The True Wealth of Freedom


The cloudless blue sky,
Succumbs to the reds, crimsons, pinks of the fading sunset,
As the painting of the real life,
Becomes a water colour,
The colour leaching out of a long day,
To return us to the darkness of our sleeping,
Under the stars.

My worldly possessions,
Are not possessions at all,
But tools in my quest,
As I find my own way,
Navigating the valleys and the hills,
Feathering my quill,
Supporting this vision quest,
Over each crest of another challenge,
I wave goodbye to another friend,
As the fork in the road arises.

The landscape rolls, metamorphoses, transforms,
Contours my beliefs,
As my country is a new land,
A foreign shore,
A new horizon never seen,
Leading me to futures undreamed,
Yet in the haze of the dream inter-state,
I am in the dream-time,
A rock casting life back a million years,
Awaking me to the possibility of what is not seen
as real.

My fellow travelers teach me fragments of life,
The uniqueness of webs that interlock and interweave,
Where we criss cross as crochet patterns,
Each a new face,
A unique thread,
Another story,
Weaving for me renewed pictures,
That shape and change my dreaming,
Of the collective life,
I have never known.

The notion of community,
Is a village I have never grown up in,
Yet it is a global village,
Or indeed a metropolis,
By lights and sounds,
As entertainments on line,
Keeping us distracted,
From the reel movie,
Of our potential lives.

My world is an open book,
With open covers,
Engraving a new title,
As I am revealing my words,
The truncated messengers of figments,
Filaments as thoughts painting pictures in my mind,
Like windmills,
Turning in time,
As the winds of new experience,
Change my direction,
Finding a new generation,
Floating on the thermals,
That lift me beyond
My wildest dreams.

I love the natural world,
I love the unexpected side tracks,
I love the grace of humanity,
I love the mystery,
I love to not know what is next,
For progress is a pretext,
As we learn to regress to first principles,
To find the intent behind each action first,
As this recalibrates the possible future,
Every moment shapes the direction like a potters clay,
Emptying the interior,
To fulfill the exterior,
Yet one can never know the shape,
Until empty.

I empty of expectations,
I empty of the past,
I empty of control,
I empty of roles,
As I leave myself wide open,
To the new and unknown,
For my world is the greatest mystery,
A universe to myself,
The one song I sing,
Reverberates new tones of the true wealth,
Of freedoms silent county,
To which I return,

Mohandas Gandhi

“The best way to find yourself is to lose yourself in the service of others.”