back lanes

The small terrace leading out onto the park out the back. Through Victorian grille fence and straight away into the shadow of the Moreton Bay figs. Planted once like little toy soldiers in the small city park, now towering like monuments of war instilling solemnity and sublimity on all who pass. The dogs at this point sniffing and mooching around the skeletal limbs of the giant trees. If they’re lucky they might find some tasty morsels of excrement left by drifting scraggles of passing itinerants. Called to heel for crossing the road “Wait…wait…wait…go!”. Pepe unleashes as if he’d heard a starting gun, then darts, dives and dervishes to the other side. He freezes for a second, looks back, tongue hanging out, snaggletooth smile through blonde-whiskered chops, tongue flick nose double-lick, tail wagging with guileless happiness and then he’s off again, frolicking and gamboling, sniffing lampposts and cocking his leg to add his marker: bush telegraph sprays, pheromone-infused shout outs to canine cousins. Gracie more ladylike sashays across like a little goody two shoes, her upright tail an ostrich plume waved for shade by imaginary ladies in waiting.

Returning the slurred greetings and ignoring the perfunctory curses delivered almost at the same time from those dispossessed ones sitting in the shade inhaling with gusto from bottles of petrol and bags of glue. Sometimes a bony black hand out is shoved out, challenging civility. It would be taken amiss to shun it, but carries the risk of vice-like grip drawing you in for eye contact and the undeniable demand for pocket change. Face but inches from face, sickly sweet fumes the better for having been shared. Yet with deftness a quick hand can meet the thumb-embracing brother-shake and just as quickly be withdrawn, beating dull intoxicant reflexes. Caught short, lurching around unsteadily to ponder through the haze the one that got away, last ditch attempt: “Got a smoke mate?” “Nah sorry mate … don’t smoke”. Gauntlet passed, take the winding path under further tall trees and play areas leading into the dog park itself. A tribe of another kind meets there and on the common green exchange pleasantries about their treasured pet’s bloodlines and habits – the former usually a designer mix, pure breeds no longer the fashion – the latter usually filthy; at least to us (allegedly) cleaner mammals.

Sometimes, if chance would have it, there on a bench facing the Winter afternoon sun, the small hollow would be found empty of all but the waving Norfolk pines. Basking and nodding off into hypnagogic dreams of pure and eternal gladness, third eye open and unblinking, surrendered to the influxion of healing and tonic rays. Release of tension sometimes even a rearrangement: cracking of gristle, shift of bones, realignment of ligaments and muscles all of which – just for once – let go of the strenuous activity of existence, of survival, of identity. The soaking radiation harking back to that reptilian age before the apple was eaten, before the hunger to know was born, before the feasting on the tree heralded our exile, our fight for survival on the plain. Back even further now … to our solar source, our stark beginning, in the inferno of true release, when we as dust and gas were fearlessly formed as stars and planets out on the perimeter.

But then awakened suddenly from the reverie, surveying now the green-sunlit expanse, wattled tree shadows linger imprinted on the screen of sight like phantoms. Dogs signalling for wider exploration and so onward peacetime wanderers we must go. Untrammelled by leash, taking the path less travelled (by dog-rangers at least) through desolate back lanes, patchwork of grafittied walls, old wooden fences, palings fallen like missing teeth, overgrown vines, dishevelled backyards not meant to be seen (but can be on tip toes), old Italianate gardens all concrete and tomatoes, stray lemons fallen and fair game, sneaky foraging of passionfruit vines within earshot of old sash windows looking out on the lane, looking but apparently never seeing, certainly not hearing even as blatant tugs and tussles for the last and higher of the fruit almost rattle the frame of the sleepy old cottage. Teeth into purple skin, passion-jelly bliss so much the sweeter for our misdemeanour, hunters and gatherers in exile under the clear Autumn sun.

Arriving now at oval-shaped park, promenade around the lake, black swans rest their necks on lustrous bosoms, wood fowls forage and fossick, ducklings waddle, families feast on spreads of tasty park bench smorgasbords, children running zig-zag formations, ground level vision suddenly surprised by human mass, squinting upwards with open mouths, survey the adult impediment to progress, silhouetted against silver green canopy above, a smile reassures and then they scoop around squealing to friends, not even a passing remembrance of strangers, unless dogs are spied. Then it’s a rush of recognition, little on little. Pepe hearty well met. But not a puppy anymore, unenthusiastic shy-away, Gracie even bares a tooth.



