled by the current in deep water
Well-rooted and dancing, flung by the life
Of mountain water’s path to the sea.

I am the ocean abiding in effortless expanse
Accepting the intrusion of a million streams
The endless embodiment of taking and giving.

I am the path compacted by pilgrim’s feet
Offering them the metaphor of the certainty they seek
By staying where I am and going nowhere.

I am a spacecraft refuelling in weightless emptiness.
I rest and wait. And rest. And wait.
Without intent or goal or mission.

And time will take its time. And I,
An abundant and vital oasis,
Will see the fruits of its labours.

Somewhere, on the far side of that tree-lined horizon
There are the makings of a dream -
Colour and movement and people and song.

And they will come. Or maybe this track will carry me there.
But this morning, with the promise of nothing
But a slow walk home, they may stay where they are.

I am on hold. This is a holy day.
I am letting everything go its own way.
And when it is time, life will start again.