Things I would like to do before the Future Winter.

Via on Oct 31, 2013

small town christmas norman rockwell


Read the first, Things I would like to do with you in the Woods.

Read the second, Things I would like to do with you this Evening.

Read the third, Things I would like to Remember about our day in Vermont.

Read the fourth, Things I would like to do with you in Time.

Read the fifth, Things I Would Like to do with You Before I Lose You.

Read the sixth, Things I would like to hear when you are Confused.

Read the seventh, Things I would like to say to you without you Knowing.

Read the eighth, Things I would like to do with you when you visit my Home.

Read the ninth, Things I would like for us to know before we Fall in Love.

Read the tenth, Things I would have Liked to Say to You the Last Time we ever Spoke.

Read the eleventh: Things I would like to do this White Winter without You.

This is the last: “like” Waylon’s page if so inspired, if you’d like to get the book.



“Happiness makes up in height for what it lacks in length.” ~ Robert Frost


Things I would like to do before the Future Winter.

My Future is before Me, But I have not met Her Yet.


When I lose at love, I do not lose love itself—but rather one possibility of love. So I pause—I turn from our past and commit myself to this now—to the hard and worthwhile work of making friends with myself

Then, I pause again—and dive forward into an unknown future, with elation ballooning in my heart.


“Always fall in with what you’re asked to accept. Take what is given, and make it over your way. My aim in life has always been to hold my own with whatever’s going. Not against: with.” ~ Robert Frost


I say good bye to our Future, and I turn and look into the old fireplace mantle’s mirror, and at and then through myself—but I can not see my Future.

I would like you to know that though we loved fully if briefly and brightly (and I should therefore be sad to have lost Us), I was only sad for a few days. For I lost a future we did not wish to win.

Rather, I would like to thank you. I am grateful to have loved, again, a little—my heart had gone quiet.

The Future: I would like to know her name. But she is not here, yet. And so I date and date and date and date and date and they date me, and I am alone and alone and alone and alone, and alone, and alone…furthering this difficult yet satisfying friendship with my own self. I do not know when, or how, or even if she will consent to care for me, and I would to know her name.

But now it is now, the Summer it is past, and the Spring has not yet come: and so our Past is done, and my Future? She will come.

I would like to close up my yellow house this weekend. I would like to bicycle away, up into the mountains where Fall is already falling into Winter. I would like to bicycle, towing Red dog (in a dog coat, in a trailer). Red dog can run for awhile, because he likes to run, it is more fun—but it is twelve miles out of my Small City and up into the cold Mountain Woods, so he will spend most of the time in his bicycle trailer.

I would like to bicycle up, up, up, calmly, slowly, my breath visible, puffing rhythmically like an old metal steam train. The high roads may be frozen in spots, early in the morning: it is Autumn. The high roads may be frozen in spots, early in the morning: the trick is to keep the black tires straight, and when I turn, to turn gradually.

I would like to bicycle past pale farms and up, up into the cold mountains until I get to my half-frozen, noisy black river, and then I turn at my red dirt road dusted white with snow. I would like to open the rusted wide gate, and let Red dog off his leash, and together we will climb up to my snowed-in cabin above the dark green woods.

I would like to open up my cabin.

It is where we first fell in love.

It is cold, now.

I would like to spend my first hour moving good old dry wood inside and chopping new wood, blushing and flushed with sweat, heat and the setting sun. Deep breaths in and visible air out.

I would like to light the cold fireplace, and make hot tea, and take off my sweaty clothes, and put on my red and black checkered union suit pajamas. I would like to spend the night reading the Collected Short Stories beneath many blankets. I would like to begin with The Rich Boy.

I would like to not eat: now is a time for retreat, for brief asceticism, for rest, a time for alone, a time to make my acute sadness hungry and draw it out, and to sit with it at the barren kitchen table.




I would like to be alone; I would like to cry.

I would like to smile, simultaneously: sunshine through water produces rainbow. Crying and smiling at the same time: it is, a wise man said, the ideal human emotion.

Heartbroken, but cheerful where self-pity would like to lie. An exposed heart full of appreciation, even joy. Tender pain.


