awakening

the void coats the shaman,

standing there,

straddling two worlds.

there is no unnecessary movement

but breath,

and it is even.

the dawn of light

wakes in ink

and visual pathways,

full of irradiation and effulgence,

gyrate with subtle incandescence.

there is only one action - 

to plunge within,

as orion half rises into consciousness

above the darkened tree line of memory. 

Zen

Giant Buddha, Kamakura, Japan, cast 1252 C.E., November 2010

drinking sencha,

i observe slurps

and smacks

as men consume

sustenance with sticks.

the cadence intensifies -
click, clank, tink!
japanese singing soup bowls
surround me,
deftly played by musicians
who signal
finality with 
one
loud
orchestrated 
belch.

copyright November 2010 

Out Trekking

Apologies for the lack of blog posts the past few weeks. 
I've been out walking in the world, losing myself in woods and other wild places, 
but I'll return soon with fresh thoughts and words. 

Until the next, may your own wanderings and journeys be restorative.

Satsang with Gangaji

I just finished reading "You Are That!" Satsang with Gangaji and found myself nodding through the whole book. Yep, it all made pretty sound sense to me. All of it. Here are a few of the passages that struck me most:

"Discriminating wisdom recognizes the folly of chasing impermanent things in search of permanence. Whether it is in money, food, lovers, or great spiritual states, it is foolish to search for something permanent in something that is inherently impermanent...recognition of impermanence is like a thunderclap opening the mind. Not a belief, not a hope, not a theory -- but a realization that all of your grasping has been in vain. All of your rejecting has been in vain. All mind activity of attempting to hold, to keep, or to deny has been in vain. If you link up realization with particular experience, then in your mind, realization is a thing. No thing is permanent" (p. 51). 

"Self-inquiry is vigilance. If in any moment you feel pulled towards identification with suffering, ask yourself the question, "who is suffering?" The belief, I am not THAT, and the resulting suffering must be faced. Direct experience is self-inquiry. Who is not That? Who is suffering? In self-inquiry, one uncovers self-denial through fabrication of thought. Belief in fabricated thought as reality leads to suffering. In the moment of directly experiencing the fabrication, the lie is exposed and annihilated" (pp. 160-61).

"Attention gets its attentiveness from pure awareness, which is who you are. Self-definition only keeps you fixated on waves while yearning to find the deep. The ocean has no problems with waves. Never for a moment does the ocean imagine the waves as separate from itself. Never for a moment does the ocean imagine its depths as separate from itself. Never for a moment does the ocean imagine there is any separation between wave and depth. Be the ocean. This is vigilance" (p. 166).

"All is true self. There is no separation anywhere. Suffering comes while imagining separation from self. Fear arises around whatever it is you imagine you are separate from" (p. 170). 

the goddess walks on

decay smells good,

i muse as another flash of orange

presents itself to my sneaker.

crunch.

crumble.

snap.

my steps play a role

in life's great turnover.

with one movement i create ash

and fragile bones crush beneath my feet.

i feel like kali --

the great devourer --

as i walk and plod through death.

all dissolves before me.

farmers remove gold from dried earth

and hang up their scythes for the season.

i watch as they scurry towards the hearth

and shut wooden doors firmly behind them.

i stand on resting soil,
stick out my tongue
and create a new universe.


in the silence that follows,
i join the dervishes

and spin faster and faster

in orbit around something holy.

Karma

There had been a rising -- billions of years ago and again today. I think about this as I scramble up crags to 3500 feet. Man and the USG have marked the summit with a bit of bronze. I can't help but run my hand over the metal staple, musing about its history and the hands which have touched it before me. The man next to me tells me quietly that THIS is where storms are born. He's right. Up above, I observe clouds which hold water molecules that have known millions of expressions. They endlessly play their parts in a great karmic wheel. Evaporation. Condensation. Precipitation.  Repeat. The geography always changes, but they never leave Earth. Poor doomed little molecules!

I glance again behind me - at this man who shields himself from a hurricane's leftovers. Is this not also a possible re-do? We're straddling the ridge line, living in two realities at once. Infinite futures and parallel universes stretch across my plane, all possible depending on where I direct my consciousness.  

Out in the valley, shadows wheel their way towards us, shape shifting like entities out of the Tibetan Book of the Dead. We speculate when and where they will strike.  Here? There? How soon? Will we scream out of fear or ecstasy? I close my eyes and want to grab a nearby hand, wondering if the scythe will mark us now or brush past us as a reminder that days are limited and the wheel stills spins.

I write

I've committed to write a short story by 2 October. It's for a potluck dinner--Polidori style--at a friend's home.  I'm kicking around some contenders -- the characters in each have a different story to tell. Some of are more compelling than others. 

I debate. Which one?

I fear. Will it be good enough?

I take a deep breath.

Here goes!