Author: KCF

My spiritual practice is my life (with emphasis on the word “practice”). I try my best to embrace the chaotic, contradictory, random abundance and confusion around me (and inside me) and bring it all into balance. Balance for me means not getting overly attached to any one outcome, laughing at myself regularly and learning to…

There is a certain song, an instrumental by harmonica player Charlie Musselwhite from 1967 called “Christo Redemptor” that I play in the dark hours. When it seems like the world must end, I put that CD on and I play along on my harp. The song is a long, strange meditative rant/chant that goes on…

Heading blithely down the road to our own deaths, our only triumph is to have made the universe tremble with our joy.

by Kevin Carrel Footer In the 1940s there was a woman who lived in Buenos Aires called “Tangerine.” This was not her real name but rather her nom de guerre, invented for her by a jilted admirer who wrote a poem about her on a napkin while sitting at a bar stool waiting yet again…

Across a quiet night in summer I wander. Something’s happened — something momentous — but now it is over and I am going home. I like what street lights do to the city: little halos for ordinary angels… who walked away. It is at this time — when everything has already happened — that the…

A lot of the old tangueros have pauches and I have a friend who speaks adoringly of them (both the tangueros and their beer bellies). This woman had one of those and I confess that we fit so nicely together.

I went to a gypsy fortune teller and she told me that I would end up alone and destitute. She read it in my palms, confirmed it in her crystal ball and anxiously verified it by tea leaves. As she was reaching for her tarot cards, I stopped her. Enough, I said. It’s okay, I…

She said, “My life is a slow poem that has lasted years.” I nodded but the gesture was lost over the telephone line. I thought, There are poems of words and poems of acts. Our lives are longish poems of acts. Silently but irrevocably, without our knowing how, the isolated acts of our lives are…