“My sorrow, when she’s here with me, thinks these dark days of autumn rain are beautiful as days can be; she loves the bare, the withered tree; she walks the sodden pasture lane.” ~ Robert Frost



You messaged me, and told me I am too much, and you are right: I am too much for us.

For I know I am too much, and that is not too much, so I am not defeated, though I have lost something that it turns out I do not want, for you did not want what I have to offer, which is all of me.

If I am not what you would like you are not what I would like and so I do not need to let go—it is already gone.


And now you are gone to me. I would like to think of you, but I see only ghosts in the mirror.

And so I would like to grow this red beard until it curls.

I would like to appreciate our time together: joyful, picnic, patience, New Yorker in the hot tub, sex, laughter, listening, forest beach, orange lipstick, sweet voice, your wide curving eyes, mosquitoes and sharing—and all of it in a season.

And I would like to thank you.

And I would like to say, as that wise man did, Jolly Good Luck, sweetheart!

And I would like to add, Thank you for being you, just you.




And so before turning to future Her I honor past you. I do not need to let go: time has already left us behind.

I need merely to step into the flow of the already rushing river.

I would like to turn, and take a dance step forward now, without you: my feet are hesitant, but confident, too. I would like to turn my gaze away from our Summer love affair and toward my Winter alone, away from Green Mountains and toward Red Mountains, to the rare fog clinging to our foothills below my mountain refuge.

So, though I have lost this Future, I am patient and open-minded for another, or even for a lifetime of Alone.

I would like to see what comes to me, and I would like to choose whether to swing at the pitches I see.




And I would like to remember another lover, but I can not move my mind through this mountain fog.

So I move my body, instead: I take my old climbing rope leash and put on my light running shoes and my gray short shorts and “c’mon, Red dog,” and he whines with eagerness as we begin to jog further up the mountain. For the future does not long wait before becoming now and I must run to higher ground to leave your fog behind.

I return in a salt sweat three hours later and the cabin is dusty and quiet, but warm.

My small cabin’s small bed is heavy and set against a big window facing East so that each day’s early light pours over me. Before I go to sleep, I would like to open the window at my head, though it is cold: just a crack, so that when I sleep beneath my many wool blankets I can breathe innocent air. Air allows for space, gives wisdom and blessing to those of us who would guard space, and lends love to those of us who need space.




I have been here for a day I would like to stay for thirty more days.

Though I would like to stow my steel bicycle inside, and batten down in this retreat, I will not. For this long bicycle ride up into these flood-ripped mountains was a round-trip journey: the Big Town flickers back at me. And so I leave the bike outside, against the cabin wall, not well-sheltered beneath the porch awning.

Late Fall in the Big Town is a golden and blue delight.

In the Mountains, it is a white and dark green delight.

The cool and cold air pushing against and through my tweed, wool, cotton is a delight.

When waking in the cabin, or after snowshoeing, or while writing: drinking water is a delight.

I find new love in old things: I am a child, once again captivated for moments by the forest, the light, the occasional mountain snow, the wind, the wood, sounds—in love with the details of this natural world and this human life.

If I would like to cry again, no one will know. For I am alone, and it is dark, and it is water into water when I spend an evening hour in the old white bath tub outside. Two years ago I set it on a slope, built it up on top of heavy rocks with room below for an old woodstove that I bought at a mountain town yard sale. I have spent evenings in it laughing with a friend, too hot, looking at the crisp stars, drinking hoppy beer, making love and then letting the water rush out when we are done. Now I am alone, and salt tears merge with salt sweat.

A recipe for purification: juniper gin, and salt and sweat and hot water, night stars, the moon, and cut fragrant wood and smoke.

