Grandfather's Ambrosia

I sit at my grandfather’s desk, in his house, his garden, his home. He is alive around me. I took a moment to stroll where he may have walked. I saw the world with his eyes. I stopped intuitively at different moments, looking at a flower here, a tree there. I saw his care and character in each present living thing that exists in his garden. Even under duress without his constant touch, his life is strong in its contribution. His legacy continuing to touch the present moment in daily life; none more present than being amongst the plants, soil and growth he nurtured. The rocks he carefully and meticulously placed with purpose behind each placement so that even the unmoving would move people with an image of who he is.

He wandered the very steps I travel now and comes to mind over and over. Like a calm wind gently cooling the chaos of the un-present moments that often make us forget to appreciate what we always have completely around us. What we have access to in each awareness if we choose to embrace it. I feel at peace as I wonder if he stopped at this same daffodil, this same spot to beam with pride at the children of his homage to the world. He brought beauty to his corner knowing that by doing so he would bring the beauty of love and compassion to others outside his corner of the world. For if the corners of the mind, body, soul…if one’s home is in order and overflowing with love first towards the tender care of self, self-worth, self-trust, self-compassion…then that overflowing cup of life has nowhere to pour its contents but down the sides.

That beauty creates a waterfall of that love, bonding with the sides of that vessel until all the wear and scars of its past survival are purified and made more unique; refracted through the lens of those liquid sheets continuously coating and cleansing the outer shell. Further assaults just slide off in this slick state and leave the vessel intact beneath.

That cascade of compassion slides down to the table as it creeps outward on a sturdy foundation and makes contact with the other vessels, the bodies that contain the food and water of life. Some cups almost empty and desolate, but ever ready to quench the thirst of genuine compassion. Some are chipped and broken, shards of defense against further manhandling for having never existed in the embrace of true love and empathy. Some are overturned or on their side, desperate to catch just a drop to create a lake of life from. Breaking themselves further and scattering their scars of shards, hoping to soak any touch of another up that they may be filled with a new hope of what life should feel like. Some are chalices encased in barriers of golden indifference to others, standing tall in order to keep the lava that gives life at a distance, seeing the love and compassion of others as weakness since they have felt the betrayal of it, or betrayed it themselves. Grandfather’s Ambrosia broke through each carefully guarded soul he touched.

He existed as an unknown Saint for he had the humility to see the human experience for what it was and embrace the joy of living life for the joy of living itself. That it is emotion that brings consciousness its richness; that life would pale without the experience to always approach each moment with new eyes. He had the understanding that we know so little, which is nothing to fear, but instead empowers us, since that realization is what banishes judgement and lets compassion thrive. Compassion is the rawness of life, seeing the world anew each and every day as it is freshly presented to us. He knew compassion undoes the trials of the past to allow everlasting life through the presence of each moment every single day.

Living like that allows one to be in existence each moment, which means the fullness of your life makes the lives of kings seem small in comparison. Each moment reminds you of the purity of the conscious experience. Living that way keeps you alive long after you are gone since each life you touch in that manner causes a reverberation, generations after your bodily existence. It is beyond family and heirs, it is given to the larger family of human experience as a whole, not jealously guarded for only those that society has defined as worthy or appropriate to give that pure essence of life to. He did that with every single person who crossed his path and were lucky enough to place their feet in his footprint’s imprints. I knew him…and I know him still after his death because of that.

I step lightly through his paths in the garden of his world, and wonder if he stopped here or there, and I hear him laughing…playfully making fun of me in his manner, but also proud to see me doing what he of course was doing each and every day. I hear him, like a soft distant formation of the mind…the wind gently blows a barely perceptible response to my wonders, and yet it almost builds towards a bellow of the present mind. “Of course I stopped here…and yet there is so much you have still missed, but you will see it all when you choose to…when you are ready…don’t force it, just be and the world will open up to you.” And in that presence…I can’t tell if it’s his voice or mine, but as my mind’s eye begins to open wider…I believe it is both.