The dogs panting now, up a gear and at least an octave breathier, small clouds of steam, reticulating spurts instantaneously appear and disappear on morning air. Celeste kept smiling at them as they bobbed and weaved around invisible rings, snapping at flies, sideways somersaults, rotations and flips. Her face seemed more rounded, easy curves, half moon brow an upside down smile. Happiness is always so circular.

Just the hint of a throw and Pepe jumps to the most alert and focused posture. Attentiveness beyond concentration. Purely present in keenest anticipation. Ancestral wolf listening for a bear in the forest perhaps. The stick is thrown and he, unconstrained by any thought or concept, bounds like a rabbit half hopping half flying. Having secured his prey with a shake he stops and surveys the land for a moment only and then rebounds back to Celeste. He always returns it to her feet even if she did not throw it.

The morning light breaks through wattled fernery tipping the edges with lemon and lime citronesence. Passive reflection belies the hunger with which leaves greet the caress of heat and infusion of energy. Life abundantly begetting life. Amidst mindless flutterings, casual bows and curtsies, branches pay homage, stretch to their maker, reach towards the heavens in prayerful and eager growth. Desperate to develop, blindly yearning for expression, manifestation and survival. All done so silently and serenely that not only does such longing escape perception, it seems to be nothing other than nonchalant coolness and the most chilled and careless existence and non-existence both.

And so with Celeste. Her momentary gladness and peace is subdued with an ineffable sadness. The delicacy of loneliness itself a beauteous tulip. Its petals white as death and stamens plasma red. It wilts in the sun and thrives in the night. Its nurturing is reason enough to justify careful camouflage and elaborate fortification. She would perhaps be lost without it. Or found, as the case may be.

Sunflowers greet the dawn without sorrow. Their unreflecting faces unflinchingly absorb pure radiation and refract in fractal imitation. Fully exposed they gaze fully into the face of light. Their sunblind surrender, a form of seeing like visions that cross the eyelids with the passage of the sun. They may seem to rest in the dark hours but magically they spin the day’s infusion into tiny expulsions of silver. They dance with the interstellar winds and kiss the earth with their tears. Across time and numerous kalpas they were formed in the cauldron of cataclysmic and nuclear fission, remnants of the most extreme annihilation. Like satellite dishes, surveying with unlimited vision infinite starscapes and beyond to the dark perimeter outside the reach of anything that be called anything. Inside, minuscule droplets of Planck scale liquid infinitude, entire universes formed, reformed and formed again on the brane.

Nibbling slowly on their seeds, immaculately placed and gently crushed by her unbesmirched teeth, Celeste, now landed on the earth, tastes of its soil. She once floated in the air like a dakini, barely touching its surface. Like all earth angels, she was prone to headiness so much so that her crown lopsided and became tangled in branches of thorns. The blood stained crucifix of guilt, estrangement and betrayal became melded with her flesh leaving tumours , scars and mercurial anger.

But to look at her inquisitive prayerlessness now casts a lie to this and other shadows. Complexion of late summer, bare shoulders in sun yellow dress and floppy white macramé hat. Ancient dynasties have conspired to meet her in her moment of reflection and calm connection with small canine friends. Such depth cannot be fathomed except in the bubbles that form upon her surface blowing into reality releasing all the momentum of the big bang yet experienced as a single smile in the morning sunlight.



When I woke up this morning, before my thoughts about the mundane had time to kick in, it just hit me how strange it is – this ever unfolding experience, what many call the passage of time. I mean, why and how does it keep unfolding? What propels it forward? Motion must have a cause mustn’t it? Are we what make it move? It could just as easily not move. It could just as easily be in stasis. We are kind of obsessed with stasis us human beings. We love to capture a moment in time. That is what art and photography is so often about. By capturing the moment, we are able to fully observe it and see how much we miss in the twinkle of an eye. Sports photography is particularly engaging in that paradoxically it captures motion and reveals to us the essence of it. The rippled muscles, the revealing expression of pure concentration and un-self-conscious effort. Sometimes it’s the devastation of defeat which in real time would just glimmer past but here it is frozen and palpable. It’s a cliché now in movies to freeze time except for the main character who has the freedom to walk around and inspect the statuesque and defenseless time locked creatures, even adjust them for amusement and their bewilderment. We are like that main character when we look at a photo.

