If I could spend a weekend with the me
who used to be, I wouldn’t waste a minute
dispensing admonitions bound to be
unheard instead of boldly living in it.
I’d load me, bag and baggage, in the car
blindfolded, like a hostage – scared, unwilling
to see the wonder in the way we are
and take a trip abundantly fulfilling.
Awaking to the pungent pull of pines
with senses bathed in joyous morning glitters,
I’d hold my hand to swing between the vines
and join the chorus of the woodland critters.
For only in immersion at the core,
dissolving all the filters of resistance,
can unreserved relinquishment restore
the nature of divinity’s existence.
Alert to every scent and sound, aware
of all within our mental jurisdiction,
no leaf is left unfluttered nor a hair
unsplit in separating fact from fiction.
So, guided by example, having flown
the strictures of illusion that have driven
my younger self within, I’d say, “You’re known
and loved for what you’ve always been: forgiven.”