When I talk to You
do I talk to an object?
You are the Beloved,
– my known ‘Beingness’.
But is Beingness a ‘thing?’
I look and I find You displayed
wherever my senses land
wherever my thoughts lead…
You never hide
but You cannot be found
Yet You only display your creation
– ‘world’ –
via this energy pattern called ‘me’ –
an infinity of ‘me’s.
And I – (with open awe and wonder)
realize that there is no I
that can be anything apart from You.
When I talk to ‘world’
in every shape and form
I talk to You
Tiny toads hop on moistly gleaming terracotta. There was a shower in the night, and for the first time in two sweltering weeks the airstream flowing into the sanctuary is cool. Well, it’s cooler than skin temperature and that feels heavenly.
‘I’ soothes itself with fresh breezes,
delights itself with the golden dappled dawn,
amuses itself with bird-gossip and highjinks,
scribbles its way across a blank page…
‘I’ is Awareness incarnate,
‘I’ is the eye through which we see the world
and at the same time It is the world appearing.
What else can be said?
The butcherbirds are busy in the garden this morning. Mum and Dad are showing Junior the delights of the birdbath, and pointing out promising places to peck for breakfast. Their continuous conversation is so complex, so beautifully melodic. It’s delightful. I am enchanted.
I is hearing. I is singing.
I is enchantment, delight.
I is Beingness, aware of Itself.
When the penny drops, there’s no way for it
– or its inventor (me/you) – to go back.
It’s not a question of not wanting to,
or of wanting to ‘for the sake of others.’
When the penny drops, the place it drops to is no-where.
And the one who thought up whole penny-idea is awol.
So there’s nobody to go back
and nowhere to go back from or to.
The full impact of this isn’t apparent at first.
It unfolds like a flower: petal by petal.
Watching, one sees the shifts in behavior,
especially in one’s reactions.
One sees the vast liberation that was never-not-present.
One sees the joy that has no cause or meaning.
One sees, but no-one watches.
There is no witness!
Watching sees and that Watching is what One is.
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.
vast eyes are eyes wideawake
embodying the view
of pregnant emptiness
perception’s toolbox creates
the time and space in which
the world of ‘I’ can arise
vast eyes marry the ‘I’ of ‘me’
with the ‘I’ of everything
and so the view unfolds:
I – I
There was a shift.
The big breath that ceaselessly moves around the earth changed its path.
It exhaled a new perfume.
Its touch on the skin was clammy.
It called and I could not refuse.
Out I went, took up tree pose beneath the Poincianas,
waiting, in the company of a host of parched and thirsting creatures,
scaly ones, crawling and slithering ones,
feathered and furling ones,
all of us wrapped in the dry embrace of cracked earth.
It came, a surging orgasm of blessed benediction.
It roared its song in shimmers through
the wetlands of my body.
The raw awareingness of my senses,
inseparable from those of tree and earth
bird and beetle,
is saturated in wild wet delight!