But as I lay there not moving and not thinking that much, I could feel so acutely the passage of time. It was my experience. It had fabric to it. It was the very essence of my existence. If I were to die, this experience would die with me. Like the fallen rock stars, who are still locked into their 28th year. Forever young we might say. But what was this feeling? I was not moving and yet I felt motion. Unfolding is a good way to describe it but what is it that is unfolding? The witness of this experience almost seems like the movie star – outside of time – but it’s the mirror opposite – because the movie star is the only one for whom time passes – whereas for the witness of experience, it appears to be the one that is unmoving, outside of time, while all else around it is in motion.

It has been said that time is an illusion and merely a trick of the mind – in the same way that pixels flashing on and off on a screen give the very real illusion of movement. Could our experience be as illusory as that? It’s always interesting when watching a movie when suddenly you wake up so to speak and remember that you are in a theatre watching a screen. You look around at the others still caught as you were a minute before in their stasis of hypnosis. They do not exist for now. Their consciousness has become a channel for the stream of consciousness created by the movie. They are not the witness. It as if they have left their seat and climbed into the screen. That’s if it is a good movie, or what we call a “captivating” movie, a “spell binding” movie…”a rollercoaster ride from start to finish”. And when the movie is over, they walk out exhausted a little and slightly deflated and still perhaps feeling like one of the characters in the movie.

But when we do wake up during the movie and look around, we have added a dimension to our experience. Relative to the movie, we are outside of time, (even though we still have the movie of our lives going on). Is this perhaps what Einstein was pointing when he observed that time was in the eye of the beholder. Time may move differently depending on your point of observation.

And then there is the waking up from the movie of your life. The sudden gaining of a new perspective, entering a new dimension. Any time we are able to step back and observe experience, we have transcended it. So I can suddenly wake up and realise my life is a movie. I can then wake up again and realise that I realise my life is a movie and so on. I can know. I can know that I know. I can know that I know that I know….Is there an end to the transcendence? Is it possible that the whole endless loop of knowing can also be transcended. Is it possible that the witness, the knower, is also an illusion? Does that mean that the person who has climbed into the movie screen has by forgetting to exist discovered the secret of existence? The natural order begins with being lost in the movie – what you might call unconscious. The next stage is the waking up to the fact that it is a movie and you are the one watching it – what you might call self-conscious. Self conscious definitely transcends unconscious. The final stage is realizing that the movie and the person watching it are really not separate and are in fact co-dependent.



A flower opens to the sun and then it closes again, but not silently. Its leaves fall off quietly yet audibly and dissolve into dust. Even the puff of minute particles that rise as the petals fall resound to the surprise of passing ants. Grist for the ever going churning grinding fractious mill.

Earth turned into morning, beams brightly for awhile, sings its tune in a blaze of colour and enthusiastic rustling as its many hands reach for their glory, leaves its sonic signature and then is gone to night. The ebb and flow of luminescent waves into crab scuttling caves, the ocean dancing unseen on reefs of seaweed wedded rocks and whispering barnacles. All echo and morph together in each and every shell scattered on the shiny midnight beach.

The moon shines brightly in its trajectory gazing upon the sun at its own peculiar angle and reflecting its shapes and shadows back to the mottled orb spinning in its humid shroud of gas and steam. It sometimes sits there silently in the dark and we think it’s gone. But then it rises again and optimistically winks to us below as if our trivialities did not exist, or perhaps because of them.

We walk with heads lowered to the ground and do not hear the whispering laughter. We miss the silent music, chromatic scales on the bones of our ears shimmering them but gently as a butterfly’s wing might brush the cheek of a baby whose wet and gusty breath starts and falls in erratic intersections but whose sleep remains undisturbed.

Then we listen, we hear it and like the sounds of cicadas we wonder how it was not deafening us. And then we listen some more and harken to the sound of a pipe or a stone conch and then myriad forms emerge: a veritable orchestra of eternal moanings, purrings, sonic whispers, talking drums and chanting elders. Ancient stories of the dreamtime, ancestral tellings, and longings. Accumulations of galactic winds and resonance of exploding stars. Encryptions of the heartbeat of the universe.



Shapes between the shadows, sillhouettes. Always the fall of light on foliage or the orange glow of dimly lit streets. Sweet interludes. Mottled sensations of pain and pleasure that paint by numbers the mortal frame. The in-between, the gaps, the blur that confounds and confuses the processes of the mind, unsettles, bemuses them in this twilight of flux and flow.

