Americans Only

I gazed uphill, past the grass and through the trees to the tumbled line of mossy granite boulders. I imagined a gazebo and a lotus pond in the flat area beyond the boulders. Isolated and quiet, it would be an excellent meditation spot.

The 5 acres were beautiful, with a gorgeous view of the valley’s oaks and wildflowers. The double-wide mobile home was in superb condition. The previous owner had refurbished and redecorated before her sudden passing. Everything was new, and the add-on in back made it almost as big as a triple wide.

The only sounds breaking the silence were the songs of birds, the wind in the trees, and the roar of the rider-mower passing back and forth in front of the double-wide. The most beautiful plot I’d seen so far, I was sure my brother and his fiancé would love it.

The mower finished his task, drove up the driveway, and stopped next to our truck. He was an older man, with gray hair in a military cut under a jungle-camouflage military cap. His face had sagged with the years, softening the hard lines.

“Beautiful country!”

“What?” He asked, deafened by time or the mower.

“It’s beautiful country!”

“Too damn many Asians and other foreigners. They should all just go home and leave it to us real Americans.”

I lifted my left eyebrow in response (a facial expression learned long ago in mirror imitation of Mr. Spock) and moved into my heart.

From the heart, I aligned upward to the overshadowing soul of humanity, and outward to the soul of the mower.

Then I recognized that everyone is soul, and all soul is one.

And recognizing the soul of the mower, I continued the conversation.

Namaste,

Glen Knape