The tears remember your strongsoft body with silk blouse waving open in vague wrinkles. You are stretched before me, your mind rich with cozy second-floor cafés with poetry readings and dear friends and beeswax candles and debates about war with meaningful laughter and meals along long tables with photos of placesettings taken from above, just so, and lovers and more lovers and textbooks and paper-books and houseparties in hallways and new-old music and carryon-only travel and kissings in bed. Joy and desire, humor and dance. Looking backward is as if looking at a shadow, or a movie: after awhile, we long for real. And so I would like to look forward but the Future is not yet alive, but Now is pregnant with it. So I walk mindfully on the rail line of today. In the Future we will jump into a waterhole on a hot day and skip rocks and ropeswing up, let go, splash, the cool water washing our hair back, blinking wetblur out of our eyes as we wade in water with dogs chasing tennis balls. But for now I am alone, an island with a rowboat, with countrybright stars reflecting at my unloved orange eyes.





Gnomes still live in the forest, according to this silly book I read when I was a boy.


Short, strong, jolly, horny, hungry, with white beards or rosey cheeks and tools and warm homes beneath trees. There are spirits here? I do not know. But the deer know the weather. The green leaves are gone the gold leaves are gone the faded dry crumbling leaves are gone. Last night the winds took the leaves away and now, suddenly: barren, gray. We are ready for winter.


I would like to be still, and listen to the subtle sounds of the woods. Listening relaxes the City out of me.


I would like to know how the animals and their hungry children live amongst the red barked pine trees sweet with sap when the cold when the snow comes and does not leave.




“The woods are lovely, dark and deep. But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep.” ~ Robert Frost

After two days away up in the fogged Fall mountains, I would still like to stay put for another lifetime alone. But I would not like this, really, for life and chaos and fear wake my heart as strong coffee enlivens the blood in my veins. And so shivering I jump out of bed and pull on my longsleeve handmedown wool shirt and red long underwear and thick graywhite socks and heavy stiff dark jeans and a grandpa cardigan sweater with a high collar and a secondhand tweed jacket with leather-braided buttons and bike shoes and a khaki knit hat and fingerless gloves, and I would like to roll back down with Red dog in the trailer behind my bike, back to life.

Back to the Small City or Big Town, for I am eager to make trouble.

For I am still full of humor and forward-moving commonsense and charm and listening: power. And I would like to ask one out and walk with her past the old houses; and I would like to ask two out and watch an old movie by E.M. Forster, and she will like to lie on her tummy as I hold into her; and I would like to ask three out, and she will say I have a boyfriend, and I would like to ask four out, and she will not reply, and I would like to ask five out and we will climb and sit on red rocks in the blue wind, but I will wait for one who can look through my orange eyes to where the water is clear.

In the meantime, dating is a wonderful waste.

Finally, one day after I meet you I will ask you out on a date, and you will go, and you will like me and I will like you, and it will become clear that she out there is you right here. In the beginning you will not know it, as I do not know she is you, as I do not know you, and as you do not know me. I would like to find you when I do not expect her, and ask you out right away, before we have to wait for the Future: I will ask you to your face, with a grin. And though today is hot and quiet I do not feel dark or cold: I enjoy this life.

I would sometimes like our Future to be here Now: you and I living a country life together, planning things, resting, playing, swimming, working, cooking, going to things with friends. I would like to walk in the cold wet early evening on top of light white snow and wet yellow leaves and you could make me feel all better or I could make you feel all better or we could talk about work or ethics. I would like to never stop trying to get you to laugh. But it is not yet today—so I must make my own luck.

For now I am alone and it is still Then, it is still a Yesterday we will look back upon. Alone is a melodic thing. A sweet thing. A sharp, riveting thing. A polished thing. Alone is a succinct thing worthy of a single taut sentence. Alone is a chaotic thing worthy of long sentences: sentences that reluctantly ebb and flow, feint and flourish, rise and plunge and only close when they are most open—like lovers too hot for the top sheet.

Alone, it is perfect for this Fall. And it is Autumn and each morning (I wake beneath yes seven layers of old woolen striped blankets, I counted), each mountain morning.

Good morning, sunshine! 

I bellow, as we did when young at Camp. Everyone smoked too much and drank vodka in the woods and kissed hard and laid around lots and made coffee on campfires and I was often lonely and often cheerful and often genuine.

Each morning is bright for the Past, cold at Present, pregnant with the Future: each morning leaves so many memories forgotten.