Nothing solid ever to be found and that’s ok. It’s in the contrasts of motion and flow that springs the Tao. Right down to the inner process of breathing: small obstacles within the wider expanse of sensation, concentrations of density and intensity, implements to pure bliss more so in being ungraspable, transparent, infinite.

Sunset that needs the backdrop of night to reflect its nuances. A radiance of warmth in icy cold that can never be experienced in the heat of summer. The sublime coolness of chilled waters on a hot day that can never be replicated in the cold of winter. Light is not the same as day. Heat is not the same as radiance. Cold is not the same as cool.

We play with our pain and pleasure. Like dervishes we dance and in the centrifuge we forget which is which. All differentiation transcended; all opposites reunited in the black hole of potentiality, source and destination both. The reflex of Brahma’s great respiration.

But the solar infusions, the interludes and silhouettes know nothing of this. They glow and reflect and sublimate all in their uncurious existence.


dog streetToshi

Shadow dancing
The light spattering the river bank
Freckles of shade on stone
Fronds erratically catching solid air
Lifting like kites and sleeping again
Between draughts, warm and still
The air laced heavily with the scents of earth and water

Cool injections, inhalations
As if the river was breathing
Drawing from an icy stream
Somewhere above the treetops
And then the expiration
A moist and heavy release

I thought of Lorraine
And the Littles
Imagined them leaping and plunging
Well Pepe anyway
Straight in up to his neck
Gracie, more tentative,
Just her calves and toes
The element of earth trumping the element of water

And then her looking skinny fat
Tiny slicked up legs
Accentuating caramel creamy mane
Pepe hauling himself up over slippery rocks
White dreadlocks dripping
Performing the dog shake hula
Centrifugal spray, soaking us all
Lorraine just her toes as well
Or maybe a foot
And me not even there for myself
Empty of all but a pure vision of them

The Gentleness of Sincerity


What is it in a voice that convey’s gentleness. What is it in an ear that hears gentleness? The voice is soft and low and trembles slightly in a breathy kind of way. The listener detects this kindness perhaps even physically in that soft tones are truly gentle and vibrate finely on the bones of the inner ear. Whatever it is, there is a union.

Perhaps an echo is the better way to understand it. The voice’s vibration resonates on the ear and transmutes the feeling behind the voice. And so we as humans can pass a feeling tone one to the other. What a miraculous occurrence when you really think about it. People often scoff at telepathy and yet we sentient beings communicate that way all the time. It is the unspoken that speaks volumes, the nuances, the tones, the body language. Just a slight turn of the head or a lowering of the eyes. We think our inner feelings are concealed from all but ourselves but these signals are seen most of all. The words are also revealing, not just for the directness and purposefulness of the communication but for their possible inconsistency with the other signals.

When listening to words being spoken we are often just checking that the other signals are being picked up correctly. When all is in unison, we can then allow the free and direct value of speech to infuse our understanding without the extra effort of trying to “read between the lines”. When the words do not ring true, we are often forced by social custom into an acceptance of the lie and before long everyone is praising the Emperor’s new clothes and no one is speaking about the ‘elephant in the room”.

How do we feel internally when we speak differently to what we really feel? It’s not necessarily that noticeable but when we compare how we feel when we speak truly, the difference is clear. When we speak truly, we feel a clean flow of energy and a wholesomeness as if our body and mind are one. That is called sincerity. When we speak insincerely or “with a forked tongue” we feel divided and feel weak.

It is commonly believed that the word sincere comes from two Latin words – sine ‘without’ and cera ‘wax’. There are two explanations for how ‘without wax’ came to be an important claim, both involving craftsmen, who during the Republic of Rome, would generally have been slaves or foreigners. Some think that marble workers would cover imperfections in the stone with wax, much as modern homemakers or unscrupulous antique dealers might rub wax to hide a scratch in wood. Another idea for the origin of sincere has more ominous consequences. Since cement was more expensive than wax, unscrupulous brick layers would sometimes employ it , at least that’s the story. When it melted, bricks could shift and structures collapse. So the claim that something was sine cera would be an important guarantee. This latter idea reminds one of the words attributed to Jesus: “A house divided against itself cannot stand.”

It is more likely however that the term “wax” mentioned above refers more to the growing quality as in the waxing moon. Thus the Latin word sincerus “sound, pure, whole,” means literally “of one growth” (i.e. “not hybrid, unmixed”), from sem-, sin- “one” + root of crescere “to grow” . In other words from one root – not a hybrid. Not something that is added on like the way a flowering plant is grafted onto more basic and less ornamental root stock. Not a gilding of the lily perhaps (as Shakespeare is often famously misquoted).

