thoughts arise and one of them likes to think it’s a thinker
by miriam louisa
My eyes pop open in the pre-dawn half-light and I see two huge hares, just outside the window. Their heads are so huge! Their long antennae-ears are tipped with black, creating the appearance of eyes on the tips of rotating arms. Sitting on the dew-drenched grass, they move their ears constantly, turning this way and that, bringing one forward or back, or both. They seem keenly interested in the raucous morning dialogue of nearby kookaburras.
Everything is shouting this morning – the whooping mountain whip birds, the rooster, the parrots; even the guinea fowl are making their clicking contribution.
It’s a dawn of clear and gentle loveliness; the sanctity of the earth is like a long, slow exhalation. Resting in its embrace is bliss.
“The thinker is the thought,” said Krishnamurti
opening a whole chapter of self-inquiry for this scribbler.
But no thinker can be found
and no thought can be caught.
Thinking’s happening; thoughts arise
and one of them likes to think it’s a thinker.