“In three words I can sum up everything I’ve learned about life: it goes on.” ~ Robert Frost


The newly fallen golden bright leaves: they were just green this summer! Each one a colorfully enthusiastic masterpiece of life, beauty, and now loss. Summer is gone fast as I age, it used to be wonderfully empty and endless, now it is full and too quick.

I am back in my Tall House on a Long Hill in my Big Town beneath the Red Mountains above the Great, Golden Plains.

My routine is boring, and it is good. The hot sun wakes me in my wide bed. Red dog and I stumble out into a new day: he wanders around doing his thing while I hang from a tree and do five pull-ups (one more a month) and stretch. If it is hot out I send him into a century-old farmer’s ditch to swim. Back home, I tell him to lie down while I dish his food out. He eats hurriedly: it is the highlight of his day, every day. I meditate: dedicating the merit of this day to others, then read a Dharma book. Red dog lies by my side. Then I hot tub while reading a New Yorker or a book (if it is bright out, or snowing, I’ll wear a cowboy hat to shield my eyes while I read). I walk up the twirly spiral staircase to my old clawfoot bath and shower, soaping off my hot sweat. I brush my teeth while singing Brave Wolfe through bubbles. I dress. Downstairs, I toast organic local cinnamon raisin bread—my favorite. My kitchen suddenly smells as if I’m baking. I bicycle to a favorite café and work on my laptop and socialize all day, getting so much done and yet never enough. Things are going well: my business is a bonfire on a beach, patiently built up bigger and bigger for twelve years.

I would like to think that I am ready for you—ready as I will ever be. I am finally able to take the time to travel; or settle down; or both. I have the money to buy a plane ticket or a dinner without fearing that my card might b-bounce. I would like to see you for lunch on the lawn at Farmers’ Market, tomorrow—it is one of the last of the season.

And I would like to be sad: this sadness is good. When you are sad remember this: sing old happy warrior’s songs. Sing blues. Sing in the shower.

The Minstrel Boy to the war has gone!
In the ranks of death you will find him
His father’s sword he has girded on!
His wild harp slung behind him
Awake! Awake! Is the warrior’s cry
The world, the world deceeeeeives thee…
These songs are sung by the pure and free
They’ll never sound in slav’ry.

Bicycling through tunnels I whoop! My whoop’s echo reminds my sadness to be brave. I bicycle past dry fields and over bumpy trails and over wooden ratatatatat bridges and on the shoulders of busy roads where texting cars and trucks whoosh past me.

I would like to return to our fine romance: I would like to return to the past: I would like to return to our cabin in the woods in the foothills where I first rested into your heart.

But I can not.

When in the evening the woodpecker knocks and asks me my age, I say “Halfway to death; Halfway to birth.” And it nods its head again and again.

So, instead, I would like to take our dream fort down, and I would like to take the dead flowers from the dry ball jars and crush them and drop them into the rose bushes below.

I would like to make another orange fire when it is dark after I hammock and read until it is too dark to read. I would like to drink great scotch from a good friend. Red dog curls up close to the fire, and snores. He naps eighteen hours a day.

And so I stay in my Tall House on the Long Hill above my Small City, and so I would like to stay in my present, I would like to walk forward into my life: for genuine sadness may be bitter, at times, but genuine sadness is not self-aggrandizing self-pity.

And so I have put away those things that remind me of me loving you. I would like to wrap and tie our love into a bundle, and set it gently into the farmers’ ditch above my house so that our memories may float and be free and clean and beautiful, as they were when we breathed life into our future: sweating, smiling, sighing.

I have taken my pen to white paper and scrawled black ink into the words of our red laughter: I take the winds of Nature’s winds and invite them to carry my voice. And so I have written this story, and set it all out without saying anything extra. I have let our precious past go into the stream. I have written this story out so that it will forget me.




I have never been much good at crying, all my life. I have gone years without crying. Now, a few times a year, I almost cry, which almost feels good. Once a year, I cry and cry and cry: it feels good. But I still feel that sadness behind my eyes, like a reservoir pressing up against a dam.

When I remember you I am sad, I am not angry. I happily loved you, a little, and you loved me, a little, and we made love, a little, and we laughed, a lot, and we argued only a few and made up quickly: except for the last time.

