naked knowingness

blessed are those who know nothing for certain

 

Bill Viola - Firewoman, 2005

 

blessed are those who know nothing for certain,
whose curiosity keeps them beyond the claws of conclusion,
who seek as an impulse of wonderment rather than for gain,
who question everything the pundits proclaim as truth;

whose questions deliver them, willingly or not,
to the fiery face of the Unnameable, and
who find the courage to keep a “yes” alive in spite of terror;
who come back speechless and trembling with gratitude

blessed are those for whom the encounter enlivens a capacity
and a willingness to hold both hands out to the world
(one to hold grief, the other, gratefulness)
for their heart knows the two as one;

who, without choice, stand naked in knowingness;
whose fulfilment is refreshed with every breath;
who are quietly content (which is not to say inert or passive)
in spite of all that life appears to heave at them

blessed are those who know these contented ones,
who count them among their friends and neighbours,
who seek them out for their simple wisdom, knowing
they have nothing to spin or sell – nothing to bestow
other than their crazy head-shaking heart-healing joy:

innocent – ingenious – immanent

 

Image: Bill Viola – Firewoman, 2005. Detail from video/sound installation.

I have to go

when my love
for the wondrous world grows dull
and the world stops stopping
at the sill of my senses

my wild naked knowing
knows
that where I find myself
is a place I’ve outgrown

it knows
my pool has become safe
and stagnant
and whatever it is in this blood
that drives me upstream
will not take no for an answer:

I have to go

. . .

I will gasp in a new atmosphere
I will feed on unfamiliar fodder
I will ignore the old mating calls

. . .

what’s clear is this:  on the far side
of comfort, habitude and certainty
creativity flourishes
and creativity is life’s unknowable agenda
incarnate
here

 ~

the empress of emptiness

359

the empress of emptiness
walks alone,
cast off
by her cronies and courtiers

see, she refused to wear
their stitched-together stories
one more moment: she
walks naked

no new clothes (or old)
so transparent
she is only visible to
the innocent eye

a nobody, a no-thing
she is, simply,
whatever you choose
to think she is

~

the morning star rises

330

Echoes from Emptiness: the morning star rising

.
a raucous rooster calls up the light –
first, softest indigo melts the blackness
into an orb of welcoming then
the morning star rises

it climbs eagerly,
sometimes obscured by indistinct forms
silent shadowy cut-outs set
against the backdrop blanket of dawning

as it pulls free of the forest canopy
and sails into vastness overhead
the trees trace out their silent shapes
against the lightening horizon

kookaburra cackles in approval,
but it will be a while yet before
the rest of the beaky choir peek out
from cozy wing-tuck to welcome the new day

I’m at point zero on the zafu
eyes and ears on full alert,
senses unfurled, unfolded
naked

being
the unknowable knowingness
of Life’s ceaseless
display

and recalling
that over two thousand years ago
a man called Gautama
saw this star rising
in exactly the same

way

naked knowingness needs no witness

305

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
wherever
it casts
its net of perception

~

simple suchness, seamlessly known

290

Morning report:

a window opening onto pristine West Australian bush
marri, jarrah, blackboy and karri
the skies are pastel blue and wisped with white
a tremble of airbreath tickles the treetops
pet lambs, hungry for breakfast, bleat
a rooster crows
red-tailed black cockatoos screech
tiny blue wrens chitter-chatter

OM broadcasts its beat through my body
and through the body of the universe

wild awakeness
is simply simple suchness
seamlessly known

~

life’s naked beingness

88

it’s evident, if you look closely,
that the observer is the observed,
the thinker is the thought, and so on
(gratitude to J Krishnamurti for those powerful pointers)

but the person-problem remains:
who is this ‘observer-person’?
who is this ‘thinker-person’?
who is this ‘inquirer-person’?

the dynamics aren’t difficult to grasp
but who grasps?
and who then understands?

my Buddhist friends warn about dispensing with the ‘conventional’ self
but again I ask: who/what is it that dispenses – or doesn’t?

you can get bogged down in this mind-movie for great grey eons
before it loses its box-office appeal

I cast a look sometimes but boredom soon kicks in
while the wonders of unabridged Life never cease to amaze

Life’s naked beingness shines from ITself
upon ITself
and for ITself

~