Here I am.
Sitting in Paradise
Breathing the tide of clarity – in it comes
crystal-clear, out it goes,
often muddied by mind –
and I smile as this lifestream flows on
saturating each sensation, yet
paying no heed;
never cocking an eyebrow or casting a vote,
only ever reminding me:
Here I am
here and now
as This, and This and This.
The current version of Paradise finds me staying in a place of great beauty, beside a large lake. This entire year has unfolded as a series of deep retreats. It is a time for, and of, integration. Health issues are being lovingly tended and their emotional causality explored. It’s both harrowing and heart-swelling: Grace delivers whatever is needed, reminding me I signed up for the Full Monty.
Apropos of nothing (I never go fishing) these three small poems landed in my net:
breathing with the lake
Monet-mind beside the Seine
black swans glide by, curious:
pounding the lakeside path
fog hiding the lake
one solitary oarsman
rows through melting space
Photograph taken from my zafu.
I was asked to find my mind
I was asked to find my thoughts
I was asked to find my self
So then it seemed timely to try to find
that was so successful at failing
it couldn’t be found
it can’t be escaped
oh how I love being so deluded
that simply watching words leak out of a pen
can deliver shameless delight!
Image: Andrew Wyeth – Wind from the Sea
Tempera on hardboard, 1947, detail
[What moves – the curtain or the wind?]
Source: Washington Post
All writing on this blog leaks from the pen of Miriam Louisa Simons. Over at my other blog this unlit light, you’ll find more of a smorgasbord of writing, including some of my own.
I chose this WordPress theme for its uncluttered minimalism, and because it’s responsive (i.e., it displays readably on all devices). All the links that normally appear in a sidebar or footer are hidden behind the menu icon at the top of the page. If you feel inclined to explore the offerings posted here since 2010, please click that icon. You’ll also find a way to follow this blog by email there. I promise you won’t be overwhelmed – emptiness has erratic and unpredictable habits. Posts turn up. I marvel.
Copyright © Emptiness
p e a c e
palpable as the presence of a Presence
yet utterly ineffable
a benediction without diction
beyond the grope of thought
a blessedness without symbol
not experienced as other but
– inescapably so –
immaculate all-adoring silence
Image: Miriam Louisa Simons – detail, Stained Glass Morning
Missa Gaia Series, 1987-88. Painting on silk, stitching.
Private Collection, Auckland New Zealand
when you reach crinkled cronehood
days are as good as nights
as far as sleep’s concerned
I get up to pee
then I’m distracted by
the song of the Southern Cross
and lose my way back to bed
The Pointers are crisp and clear
SIT! they command
and who am I
to argue with the Cosmos?
oh joy and glee –
where else to be
but on a zafu
Image source – Sydney Observatory
One of the wonders of the night sky in the Southern Hemisphere (and greatly missed by its natives when they travel north of the equator) is the Southern Cross with its Pointers. In the image above, the Cross can be seen to the right, and the two Pointers to the left, indicating the position of true south.
[lungs rattling, terrorist bugs at war with antibiotics, cough like a dying camel,
green goo by the spittoon-full, aching chest, watery eyes]
[silence, stillness, serenity, pristine perfect, incorruptible, immovable,
unknowable Awareness – – – utterly unaffected]
breathing in, breathing out
A deep bow to my Dharma namesake and inspiration, Yeshe Tsogyal
At the beginning of this month I moved into an old (but beautifully renovated) farm cottage on Kiels Mountain, on the Sunshine Coast hinterland, Queensland, Australia. It is high enough to attract rain and mist, which are welcome visitors so far as the rainforest and its inhabitants are concerned.
And in spite of being only a few kilometers from local villages, the beach and coastal busyness, it has the feel of remoteness. It is my Cloud Mountain, and I am a happy hermit. In my morning scribblings, haiku begin to appear:
Mistiness in close –
drowning out my loneliness,
a Currawong choir.
Lost; an innocent
here, in spacious aloneness –
something Wild finds me.
Alone in the bush,
befriended by Beingness,
I stop asking why.