You said it was all too much too fast, one too many times, and I hopped off our rollercoaster.

I am ready for one who enjoys the ride, and breathes—nay laughs!—through her fear at the giddiness of it.

Your naked self below me your arrival in the park your blue dress and khaki corduroy hat with orange letters: it was a meeting for the books, we write it down or else you are forgotten and what was between us fades.

And so I offer up this thin book: visible tracings of an invisible experience. At the end, after our lives have joined our loves and dissipated into the sky above, all that is left are knick knacks: precious things of no value, curiosities of momentous momentary moments to be put into cardboard boxes by someone who knows not the meaning. The boxes daisychained into someone’s SUV and hastily donated.

We will be gone: if it all dies away, does love matter?


But that is for the end of the Future. All that matters now is to live while the moment lasts, and to hop into the next moment.


“To ease the pain of living: everything else: drunken dumbshow.” ~ Allen Ginsberg



I would like to see Future’s face, but she is silhouetted against the sun, the blindingly bright ocean of the Future at her back. I can only see her figure, not her expression. Her figure is elegant, and I appreciate her dress.

I would like to see her open eyes, I would like to see her proud nose, I would like to touch her hair, I would like to hear her voice, I would like to take her long hand.

But most of all I would like to be alone, for now, for the Winter is about to come, yet it is not yet the Future.

I would like to know if I already know her name. Maybe I do?

I already know her last name.

I would like to see her capable hands holding our love.

I would like to hear her laugh, her laughter is awkward, it is the kind of laugh that is not self-conscious. I would even like to hear her smile in her sleep, a quiet smile.

Red dog will be in the corner, he will be old now, and he will snore more, and when he does we think it is sweet and funny.

I would like to stretch you out below and be stretched out above, and we can turn and toss, and bend and jump, and ride and stand, and bend and laugh, and pray.

I would like to look into your eyes without thinking anything.




I would like to celebrate life with someone.

But I would like to be so alone, first, for alone is the earth beneath the roots beneath the flower beneath the sunshine and rain.

I would like to love, but I have lost many dear friends and shallow friends and I would like to take the time to fully appreciate my own raw red heart and I would like to think that this is enough. But it may not be, but it had better be, or I shall turn bitter, and that is understandable. For human society is a cold thing, but only when we forget our lonely hearts. And I am tired of serving those who would destroy their own nest.

Ah. Finally.

And here it is winter, coming in now, I can see it rising over the mountains, and falling down at our Big Town. And I will close in, with Red dog, alone. I close the doors, and the windows, and turn off the water, and keep the fire hot. I would like to use my kindling axe.

I would like to plan a party in my home: friends and families will come and stand in wool socks on my red rugs, and sit on my old-fashioned wingback armchairs and three children will sit tightly together in my little antique settee, holding a new baby. And five of us will venture out to the park above and the now dry farmers’ ditch and gather snow and bring it back and we would like to pour maple syrup on the snow. And she would like to make hot tea, and we would like to sing, and later a few of us will tromp along wet snowy roads with Red dog talking about soon-forgotten things.

In the Future, I will return to our cabin with her, and though I do not like sunglasses I will wear them as we snowshoe through naked stark dark trees.


It is white Winter.

My strong legs are shaky with hunger—I am defeated today, and still I can win.

My hunger makes me focused, dangerous. It is cold, but I wear the union suit beneath a striped sweater and a hat and jeans and too-heavy boots with linings and a jacket and a coat with a high collar over my ears. A warm Winter is about breathing through many layers.

Now, I am blinded by the white Winter, but when it leaves and the fog comes and the rain comes and when it leaves and the leaves come, budding light green, then perhaps I will meet my match, and you will meet yours, and we will be alone, together, and we will become dear, silly, passionate Friends and fearless servants devoted to the commonwealth of this society.

I would like that.



