Death

the birds come to my birdbath

 

Philip Sutton, The Tree, 1958

 

emelle says:

I’m a fool with little need of company.

There’s no one deemed respectable here,
so how could I demand respect?

When recognition only brings busyness,
how could I not love invisibility?

Knowing that mind is the slayer of silence
why would I want “the last word?”

Saturated by streaming aliveness
how could I be lonely?

I cherish the extraordinariness
of ordinary suchness
but few know what that looks like,
so I’ll tell you:

The birds come to my birdbath.

The dogs wag their tails
when I open my door.

My luna-lover beams at me
without reproach or expectation.

My cup runneth over
and the ants make the most of it;
they even cart off my toenail clippings.

When the tide of breath runs out
they will claim every scrap of this body
and have a banquet with the worms.

And their scats will feed the earth;
new grass will grow in the summer,
sap will rise in the trees
and they will exhale my smile.

I will be breathed back
into the fecundity of space.

Just like that.
And that’s enough for me.

 

Image: Philip Sutton, The Tree, 1958
philipsuttonra.com

 

my tuppence-worth

One of my father’s nick-names for me was ‘Tuppence.’  Perhaps it was because I was always eager to offer my “tuppence-worth” (i.e., the state-of-the-world according to my all-knowing self), and irritatingly persistent with my questions – “But why?” “Who says so?”  When he was really mad at me he’d say, “For two pence I’d give you the hiding of your life!”  I was always relieved no one came along with those pennies.

I never out-grew the tendency towards contrariness and insatiable curiosity.  From here I regard them as having been essential companions – both tools and fuel – on the rather erratic life path that unfolded for the ‘Tuppence’ character.

The days when I held court in my pram are ancient history, but the questions that matter for me remain fresh and alive.  My responses to them are an ever-morphing ontology.  Here’s the current version – a crone’s tuppence-worth.

 

Tuppence (Miriam Louisa)

Tuppence in her pram: Well then. What’s this all about?

 

What does the “God” word mean for you?

The Unknowable

dressed up and dancing as the knowable.

…

Is Consciousness all there is?

I don’t know.

I can only say it’s all I ever experience.

…

But what knows the contents of Consciousness?

You’ll never find it.

(You’ll never escape it either.)

…

What is “enlightenment”?

An idea those who believe they are not already fully alight

like to entertain.

…

“Already fully alight” – how can one know that?

It can’t be known.

It’s quietly evident when all hunger for knowing drops away.

…

Can there be a partial or ‘damaging’ awakening?

Presence is already perfectly and completely just so.

But ideas about it can be experienced as wrong/bad/incomplete.

…

The sages say the observer is the observed. How is that so?

I’ve spent a lifetime on this koan…

I only ever experience all-inclusive observing.

…

Is there an Almighty God?

Too constricted and limited a notion, I’d say.

How about an Unlimited and Almighty Godding?

…

Is it true there’s “only One”?

From the perspective of Presence,

One is one too many.

…

Is there a purpose to life?

I ask Life. It grins:

Get onstage – it’s The Full Monty and you’re the star!

…

What is death?

That’s easy because I’ve been across and had a look.

It’s a little side-step, from one theatre into another.

…

Is it true that thoughts create reality?

Reality transcends thinking entirely.

However, thoughts and beliefs determine the quality of experience.

…

Is life a dream?

Maybe.

We’d know if we could find a dreamer.

…

What is surrender?

Abdication. Effortless, voluntary relinquishment

of the ME-project.

…

Is the world an illusion?

If it is

you’re the magician.

…

What’s the difference between illusion and delusion?

Illusion is the mirage in the desert;

delusion is believing it’s real.

…

Is there anything sacred?

Nothing knowable

could ever be sacred.

…

Is it true that “I am That?”

No.

You are the glorious “am”.

…

Are there any true concepts?

I don’t know

any.

…

Is there any valid aspiration / intention?

Yes.

K I N D N E S S

…

What is freedom?

Being 100% present as the capacity for passionate engagement with life

and not minding what happens.

…

What brings your greatest fulfilment?

Nothing ever brings fulfilment.

It’s one’s natural state when there’s no need of fulfilment.

…

And your deepest peace?

S I L E N C E

(no contest)

…

Do you have any plans?

The GPS is set to nth – now! this! here!

Presence is driving.

…

What is Grace?

The Beloved

sneaking up for a kiss.

…

What are you?

I am whatever Presence wants to be

in response to whatever It meets.

 

[The words Awareness, Presence, the Unknowable, Reality, Grace, the Beloved, all point to the same ‘thing’. Except it’s not a thing. If anything (ha!) it’s an event-ing.
I like the Godding word; I might patent that one!]

you will not be missed

Photograph by Andy Ilachinski

 

You will not be missed by Life

– you,

a minuscule synapse in Its immeasurable web

of pulsing intelligence.

 

Yet, if you stumble wideawake into that synaptic self-

less identity – against all odds,

turning away from all cultured data-input –

Life will support you in unimaginable ways

(you will speak of Grace, you will kneel in awe)

as you flow the info-field for the fulfilment

of Its One Uncaused Thought

 

Make no mistake

you will not be missed by Life, ever.

The nano-speck of measurable matter

known by your good name

will be recycled to beneficent use

in the interest of the

Holy Whole.

 

You will not be missed by Life

Beloved

because you can never go missing,

even when you pretend to die.

 

Image by photographer and physicist Andy Ilachinski

See more of Andy’s fine work on one of my other blogs – the awakened eye

Synapse?

I had a death dream

287

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 …

~

how can the Unborn be extinguished?

175

Sentient beings seem to share an inability to contemplate the likelihood of their death, let alone its inevitability – even on their deathbed.  Most people put this down to fear of the unknown.

Might it be different if they had, by great good fortune, discovered that what they essentially are can never die, for It was never born?

And might those who end this life-experience be the ones whose forgetting of this Knowing is less dense?

My mother bows her head in deep respect when a suicide is reported to her.  She expresses no regret or bewilderment.  She always senses the bigger picture, yet her heart overflows with compassion.  Her untutored wisdom awes me.

~


on a summer’s evening in Alicante

14

the adorables known as my parents celebrate 67 years of marriage today!

she who identified with the idea of ‘daughter’ can no longer find herself in the idea
but nevertheless, daughter-ing happens

~

later, an image of the old ‘me’ arises, just like in a dream:
a vacuum cleaner, sucking greedily, insatiably
sucking experiences and teachings and philosophies and beliefs into a bursting bag

me, me, mine!

the bag began emptying on a summer’s evening in Alicante,
(full moon rising, magenta bougainvillea against palest indigo sky
the Lover known as Death silently keeping company)
and once underway, reversal was impossible

with the departure of the last dust-balls,
the bag and the vacuum cleaner disappeared

Lover never left

~