“Let’s go,” you said, tugging at my shirt.
“Let go,” I said, standing still.

When I first breathed you, your human body was anything but an empty vessel. Yet, in very short order, you spoke of integrating nearly all the medicines at hand. The conundrum—the mindfuck—of duality compelled you to the nth degree.

“Breath is life”
“Life lives us”
“We’re the medicine”
Ole, have you integrated this life?
This human-ness?
Human
Humane—and what a mane it was at times!
A lion’s mane
No tropics, but
Streets of Montréal
Bicycles in Mexico City
Forested Catskills of New York
Maria Sabina criss-crossing southern Norway….
____

Ole, you saw something in me that I was reluctant to see in myself. So persistently, so incessantly, you coaxed it out of me.

You, my mirror charmer.
You had me at “love-thyself.”

To love you as much as you loved me was your guidance toward loving myself even more.
I thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you.
____

And, you were also reaching out.

You, human, man, who have left your peaceful mark on so MANy, were transitioning from being constantly enrolled to enrolling others. At first, you cringed at the word leadership. Embody the toroidal field, I implored: your reaching out will also be reaching in. You were
a student of a-waking,
(your body often shaking)
an elder in the making
yes, that’s right, a king.
____

“There’s more,” you said.
“What’s the rush?” I replied. “There’ll always be more.
Besides, isn’t this enough?”

Enigmatic only by your own design
of constantly evolving paradigms
the hiss of the word blissssssss, full
of so much choice
and a growing voice
stillness to noise
and back again
to the All
the One
the Only
so many, yet
so l[One]ly

You embodied the etymology of human expression.

verbal
vocal
primal
prime
p-rhyme
no mime
more meaning
than meme-ing
Your wordPLAY was nothing less than a key to the collective gene-i-Us

As gene-rous and gracious as you were, you were also insatiable. Not in a wild way (?), but resolute.
Absolute.
Nothing moot.
The only word lacking in enacting was maybe, maybe, maybe:

Root.
____

“I’ll do it alone,” you said.
“I know,” I said. “There’s nothing I can do about that.”

And so it was: a solstice outro.

Ole, may you be blissed.