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About Waylon Lewis

Waylon Lewis, founder of elephant magazine, now & host of Walk the Talk Show with Waylon Lewis, is a 1st generation American Buddhist “Dharma Brat." Voted #1 in U.S. on twitter for #green two years running, Changemaker & Eco Ambassador by Treehugger, Green Hero by Discovery’s Planet Green, Best (!) Shameless Self-Promoter at Westword's Web Awards, Prominent Buddhist by Shambhala Sun, & 100 Most Influential People in Health & Fitness 2011 by "Greatist", Waylon is a mediocre climber, lazy yogi, 365-day bicycle commuter & best friend to Redford (his rescue hound). His aim: to bring the good news re: "the mindful life" beyond the choir & to all those who didn't know they gave a care. | | | | | Google+ For more: publisherelephantjournalcom


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21 Responses to “Things I would like to do before the Future Winter.”

  1. I adore this and I realized something too. An earlier reader compared you to Dickens (which, wow, what a compliment, right?); yet he's my favorite author. I remember being so relieved when I read the real and true ending for Great Expectations, because it was the only book of his that deeply disappointed me—until I realized that it was only the ending the publisher had demanded that disappointed me (the too-good-to-be-true and syrupy, phony, doesn't-make-sense-with-the-book ending).
    And I realized, with my readings lately—including this—that a good book (occasionally turned into a movie; i.e. romantic comedy) is nearly always one thing: predictable (but it will never be a truly great story); and many a bad story that pretends it's a great one is the simulation of what many truly great stories are (like Dickens'): unpredictable—and sometimes disappointing in how they twist and turn and often even end.
    And this is the making of a great story—what you've been writing—because you've not been afraid to take those unexpected detours. I look forward to each installment.

  2. Senseofenergy says:

    I have looked forward to each new segment and smiled eagerly to read when I saw a new one posted. I recently had someone come into my life for a very short but profound reason. Even though I knew the connection was not meant to last long, it was still sad to have it end. I take solace in knowing I helped him as much as he helped me, that we were two people meant to touch each other's souls to heal and grow…then move on.

  3. elephantjournal says:

    It's perfect. ~ B. xo

    • elephantjournal says:

      Thanks, you of all people, who helped edit so thoroughly a few of the key first ones that helped set the tone. Sad day.

  4. Chantelle says:

    You paint a vivid picture of the most elegant way one could deal with the loss of love. Thank you for all of these beautifully written segments of your dreamy minds eye.

  5. StephD says:

    Heart-wrenching and so beautiful. You truly have a gift. Thank you for sharing.

  6. Hope says:

    I have been reading these ever since you started posting them. Somehow you seem to capture my experiences in all the words I wish I could express. Thank you for sharing your story and for allowing mine to come to life.

  7. Sara says:

    Beautiful and Inspirational!

    I would like to know you.

    I would like to hold your hands and look into your eyes and see into you. I would like to know each piece of you, even the ones you don’t fully know yourself yet. The person that you bravely choose to show the world, yes he is an important part of you, but just one part. Maybe he is the outer right corner of your jigsaw puzzle, or maybe you have still not yet figured out where he fits among the scattered pieces on the floor. Or maybe you have reached the place where you are comfortable enough to show the world all of your pieces, which makes them that much easier to share with me.

    Whether your puzzle is complete and on display or still in a box, it does not matter to me. For no matter what state it is in, your puzzle is a masterpiece. And sometimes when you have figured it all out and your puzzle fits perfectly together and everything makes sense the world laughs at your naivety and sends you an earthquake, shaking and breaking things until you are more scattered and confused than you have ever been before.

    I would like to hear the stories come pouring out of you. Because you have lived for years and you have a past with so many journeys and adventures and sorrows that have shaped you into what you are today. There are stories of the people that you have loved and the ones that you have lost and those that you still love and how you love and I find these stories fascinating.
    I would like to hear your stories so that I will understand. Not to try to change you, or accept the things that I don’t really care for. For that means passing judgment, and really, who I am to pass judgment?

    I would like to understand because I am a Scorpio and that it what we do. We are curious and ask questions and are not content until we have explored the depths of the essence of everything. And sometimes it gets uncomfortable and sometimes that makes people leave but you will not leave.

