The Mindful Life | JW Winslow

The tiny peanuts
contained in a
small gift bowl
needed a warming
after twenty five
hours in the air,
smashing about
in my suitcase
through the x-rays
and various scrutiny,
but they seemed to
be vital and tasty
after a turn in the
oven, rolling around
on my tongue,
a sandy tasting nut
from Africa,
unusual in size
and shape,
would it make
miniature peanut
butter for little
sandwiches,
oh, now you’re being
silly, but yes
the Mindful Life
has been a suggested
title for the new
way of believing,
following each
thought through
to the finish,
slowing down long
enough to breathe
and smile,

and laugh out loud
while listening
to my own words
recorded in digital
fantasia and
accompanied by
the rock god of
all time,
how foolish I
would be to dream
of such a life
and yet I have
rearranged my
fastidious loggia
into a studio
for painting like
a madwoman,
it’s as if there
is not enough time
in the day to
express myself,
and I wander back
to the land of
giraffes and elephants
to find a center,
for they know
no boundaries,
these creatures of
the wild,
and that’s where
I’m headed,
a newly
minted
mindful
child.