on the day they call Christmas
Team Emelle wakes up
from its culture’s insidious story
about stars and shepherds
wise men, stables and saviours.
Team Emelle is curiously deaf
to the seductive calls
of collective consciousness
to make of this date something special.
It greets the day with a deep bow,
celebrating its everyday sanctity
with gratitude and wonderment.
It tends the Great Light
known as Primordial Wisdom Awareness
(as befits its Dharma name, Yeshe)
with its own private rituals
on its unique journey
through time’s long now.
It tends creation’s original Word
in solitary, silent, stillness.
Breath is its prayer
and its practice.
It tends the manger
in the Heart’s stable
– the soul’s sanctuary –
where the ever newly-born,
dwells in comfort and safety.
Team Emelle doesn’t buy
into the marketplace mindset.
It knows of only one present sure
to give happiness and joy,
one (omni)present that can’t be bought,
wrapped, given or owned…
a l i v e . a w a r e . p r e s e n c e
Artwork by Miriam Louisa Simons – Breathscribe series: I am here, detail.
Since the Miriam Louisa composite is made up of of many characters, to say nothing of 37.2 trillion cells and a roughly equal population of bacteria, I have come to think of it as Team Emelle.
Emelle = ML
ML = Miriam Louisa
All smiling and bowing at you right now!
Primordial Wisdom Awareness is also known as The Great Perfection
always at home
in this inescapable
bright unlit luminescence
this crucible of Creation:
Mother of time and space;
vast unknowable knowingness
always at rest
in this ultimate abode;
unassailable, yet ever available
prior to the mind
container of consciousness –
beyond the concept of beyond
always at home, always at rest
p e r f e c t
. . .
About prajñāpāramitā – here and here
being seeing is being peace
yes, but who is “being seeing”?
no one, only the beingness of sensorial perception
– some folk would call it primordial awareness
yes, but who is “being peace”?
no one, only the beingness of choiceless awareness
– some folk would call it pure consciousness
yes, but “who is”?
no one, only all-that-is, right-now, right-here
– some folk would call it simple suchness
Many folk express the longing to be able to draw or paint some-thing. They long to faithfully render a beloved face, or a favorite object, or the marvel of a landscape. Or, with the plethora of photographic devices now available, they eagerly capture moments both miraculous and mundane.
Might this have something to do with our innate longing for seamless intimacy with that apparent object or experience, with longing to know it, to be it, on the other side of conceptualization, categorizing, labeling?
nothing that can be contained, it flows and ebbs;
calls itself perception or consciousness or awareness
or life or grace or destiny or God
the ‘ten thousand things’ are its toys –
its appearances rising and falling
wherever It casts its sensory antennae
is it not the ultimate
I’m standing on the deck of a boat of some kind. The sea is benign, but there’s a heaving swell which is making it tricky to tie up at the wooden pier. I’m thinking about how to get my little suitcase onto the pier, trying to assess the rhythm of the swells. I toss the bag but miss the moment by a fraction and it catches on something on the pier then tumbles into the water. I’m not too worried, thinking it will float and be retrievable.
Then I’m standing in the water, which now appears to be a kind of estuary. The bag’s still floating, but a swift current has caught it and is carrying it further out. Dogs are swimming out to it. (Varanasi flashbacks!) It’s moving faster than I can run. Then it moves into open, choppy water, becoming submerged, and I know it’s gone.
I stand there, trying to recall what was in the bag: clothing, a pearl necklace given by a beloved, a jump-drive holding all my writing and images of my artwork, a notebook, another book, or two. I’m unfazed. There’s no sense of loss or anxiety.
The dream ends.
During the day the thought arose again and again: I had a death dream.
For surely dying must be just like that, like simply watching the little bag that holds your identity kit together – all the accessories and loved phenomena of a Life – float away on the outgoing tide of oceanic consciousness. The wild awareness that has been watching for that entire Life-time (and all others) simply continues to watch …
The news that one exists only as a concept in consciousness is unacceptable for most folk.
Struggling so seriously, so arduously, to create a self (a whole self, a creative self, a healed self, a true self, a higher self), most refuse to contemplate the credentials of the crafty creator of the struggle.
This struggle is familiar to me; it used to be the story of my life. But one day the layer of stories holding together the self I took to be ‘me’ was subjected to a blow-torch – the choiceless, value-free Light of inquiry. Like tired old wallpaper it dried up, peeled back and fell off.
‘I’ is all that’s left and every-thing every-one every-where is this ‘I.’
I = Awareingness, intimate and inescapable
I = Consciousness, in which all concepts find their context
In this unknowable ‘I’-ness who needs a ‘me’?
‘I’ tells me who:
L I F E
Grasping the impossibility of a separate autonomous self with which one can ‘I’dentify opens the door to savage wisdom.
Awakening to the now-ness, this-ness and here-ness of consciousness playing the phenomenal self, to its marvelous imPERSONation within Life’s dream, is awakening to freedom.
At last one can speak authentically of self-love, for all versions of self are none other than IT knowing ITself.
How cool is that, Beloved?