Meditation with a Gash in the Natural Order

I like parking at the big box store, watching people come out and go in.
Swaying winter grasses in the median, sky that brigand Saturday blue.
I’m waiting to pick up my son from his guitar lesson. Already masterful,
he doesn’t quit. Even Jimi Hendrix continued with a vocal coach,
up to the very day he died. I have so much useless knowledge.
Like what the monk said about meditation: if while sitting on your cushion
you have the best idea you’ve ever had—stunning, complete—
you mustn’t get up to capture it. Also, a lot of what we call miraculous
is just the way things work: a monarch always emerges from its chrysalis
as a radically different worm. A miracle is living flesh restored to reeking
corpse. It’s the man sitting calmly, shaved and dressed, after he’d raved
at city gates for more years than anyone who stepped around him
could remember. The monk said: when wondering what to do in life,
do what will cost you the most. Commit to watching the gorgeous
bubble evanesce. That’s the only way this works.