    I would like to be wrapped in your embrace and feel safe, your strong arms holding me tightly as if you will never let me go. You promise that you won’t ever let me fall. But the world can be a dark and cruel place and sometimes I will plummet and break into pieces just like Humpty Dumpty although slightly less round- it’s all the yoga I’ve been doing after all. And when that happens you know that all I need is the space held for me while I start to rebuild. I just want your arms to hold me and your soft reassurance that it will be ok. Because even though I am independent and strong and have had to rebuild so many times alone I feel safe enough with you to be vulnerable and weak and shattered.

    I would like to hold you just as tightly because you don’t need to always be the strong one. I would like to remind you that you are perfect and your sadness and anger is perfect and we are perfect together exactly where we need to be at this moment.
    I would like to know you, and I would like you to know me.

  8. carissa says:

    Spare. Winteral. Eloquent. Weary but not exhausted. Completely wonderful, Mr. Lewis.

    I kept getting the image of a big sleep or at least a very long nap…both good for the soul. As I hope writing these has been for yours. Reading them, experience-by-proxy, has been therapeutic for me and most likely many. Thanks for the inspiration.

    I am glad, and not surprised, about you getting them bound/published. Cannot wait to see that. Visual aides are always a helpful bonus.

    My earlier comparison to Dickens was more about the serial nature of the pieces and their popular appeal rather than writing style. Dickens can be a bit over-the-top. Believe it or not, that’s up to you, for me you’ve definitely demonstrated in this segment (and others) that your voice is more subtle than that… and sometimes “too much”. Both useful at different times.

  9. rslyzuk says:

    "And so I have taken my black pen to tan paper and curl black ink into the words of our red passion and longing and laughter: and so I take the winds of Nature’s winter and invite them to carry my voice."

    That was an incredibly beautiful sentence. Another wonderful piece. Well done, Waylon!

    • elephantjournal says:

      Thanks, brother! They're beautiful only to the extent that they're real, and hopefully connect with others' experience of real..!

  10. Lara says:

    To know love like this exists, is eye opening, hopeful, and beautiful…thank you for sharing. :)

  11. Jacinta says:

    Once I stayed in a big old country house on a cold and windy November weekend, like now! I happened upon a book that kind of reminds me of the series you’ve written, except its a collection of love stories about how people met and found one another. The book is called “A Match Made in Heaven” (Susan Wales & Ann Platz). Now, I pull it off the shelf when I’m in a certain nostalgic mood and become totally unhinged every time – I cry, I laugh, I dream… again, and again. (Check it out -it needs a sequel).
    There was a couple also staying at the house, and when the weekend was over, they shared with me that he had proposed to her that weekend, while walking along this long stretch of empty beach… It was like another story for the book! There was magic in the air that weekend! Oh and I almost forgot the part when I stopped on the country road to pick up firewood, and the guy who was selling the wood …. Seriously, thought I stepped into a Harlequin Romance …. unbelievable, surreal moment. I recall not being able to say much, coherently, and he gave me the firewood for free. LMAO – fun to laugh at now.
    Ok I digress lol. (I think my writers block is becoming unblocked ?)

    • elephantjournal says:

      I think so, too!

      Follow your breath, as Ginsberg used to teach!

      • jacinta says:

        haha :) thanks ej PS… saw this quote today: 'In everyone's life, at some time, our inner fire goes out. It is then burst into flame by an encounter with another human being. We should all be thankful for those people who rekindle the inner spirit.'
        ~ Albert Schweitzer ~

  12. audrey says:

    …..this is preparing my soul for a future past love. – since your 1st installment. grieving the past weeks as questions and answers swim in my heady mind. i try to stay quiet and contemplate. your writing unfolds my future. ~ n a m a s t e ~

  13. fluxustulip says:


    I wonder how many hearts have been liberated by this journey of things & how many hearts those will liberate. Ripple-effect, Trickle-down. Healing tears & laughter… now THAT’S a collaboration.

    Good Work. Good Words. Good-Ness.

    Thanks for all the fish Dharma-Friend.

    Tare Tutare Ture Soha

  14. Georgie says:


  15. Alex Myles says:

    please stop writing so ridiculously beautifully… I need to get some work done

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