I’m enrolled in a workout class
designed to give me more flexibility
when wielding my tune-in muscle.
I used to think I was weird or wired
differently, stuck in that unyielding
school desk watching the clock’s
agonizing creep. But now I know
anyone can do this. A parent dials
into their child’s frequency
to understand the being of few words
and passionate, overwhelming desires.
We sense into the needs of our pets,
opening to a way of communicating
that feels mysterious, psychic.
Our schools are designed to stamp
out our mystical knowledge. Everyone
must fit into the square pegs, summoned
by bells to march to classrooms.
Slaves to time, unquestioning.
Some of us fell through the cracks,
resisted the molding, shedding it
like snake skin. Reaching into a field
sparkling like dewdrops on a spiderweb
of magnetic aliveness that spans
the globe, we are awake and sitting.
The mystics and the poets will save us
by opening up the clock
to the spaciousness between seconds,
inviting us to abandon the lurid
sitcoms and online distractions
that keep us tied to an agenda
like mice spinning on a wheel.
Change the station, dial in to
the connection we have all been
reaching for, right here, on the other
side of the canned laughter
that keeps you
from listening to now.