Held in the hands of the women of the world
is all that was and will be.

In her tiny, newborn hands, reaching out,
feeling the air all around her,
is curiosity, openness, freedom.

May is always be so.

Our mother's hands hold
healing like none other, when she
is centered in her own heart.

May it be forever thus.*

Women's hands gesture, gracing our most
ancient and sacred of dances.

And drive trucks.

And do surgery.

And gather healing herbs.

*In the hands of all women is the healing of the world.

Heavy lavender blossoms, lifted
by sudden rushes of night wind.

Jacaranda, her scented branches swept into
dancing alone under the only streetlight.

Hiding further in the dark, bushes of
kumquat fruits, ripely orange,
tempt me to taste them.

In the deep blue air, first stars create
orbs of light beyond themselves,
glowing hugely in the sultry, silent sky.

As children, in this springtide of the year,
my two brothers and I would venture deep
into our woods, exploring all that had thawed.

Walking along, there was little need for talk,
absorbed as we were in the scents and sights
of lovely nature, awakening all around us.

Following a line from the artesian well that fed our home,
we listened for signs of an undiscovered, woodland stream.

There, we heard it. That secret, lovely gurgle, somewhere
hidden under soggy brown, deciduous leaves.

Excitedly, we used sticks of hickory and oak
to dig down, to free the living water.

Once we had found it, clear and singing,
we leaned in, working together to ease its path.

Time disappeared from our minds,
this self-appointed team of junior engineers.

Somehow, though we wouldn't have known it then,
that freshly springing water was life itself to us
surging forth once more, finding,
like each of us, its own way home.

Now I understand, remembering
our common sense of purpose,
the way we worked together,
with single-minded focus, why
freeing it really mattered to us,
mattered so very much,
and always will.

Whirlwinding into a
  warm, sudden updraft
last, pink, pale petals
find each other, swirling....
Blushing once,
they flutter down,
  brushing the earth,
nesting back into gravity.

First light in the Hudson Valley
Arbor Day of April, 1970.

Adrenaline coursed through our young
bodies, our hearts on fire with purpose.

As we rode our bikes, walked, or jogged miles
to our rural high school, red-winged blackbirds
called out from the misty swamps.

Beautiful but invading, acres of purple loosestrife
were rapidly taking over their wetland habitats.

Harbingers of the forests, blue jays issued
warning cries from deep in the woods,
where blights were killing our trees
with increasing frequency.

Three of us rode together, cycling in relative
silence, until we came to a meadow
selected for our early breakfast picnic.

We feasted on special fruits and cheeses,
hungrily stuffing in rare treats.

One friend began to send iridescent
soap bubbles into the chilly air.

Up they rose, up over the soft, puffy cloud
of her reddish curls, and into the dawning sun.

One bubble landed, unbroken, in the cold, dewy grass.

We stared at it, somehow understanding that here
was a delicate metaphor for our own fragile planet.

Approaching our school now, we breathed deeply the fragrance
of apple blossoms from commercial orchards all around us.

The spraying of pesticides had yet to be banned.*

We were sleepy in our classes that morning;
most of our teachers understanding that we stood
now for something worthwhile, that we believed in,
and they smiled with kindness, some even with approval.

Our principal agreed to an awareness-raising slide show
designed for our fellow students, teachers and parents.
An intelligent man, he was admirably tolerant of the wave
of changes that our generation brought with us.

Smoke stacks, polluted water, and dying wildlife
flashed onto a screen in the darkened auditorium,
accompanied by the vivid symphonic power of
Stravinsky's 'Rite of Spring'- a score so revolutionary
that a riot broke out at its premier, in May of 1913.

We had no idea then how much worse things would become.

All these years later, we each do our part, blessing
the efforts of our children and their children,
*hoping fervently that we are not too late.

High above the Holy River Ganges
where the water flows like Brahman itself,
  is an ancient cave, a place of sacred pilgrimage.

Entering silently, our small gathering
sat together, meditating here where the great
sage himself transcended in deep samadhi.

Wrapped in warm shawls, dhotis and saris,
eyes closed gently in the stony half-light.

Early hours had seen us awake, readying
for this auspicious day, and the sleepiness
of a little child began to overtake me.

With that same innocence, a childlike feeling,
I curled down into a woolen bundle, asleep
in the inner depths of that holy, dark place.

Sleep was sleep, and not sleep,
as awareness shone within me.

Limitless akasha unfolded inside me now,
and the ground where I rested expanded
into that same unbounded, cosmic space.

From far beneath the cool, damp earth,
a radiance travelled into my small frame.

Renewing energy suffused and blessed me.

Bowing in my heart, I touch the lotus feet
of Maharishi Vashistha. His darshan
shines on into our present day, and
throughout all of Ved Bhumi Bharat.