Whatever, the etymology of the word, the idea is the same – that to be less than sincere is to be double minded. There can be nothing more exhausting and more stressful than living a double life. Saying one thing while meaning or doing another. On the other hand, life is simple and satisfying when body and mind are in unity.

It is an irony that we often deliberately deceive others because we think it will somehow make life easier for them and for us. For the person on the receiving end, to be tricked or forced to believe a lie will ultimately cause them suffering. It may mess with their mind so that their innate sense of what is true can be skewed and they may cease to trust their own instincts causing them confusion and self-doubt. For the person being insincere, they must by necessity sever the connection with that other person. They must begin to try and conceal the other physical signals and must therefore cut off and turn away, avert their eyes in shame.

By contrast, the revealing of a hard truth will ultimately bring liberation and connection back into the relationship. While there will inevitably be a period of suffering for both parties, this can only be considered a healthy wounding that will with the right treatment be able to be healed – as opposed to the cancerous disease that lies will foster – which will in the end bring the relationship into dysfunction. There is no guarantee that the relationship will survive either way, but at least with truth it has the opportunity to bear the fruit of sincerity – forgiveness, healing, peace and gentleness.

“A gentle answer turns away wrath, but a harsh word stirs up anger…The soothing tongue is a tree of life, but a perverse tongue crushes the spirit.” Proverbs 15: 1 and 4

One final point can be made. The art of listening is not passive. Sincerity will only flow freely where there is a receptive ear. The old “shoot the messenger’ syndrome will more likely kill the message. As the Roman historian Tacitus once said: “Fear is not in the habit of speaking truth; when perfect sincerity is expected, perfect freedom must be allowed; nor has anyone who is apt to be angry when he hears the truth any cause to wonder that he does not hear it.”

The Shadow


Mindless botherings seem insignificant when put down but afterwards seem loaded with meaning. Is it possible that something deep can bubble up and yet not be heard until much later? Its impression is all that needs to be captured. It will linger and form; like a worm in the dust might reveal itself through movement. Stillness of the waters and rivers flowing without ceasing. It’s all the same still or not, silent or not, moving or not.

Motionless silent lingering meandering in between alleyways of dreams and misunderstood nuances of this or that communication with who knows who. Just keep going. That’s all that matters is the keeping on. If it was at all possible to click into a theme as a bullet might suddenly slip into the breach; that would in itself be enough reason for keeping on. It’s a continuous flow of lava that when cleared will release the earth’s great jewels. Of course wanting the jewels is almost a guarantee of not getting them. It’s like the three wishes a genie gives – they always end up being the wrong wishes and the genie always refuses to let you take them back. And so the granting of wishes can and should seen as a hostile act. Getting what we wish for is about the worst kind of damnation there is.

Jung tells us for every good wish there sits in its shadow the hope of something evil and therein lies the problem with wishes. There is always the shadow . Whenever we get what we want we also get the shadow of what we want – and the kinder the wish, the more sinister its shadow. The road to hell paved with good intention for sure. This transcendence he speaks of , where the opposites are reconciled seems wise but why is it like that? Why do we begin as opposites in the first place? Is it because dualism is the valley of death, the dark night of the soul, the chrysalis from which we all must merge? The original egg like the birth of a parasite that eats itself and only when it’s all digested can we be regurgitated as the transcendent butterfly or whatever? It’s a road of sheer torture – just what the Buddha said. He also saw that recognition of that state was a prerequisite to transcending it.

Connection or Attachment?


The late Ajahn Chah a Theravadan monk in the Thai Forest Tradition who was and still is respected as a master of that tradition. He had a favourite mug. He was one day questioned by one of his students whether he was “attached” to the mug – attachment being the root of all suffering. His response was that whenever he looked at the mug he saw it one day broken. So the moral of the story is that the antidote to attachment is to ponder the impermanence of all things.

But the old monk enjoyed his mug. This pure enjoyment leaves no room for attachment. Attachment always brings with it an anxiety – the possibility that thing will be taken away – that somebody might forget it’s “my” cup. But where there is unadulterated enjoyment, there is no space for this anxiety. There is no me and there is no mine. Ajahn Chah’s approach was to neutralize the anxiety by an acceptance of its inevitable loss. That works and it was a clever answer on his part but I bet mainly he just really enjoyed his mug (and probably thought damn cheeky student).

