Life is a Butt Print (In the Grass)

It comes to me, sometimes, during rare, fleeting moments like this;
quiet meditative glimpses of acceptance. I recall one such episode
in Massachussetts. As I stood out on a back porch, cool misty rain
lightly surrounding me, I closed my eyes and dared to exhale: all
is right with the world. (And yeah, I will mix my tenses if I want.)
If there is a God, He is in His heaven and I am at peace. I accept
myself and surrender to this moment.

Then I hear how New Age-y I sound. Wayne Dyer appears before
me, a floating disembodied bald head and I snap back to reality: I am
working way too for too little and truly have no idea of my place on
this earth. I do, however, harbor significant thoughts of my
inisignificance in the universe.

Where was I? Oh - my butt print. In the grass. It's a bit of a trek to
the nearest laundromat. I hadn't brought anything along to read - no
room in the laundry/book bag. And it felt wrong somehow to not
be totally present for my laundry. ("When doing laundry, just do laundry." -
Zen saying.) The grass outside beckoned, lined by trees. There was even
a little alcove seemingly just right for meditation. So, I did. A few
moments, counting breaths. In. Out. Repeat.

Ants scurrying all around me. I respected their business while also
worrying they might scurry up my leg and nibble on my penis. (You
knew I had to get the word penis in there...) Still, ants have much to
teach us. Regard their bizzy-ness: do you really think each is
constantly mindful of his purpose on earth? I think it's so much random
scrambling about, searching, exploring, mindless labor, in fact. I empathize
with urgent grasping. The next Thing. Blade to blade, crumb to crumb.
How many heavy, awkward objects have I hauled back to any given second
story apartment; semi-circular, two tiered coffee tables of indeterminate
vintage. That sort of thing. Panting, sweating, never a thought to the
cumulative psychic damage of giving in, once more, to my need for More.

I did have cool bachelor pads, tho.

So, the ants. Fear of being bit. Especially on my dick. I mean, come on.
And it was probably time to check on the laundry. I like this particular
laundromat, but that's a different story. I stood up, crouched, and
went on observing my Teachers. Where my butt once smashed them, blades
of grass slowly bounced back to life. And I thought, hmmm, there's
a lesson here. You leave your butt print and life goes on as it always has.

That doesn't sound nearly as profound as I'd hoped.

Sorry this wasn't sexy.