Sunday morning

What some Buddhists call "monkey mind" --- chattering and swinging from limb to limb --- is in play this morning, starting with the deeply subversive nature of the Lord's Prayer (thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven).

Then moving to the Transcendentalists --- isn't it peculiar that Transcendental Meditation --- now headquartered just down the road in Fairfield --- has mindjacked Emerson, Thoreau and all those others?

Transcendental moments (in the older sense) have been all around this week as fall sets the landscape ablaze.

A brief stop at Wallace Stevens' "Sunday Morning,"  poetry I can (partially) recite:

She hears upon that water without sound,

A voice that cries, "The tomb in Palestine

is not the porch of spirits lingering.

It is the grave of Jesus, where he lay."

Then five minutes of sermon in song by fellow outcasts Levi Kreis and the Gay Men's Chorus of Los Angeles --- John West's "Heaven's Hand."

Then finally Cat Stevens (nod to Eleanor Farjeon who wrote it): "Praise for the singing, praise for the morning, praise for them springing fresh from the Word."