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Hello Dear Fellow Spiritual Sojourners…hope your trip is going well.

Long time no blog…

Ran into circumstances that forced me to practice what I preach (ugh!)

I am reminded that spiritual values are actually felt… thought you might appreciate this reminder.

“The universe is fondling you in ways you can’t possibly imagine.”

We don’t often think of the Universe fondling us exactly…often as not. the “fondling” can feel like rusty Brillo pads rubbing up against our psyche…that is, if we feel anything at all. But most all of us do long to feel good…and in a higher conscious moment to actually feel “the goodness” itself.

Be that as it may, if you stop for a moment, you can actually feel the fondling going on. And if you need some help, here’s a poem I wrote over thirty years ago. I was driving on Highway 70 from Denver to Steamboat Springs when I was struck by…well…I think the poem says it…


Touch by Errol Strider

I want to be touched.

I want the barren, cold hardness
of fear chromed sensations
to be transformed

Into willingness,


And velvet, soft burlap nudging me.

I want signs with their opaque hard letters,
stranded in two dimensions

To become infused with Softness,

with pliable space

The present

to be filled

with cubed transcendence.

I want the shrubs left alone,
the trees to sprout and fly
sometimes in winter,

And I want snow to kiss me more often than it does.

I want the suckling.

I want to suckle the real universe,
to find the nipple of God,
place my lips on it,

caress and hail him/her/it–

To no longer be deceived by irrelevance,

or theft ….

My own,

Stealing me from the Now
Stealing myself into Time

and its singular vision
and linear dryness

Away from my corrugated self.


I want to get off this bridge of polarity …
To arrive in wonder

beyond this dotted reality

like halftone picture in a newspaper

This patched perception I call my world
unkempt and concretized

defined by separation

trying so hard to misguide me
As I give it credence unwilling to unlock its waiting arms
or embrace my prepubescent self

     with seminal fluids

Instead, I’m swallowed by some old dry sterile wind
bouncing off lifeless textures on the road
plaintively asking me for a lift

or at least a quick feel.

I long to stand naked in a real breeze with virgin oxygen
to unmask myself

and reveal my ignorance gyrating

hoping it will breed innocence, birth, plenty
and saturation with all natural ingredients.

So, I lie in this fallow field
with my seeds in my pocket

waiting to plant myself
waiting to be unearthed

waiting for harvest

to reveal the sprouted essence of
my unquenchable desire for


© 1980 Errol Strider


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