Many years ago, I was a temporary stand-in for a father who did not want to know his new-born child. For five years, as a matter of fact, I played that role. One can imagine the forces that were constellated by such a relationship.

As it turns out, the child's father eventually made his way into her life and after some time, wanted me out. And so it happened. Such events have a lasting impact upon one. After stumbling through a few dead years, I began to work with children, which I found healing.

I also wrote a poem, on what would have been this child's 7th birthday. It came about in this way.

I had happened upon a compendium of poetry by and about children, edited by Naomi Shihab Nye. I forget the name of the volume. However, in the book was one poem entitled, "Every Day is April 23rd." Accompanying this poem was a child-like picture of a robin flying.

It just so happened that this child's mother's name was Robin. And as I said, April 23rd was this child's birthday. I knew that I would one day write a poem with this title. So I duly bought the book, carefully cut out the picture with title, and on April 23rd, 2001, sat down and wrote this poem about a date that has played a repeating and fated role in my life.  The form roughly emulates that of a Persian ghazal.

Every Day is April 23rd

When winter turns to spring, chilly winds whip through my heart.
While breezes blow my dreams, blossoms deep-freeze in my heart.

Do we believe love comes once only, in our heart of hearts?
Ages long since past, you're but a child still in my heart.

I must believe love heals the grief, just to make a start,
Or despair of sweet relief; my dear, love keeps you in my heart.

One morning I awoke somewhere, beyond identity:
Freedom from the memories embittering my heart.

I took that chance, walked that wire, and mocked mortality.
It will always be the 23rd of April in my heart.

A bold antagonist struck down, sans scars that you can see;
We fought, but subterraneously, love's deepening my heart.

Zoe, little child, my friend: no love's ever for nought.
I'll hold you an eternity of Aprils in my heart.

About nine years ago, I stopped blogging. At the time I was exploring the ontology of desire and its import in terms of cosmology, evolution, spirituality, and human toil, foible, and -- one hopes -- eventual learning. Of course, I quickly came up against the limits of my own learning. In the intervening years I have attempted, primarily unsuccessfully, to more fully integrate the internal truths that are available to me. In the end, we have only our own perceptions, faulty as they may be, to guide us. On the bright side, we have time, far more than we realize, to slowly learn the lessons of trial and error. Mistakes are important. You can only avoid the ones you've already made. You might not remember having made them, however. That's where time comes in. I suspect we are all much older than this universe. If one follows the train of evolution from its inception as, say, a hydrogen atom, oh how long must it take if we were to traverse every form in existence? Probably more time than can be reckoned. T'ain't enough zeroes to complete that number.

 If you read someone like Aurobindo, it's all down there somewhere, or up there, perhaps, in what some Buddhists call the "Storehouse Mind." That mind, in whatever realm it might exist, would seemingly be Himalayan in its dimensions. How could one possibly fathom a mind like that? Well, in little parcels, that's how. Like a discrete and fairly well-defined life. The one you're in the middle of. How're you doing at that, by the way? Got it all figured out? Me neither. But let's explore anyway. Thus, I propose to make a quixotic and incomplete survey of that which presents itself to my own mind, at present. And then we'll take it from there. Shall we?