full-moon lunacy in the heavens
lightning bolts being tossed like javelins
thunder rolling from there to there then
cracking, smacking, crunching the air
and the earth trembling
and then – release:
rain, in huge drops, splattering, bouncing rain
hour upon luscious hour
heaven is right here!
how can one describe wetness on skin
quenched thirst on tongue
damp earth-fragrance in nostrils?
likewise, heaven defies description
it is here, it is here!
‘n’ – the ubiquitous dimension of ‘now-this-here’ – is not a thing; it could never be any kind of fixed object with independent existence. It’s easy to understand that nothing perceived can ever be a solid separate ‘thing’: in order for any ‘thing’ to be an object, it needs a subject. And we cannot provide any subject without it turning likewise into an object. So, what perceives ‘n’ and all its phenomenal contents?
When I stop and sit and shut up, the suchness of ‘n’ is simply apparent as ‘now-this-here’-i n g.
Try as I might, I cannot find a separate perceiver of this suchness. If it has no subject how can it be an object? It flies solo. Yet – it is my source and substance.
‘I’ is body weariness
and the blessing of a fan’s breath
‘I’ is the sweet trust that has come unbidden
and is owned by no one
On this stifling, still, sauna of a morning
Life is rapture, warm weary sweaty rapture
There’s much ado about ‘conscious choice’ – how we must apply it to our lives to achieve everything from prosperity to enlightenment – how it’s needed to change world events – how it will assist in earth’s transformation or salvation. A huge and profitable industry constellates around this fairytale assumption.
The assumption of a chooser entity with powers of volition is largely non-negotiable. But if you’ve done your homework – dug deeply into research on ‘personal’ volition (Benjamin Libet et al) – sat silently on cushion (thought-tracking) – embraced ‘n’ (now-this-here) with every belief-free breath, then you’ll know the wonder of it:
And measurable ticktocks of time later
responsibility is claimed by a subsequent thought
called dear wee me.
In the half-lit dawn
a dozen lorikeets are busy breakfasting on spiky red bottlebrush blooms.
How they manage to swallow anything is a mystery
for they never cease chattering to each other.
An incredible tongue, keetish, full of subtle gurgles,
murmurs, squeaks, squawks, whistles, craws…
There is hearing happening here
but no listener can be found.
Methinks the lorikeets are likewise
yet their conversations are clearly a dialogue
and often a duet.
I love the way they stop for a snog,
whispering their sweet-nothings awhile
then heading back to the tucker-task.
Two Miriams, thirty years between their birthdays, are having a mother-daughter chat over morning coffee.
Miriam senior (90) tells daughter that, unable to sleep because of the rising tropical heat, she spent the night fiddling around with curtains and bedding trying to create better conditions for rest.
Then she adds, almost guiltily, “I know I should just ‘be’ with ‘what-is’ …”
Daughter asks, “But wasn’t the ‘what-is’ of the night the heat and the subsequent discomfort? Wasn’t the ‘what-is’ of the night the impulse to find remedies for that discomfort?”
“So how can you say you weren’t wholly ‘being’ with the ‘what-is’ of the night?”
The mother’s face creases with laughter. “I’m such a clot. I still sometimes forget.”
“Clotting is Beingness too! Forgetting is Beingness too. What can we find that’s not Beingness Being?”
Two Miriams, thirty years between their birthdays, crack up with crone-cackle over morning coffee.