What I notice when amnesia sneaks in and I begin again to claim doer-ship and control over tomorrow, doggedly pushing on, blindly following the ruts of conditioning and posing as supreme controller, is this:
Something happens to bring me back,
and, probably because I’m a gritty goer,
it happens to my body.
(Arm gets rms: can’t scribble or type,
back goes out: can’t stand at easel,
knee explodes: can’t move.)
Something makes me stop, sit, shut-up
and free-fall yet again
into the what-is of this life I call mine.
That ‘something’ is what I know as Grace.
It’s usually fierce. Definitely not fluffy.
I’ve learned to love it as my most treasured Beloved,
for it returns me to ITself.
and I asked:
if this unlit Light cannot be seen by any kind of viewing apparatus –
since that would be like an eye trying to see its own iris
what ‘saw’ that Light flowing in front of closed eyelids?
what ‘heard’ those archaic words echoing within the skull?
and I was reminded:
always and ever
there is only
the pure self-shining Self
Suggested title for the cosmic play:
a narcissist called noumenon
(Yeah yeah, I hear you:
noumenon cannot possibly be objectified.
But that’s the whole point:
noumenon as infinite subjectivity
seems to want to know IT-self and this happens
via ITs manifestations as phenomena.
It could be said then, that ‘Reality’
which, by default includes
both noumenon and phenomena,
is a know-ing-ness fired by
some kind of tireless Divine curiosity
acted out in-the-round
on the dream-stage called world.
It’s like a wondrous web of whatifs –
an infinite unfolding of unimaginable
this morning: a flood, a broken water pipe, a plumber, a back-hoe digger, much noise, no running water in the neighborhood
everything appearing, happening
(including the observer
and her supposed self)
is Creation expressing IT-self
the rhythm of Creation never misses a beat
as IT serenades ITself through a thousand disguises
existence is ITs unfolding score
this was ever known
by the child
by the adolescent
by the woman grown
and the woman white-haired
there is a “roar on the other side of silence”
it is a wordless song
it bathes this brain and body
in quiet quaking joy
it is nameless and placeless
and can only be known by IT-self
elongated diamonds of trembling light creep towards my flannel-covered feather duvet. the rising sun has left the lillypilly and soars into open cerulean sky. a golden finger blesses the ballerina blooms on the cactus, another steals into the little enclosed garden and greets the pond, the tiny ferns and mosses, bestowing enough luminescence to last the day.
peace is not a prospect. it’s the Presence presenting ITself in this now-moment that has no past or future. you want peace? just stop seeking it. just fall into this Presence, this Beloved, that shines forth from every small corner of the world that you create with your blessed unlit light, with your own vast Viewing.