The Space Between Your Ears
I’ve be led into quagmires, forced into boxed canyons, and lost in mine for years. I could not resist exploring inward, always; lost mostly, with stretches of clarity and peace, unforgotten.
1992 during a Southern Hemisphere May, the sun rose as the Dali Llama walked onto the stage of the amphitheater. It was that moment so far away from home that I heard that the place to save the planet was between my ears, that if one of us could fix that space, the earth would fix itself.
The dawn exploded over us sleepless would be world savers who had pilgrimaged from all over the world to represent our places, and I was the only one from Monmouth County there, to hear that sound, then and there.
Maybe it takes a thousand incarnations, but there was nothing pressing, so why not take a look, I thought. Why not blindly search for a spark of light in that walled off space? Of course, there were major obstacles. The MIC was not happy with my presentation there, where I had called America fascist, in public, on the record.
I survived retribution, and my community’s response to retribution, and then spent two decades trying to break into that final frontier, to begin damage control, part time. The MIC ran me ragged.
I’m in there now, working that space, finally, with the MIC’s permission, a deal negotiated by others. Self interest prevails. I’m no Llama in there, where it looks like a chin(last letter upside down A) shop that bull has been tango dancing in; the damage looks deliberate and messy.
I’m in, and you can be too. I’m getting stronger, peacefully looking at shards of a life not totally unexamined for a fix, or fixes. Damaged goods, yes, but at least I’m working on it. I’m in play, on the inside, part time. I’m hoping that I’m not the only one by a long shot. It only takes one of us. I’m fearlessly optimistic, but job here is big. I’m not giving up.