this mysterious morphing me


Echoes from Emptiness: this mysterious morphing me


‘me’ is a mystery
to myself and to the world
of teeming memies

it morphs on-demand
to become … whatever is

it’s a shape-shifter
expert nanodrama artist
in cunning disguise


but no such mystery
shrouds the changeless One called ‘I’
right here, always ON

Creation’s unblinking eye


image source

suchness flies solo


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.


awareness, to the ‘n’


wherever one goes,
all places are ‘here’

whatever one perceives,
all phenomena are ‘this’

whenever one’s alive,
all time is ‘now’

this is my acronym-based version
of the mathematician’s ‘n’ degree (nth)
– the now-ing, this-ing, and here-ing

awared by the ‘I’ thing
or rather, no-thing,
that’s their source
and substance


the tao of incense


. . .

the smoke streams up from the tiny red-hot tip of the incense stick
it swirls, dances, languishes, rises, traces curious calligraphy in the air
it blesses the space it swims within with perfume
it flows with the air movements and resists nothing
and when that burning ember has done its time
the smoke simply disappears into its source:
the sacred space that kept the ember alive

the perfume lingers …

this is a Life story


Image source:

sit! sit! sink into wondrous spaciousness



there’s a palm frond fluttering and a whistler trying to be mindful
a bird is whistling too, but purposefully

there’s a toddler laughing in the crisp autumn sunshine
and a radio quacking the morning news

there’s toothache and tiredness
but the zafu beckons beguilingly

sit! sit! sink into wondrous spaciousness
the source of all that is being perceived and sensed


how could something called spaciousness
be so alive, alert, aware and utterly unknowable?


the palm fronds are trembling


there’s a man’s voice
there’s merry whistling
there’s ceaseless traffic

someone’s coughing
doves are calling
songbirds are singing

there’s a screen door slamming
there’s a white car passing by
there’s a stooped woman, hurrying

the palm fronds are trembling
green tea steams in this raku cup
a fountain pen scribbles

there’s a body beating

there’s the singing silence of this stillness
which is the source and substance of all sound