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.
liquidly shimmering spider webs
diamante dewdrops sparkling on long tangled grass
long, deep shadows thrown by still-sleepy shrubbery
currawong calling up the day
delicious saturation of greens under cerulean
cool, fresh lightning-charged air
billowing lace drapes…
naked knowingness needs no witness;
it simply recognizes itSelf
its net of perception
when vast A w a r e i n g
reclaims its space –
nowhere to hide from its
eyelids stuck wide open
to the vast View
This morning ‘I’ opens eyes in a new version of world-ing.
This morning the great Shining slips through slits in wooden window shutters.
I rise with its rays, make green tea in a different kitchen.
This morning’s view from the zafu opens out over cerulean, cobalt, turquoise
blending to ultramarine at the horizon: the Coral Sea.
Utter lusciousness for an artist’s brain.
This morning’s body is stiff and sore, tired and protesting.
There will be a quieter day today, methinks. But who can tell?
Life’s agenda and my own often don’t match!
This morning, as always, I-eye just watches,
serenely unaffected and seriously contented.
This sweetly sun-drenched morn, not yet invaded by clamor of traffic and neighbors, is an artwork of breathtaking beauty.
Shadows, patterns, textures, tones and movement mingle – all woven together on the loom of color.
Color is light.
Look carefully at the world:
do you see anything but color?
Nothing but color.
Nothing but light.
What is looking? What sees?
Nothing but looking.
Nothing but seeing.
Nothing but awareing.
Self-shining radiance is the weaver,
working at the loom of color vibration,
creating a world in which to see
I’m cozy on my zafu. It’s 4am
There’s already a concert in progress –
Kookaburra-call is the overture, raucously interrupting the murmur of toad-talk, frog-gurgle and insect-drone.
One by one the players in the beaked and feathered orchestra strike up. Sleepily at first, testing and tuning their instruments, then with confident joy shouting across to their mates with notes ever sharper and more insistent:
quick – you’ll miss
the silvering-into-gold full moon
slip below the western rim!
I throw on a shirt
stand tree-posed with the rising sun
breathing on my back.
My hair streams upwards
I sink like liquid light
below the palm-draped horizon.