Meditating at Lagerman Reservoir

 

Want to meditate somewhere other than my messy bedroom today. Maybe a mountain top will do. Pack my cushion and mat and dog in the car. First I run an errand into Boulder - then the open road. Driving north on North 63rd Street, I check in. I don't feel like driving up a mountain road. OK. That's fine.

Driving farther, I see a sign to something called Lagerman reservoir. Ah, this must be the way to go. I slow down in a skid for the turn. Cody tumbles into the back of the driver seat. He was grinning happily in the cross breeze from the open windows and then Oops. Cody takes his upset with aplomb, clambering up onto the back seat again. He is still grinning and panting.

A dirt road takes us to the reservoir. It looks deserted. The parking lot is empty. I park Excalibur (my sparkly dark silver Toyota Camry). Cody and I wander over to the water. Glory of glories; you can walk right up to the water. Two jetties lead down to the water. They are made of that hard ugly poop-brown plastic like Rocky Mountain National Park benches. They sit on a concrete slope. One slopes down for boats to enter the water. The other, narrow jetty, stretches out over the water a few feet.

This is the spot. No one is around. I go back to the car and unpack my meditation paraphernalia. And the rest is poetry:

Meditating on Water

This water looks yellow.

Silver lights dapple.
Waves move across the surface.

Close to shore,
Chartreuse mud clouds mix with waves and water
Farther out the pieces fall apart
The mud clouds rest in their own places.

Silver lights dapple.
Waves move across the surface.

My cup fills with antique golden light.
I think of Janet's chartreuse glass bowl
A blown bubble of honey.


Walking Meditation

Walking I see a stick.
Whitened, it ends in twisted fingers.
I pick it up.
I hold it.
I look at it.
I place it back in the sandy soil.
This is in accordance with the sign that says
Not to take things away from here.
Not natural things, not manmade things.

I pick up a stone.
It has startling greens and grays,
I hold it and walk with it for a while.

A small bird is hovering up ahead.
It hovers.
It glides.
It hovers like a hawk.
It is small.
Is it a baby hawk.
It hovers like a hawk and glides.
I follow this with my eyes.
At last it turns away,
Flashing
A black-edged fan
Of orange tail feathers.

On the way back to the car
I put it the stone back where I found it.