To put it another way there is a difference between connection and attachment. They probably look the same but one is a sharing whereas the other is a holding. One is a joining, the other is a separation. An inherent contradiction can exist in Buddhism where attachment is seen as the root of suffering and yet many followers of the Way are attached to certain beliefs about the way things are. To identify as a Buddhist can be a form of attachment – where it becomes “my” beliefs, “my” practice, “my” sangha and “my” teacher. Wherever there is a “my”, there is attachment.

But it does not have to be attachment. It can be connection: connected to the teachings, the teacher and the people without being attached. How to know whether it is connection or attachment? Enjoyment!

The reunion of belonging


There is something extremely potent and poignant about raising one’s head to the heavens with an earnest plea for connection. It is probably irrelevant with what or to whom we wish to connect. That will by necessity be a projection. It’s the very act of reaching out that is powerful and cathartic, expressing as it does the loneliness of existence, the longing to be home, to be one, completely absorbed and integrated with the whole.

That is not to underestimate the part that projection has to play in this process. Our primeval connection with our parents is the source of our longing. From their blood and bones we were spawned, as if a chunk of them grew and fell off (which is not far from the reality), creating at once this gulf that separate existence must bring. From this loss came our prayer of Abba Father or Hail Mary. It is the cry of the created to be once again merged with the creator – to be uncreated even.

The myths of the father abandoning or sacrificing his son are the full expression of this desolation, this separation, this alienation, this desperate loneliness. “My God why have you forsaken me” goes to the very heart of the dissatisfaction that comes with taking human form.

Likewise the demonizing of the barren woman, the witch, the shrew, the harlot – whose raison d’être is seen to affirm this disconnection and reject maternity, a crime never forgiven in a woman. The ones who feel the sense of abandonment keenest, i.e. the most religious amongst us (not be confused with the devout) are the ones who most keenly despise these unholy wretches (Earth Mothers) and who reach first for the stone.

So our abandonment issues are what cause us to reach out to this or that for connection. Of course it’s not always to the heavens that we cry. More often, we turn to the world to bridge that gap, to plug that emptiness, or just to comfort and soothe our longing much like a dummy in the mouth of the baby substitutes for that essential sharing and union of the mother’s breast.

The most potent symbols of all are that of mother and father and from the beginning of time, humans have looked back to their source as a point of definition, to gain meaning and purpose. Perhaps because locked in the DNA is this kernel of unselfish (albeit self-interested) procreativity, this clue to separate existence, the equally primeval and deep longing to divide, to reproduce, to cast seed widely on the wind.

So pulled back to our origins we find there a pushing forth to our final expression. That which draws us also repels us. The mother bird pushes the fledgling from the nest, despite its longings to stay and be one with its mother. Although the child cries for staying the parent cries for leaving.

As the miser hides his gold in separate places, so the creator must hide from its creation in order to increase the collective odds of surviving. Eggs must be put in different baskets.

The push and pull of existence. The yearning to be joined, the yearning to be separate. The longing to be unborn, the longing to give birth. And perhaps most paradoxical of all is the fact that one leads to the other. From union comes separation, from separation comes union.

In Buddhism, the middle way is put out there as a place to be neither pushed nor pulled. But is this a form of mediocrity or escape from the sometimes harsh vissicitudes of life? Is it a denial of the ebbs and flows, the inhalation and exhalation of the universe, the see-saw of highs and lows, the polarities which create the magnetic attraction and repulsion which are our very essence: our incoming and outgoing nature? Like the equator where sun rises and sets at much the same time all year, where the pull of the poles is at its least, where we can ride the line of neither north nor south, where the weather is without distinct seasons; is this what is meant by equanimity?

Is this a denial of our instincts or the transcending of them? And is that the goal as Jung would have it – to transcend the polarities? Is it a goal or is it the inevitable order of things? As we enter our twilight years, our instincts will surely diminish. We are no longer child nor parent, not even male nor female.   The final re-merging seems more certain. The acceptance of that certainty (regardless of age) may signal the turn from longing to fulfilment. Facing towards the final destination…  no longer looking back to the source but forward to it in expectant homecoming. The prayer not now the primeval scream of frustrated youth but the transcendent recognition of golden dissolution, full circle we join the reunion of belonging.