emptiness loves emptying
that’s it’s nature
its forms are endless; beyond mind’s conjecture
you can’t arrive
at an apperception of its infinite beingness
by any practice or prayer
it is too ever-present
without ever arriving, it’s always here
To listen and to hear are as alike as oil and water. We often think we are listening, when all that’s really happening is that we’re hearing a download of noise from an external source, data which our memory (thinking) sorts into stories that gel with our own worldview.
The art of listening involves bringing relaxed word-free attention to the moment’s fullness – whether it’s a friend sharing confidences, a ghetto-blaster thumping, a kookaburra cackling, the water murmuring and the breeze sighing over its surface. In the same impartial way, this listening notices the constant commentary being broadcast inwardly by thinking and feeling – the whole movement of “me”.
It’s interesting to find that when this quality of listening is present there’s really nothing to say because opinions are absent. There’s nothing to say, yet everything that matters is being said. In the absence of words, something else has space to speak, something inextricably intimate that we recognize as Love.
I can sing about You
I can BE You
I used to feel torn in two
and thought I’d missed a cue
but now it’s clear:
it makes no darned difference to You!
this untreatable schizophrenia
is my natural sacred state.
either I can sing about You
or I can BE Your roaring silence
whatever role I think I play
is You, playing for Your own delight
absorbed in either
it’s all the same to You!
Many folk express the longing to be able to draw or paint some-thing. They long to faithfully render a beloved face, or a favorite object, or the marvel of a landscape. Or, with the plethora of photographic devices now available, they eagerly capture moments both miraculous and mundane.
Might this have something to do with our innate longing for seamless intimacy with that apparent object or experience, with longing to know it, to be it, on the other side of conceptualization, categorizing, labeling?
nothing that can be contained, it flows and ebbs;
calls itself perception or consciousness or awareness
or life or grace or destiny or God
the ‘ten thousand things’ are its toys –
its appearances rising and falling
wherever It casts its sensory antennae
is it not the ultimate
the dream and its awareing
appear to be two
but can one exist
without the other?
try as I might
I can’t extricate myself from
either, and I ask myself:
how can I believe in two
when I fail to find even one?