Out on a busy corner, a sun-filled afternoon in Ojai, holding a hand-painted protest sign, and I just am. To say ‘I am’ means to say you are transparent. You contain everything, no problem. You are the hills and blue sky, the big, white cumulus clouds. You are the turkey buzzards soaring overhead, the traffic, and the honking horns. You are fellow boomers holding their signs, as well as the guy shouting out his car window and flipping a finger. Meditation goes on all the time. It has nothing to do with you, the person. The mystery was here before you, waiting for you to stop trying so hard to become something other than what you already are.
