bliss

whatever It is

Echoes from Emptiness - Black Hole 7 by Fabian Oefner

 

whatever It is
that delivers these words
(unreachable by mind’s intent)
through this form

that’s what I pray to

 

whatever It is
that cracks open this heart
(circumventing mind’s cynicism)
to bathe me in bliss

that’s what I call love

 

whatever It is
that heals this weary wounded body
(unaided by any out-sourced effort)
restoring it while I sleep, oblivious

that’s what I hold sacred

 

whatever It is
that births and sustains creation
(immeasurable by mind’s technologies)
unfindable, yet apparent wherever my senses alight

that’s what I bow down to

 

whatever It is
that is moved by grace
(which is just another word for the unwordable)
to pray, to bow, to melt into the sacred

that’s whatever It is

entertaining Itself

 

Image credit: Fabian Oefner

thoughts arise and one of them likes to think it’s a thinker

311

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.

~

Hare from here.