The penny slipped through a crack in the basket-case I used to take for ‘me’. It fell, spinning like a dervish – one side chasing the other in the cosmic dance of dualism. And eventually, obeying the laws of entropy, it ran out of momentum and stopped.
It came to rest in the Real, the changeless,
where both its sides are equally true and valid.
It came to rest in the Real, which had been its home all along,
and it knew as much.
It knew it had never,
in spite of all its spinning and spending,
ever for one nanosecond left the Real,
because the Real is one without a second,
the Real is all there is,
the Real is totality, wholeness.
What a gobsmacker to realize that the two-sided penny called duality,
with all its stories, is inseparable from the Real.
Neither is the basket-case.
All Holy! Halleluiah!
Sometimes one gets frustrated trying to find clean and accurate phrases to wordify this immaculate suchness – ‘n’ – the ‘what-is.’
Language – this English one at any rate – is quite useless for this purpose. Whatever is uttered immediately needs qualification, adjustment, explanation.
Perhaps poetry is the medium, but its technologies aren’t known to me.
(Are they knowable at all?)
The problem is the subject-object split.
If I say, “I am sad”, for example, I lie.
I cannot find an owner of sadness (or any-thing else).
Sadness simply is ‘what-is.’
Perhaps one could say, “I is sadness.”
But that would be grammatically clumsy. And also irrelevant, because the ‘I’ seeks no reason for it; ‘I’ has no aversion towards it; has no need to express it.
The sensation of sadness is an energetic body-brain response to apparent conditions, often appropriate and inevitable in the grand scheme of dream-scenarios – as is all suffering, at the bottom line.
And, like the dreams, changing, always changing.
How then to write about That which never changes?
Poetry is the medium.
Like creativity, knowing nothing about how to ‘do it’ is probably the only way for it to happen.
An uncontrollable nervous repetitive twitch in the eye area is called a ‘tic’.
Living one’s miraculous livingness in tic-toc mode is similarly repetitive and twitchy – knee-jerk responses dominate the day. There’s an absolute abdication to conditioning. The gears and pulleys of thinking merrily toil on; the default ‘doer’ dreams its version of the dream and claims all credit for itself, while blame, natch, belongs elsewhere.
For some this way of being-a-life works fine – in their opinion it’s non-negotiable. No worries. Yet.
For others it’s dysfunctional and causes inexplicable discontent: “Is this all there is?”
In every sentient soul something silent watches, and when ripeness is ripe IT pulls the lynch-pin right out of the works. Nothing whatsoever changes to the Changeless. But tic-toc mode is history.
No more habitude! No more sleepwalking through the miracle of one’s life!
On the Blackall Range the sun shakes itself off and emerges from the gleaming Pacific earlier than on the coast. We sit sipping our steaming green tea, awareing the birth of the new day.
Gradually the little motel room floods with golden light called up by the bird-lords of the mountain, who take off for breakfast elsewhere once their work is accomplished. Other fellow-travelers stir: a dog barks at a jogger, a gecko jumps at a huntsman spider, a TV begins to quack in the next unit . . .
The apparent shift to another place, another space, is just that – an appearance. Phenomena may change, will change, are ceaselessly changing . . .
But this Light of awareing doesn’t rise or set, and knows no time or space. Wherever we go IT remains unchanged, yet IT births all that appears to change. Wherever we place our cushions for a morning sit, there IT is. And when we get up again? There IT is. Beloved!
Some speak of ‘my’ energy, of ‘their’ energy, of ‘others’ draining one’s energy – as in bad and good vibes… But where is this self that owns its ‘own’ energy? Exactly where are these other selves who can steal ‘my’ energy? Can life’s energy exist as an object to be manipulated or to be stolen? Scientists can measure energy in different forms, but can they hold it in their hands and view it with the naked eye?
What I’ve discovered these past months, in the company of a dear someone who constantly monitors ‘his’ energy and also informs me of the state of my own, is that the sensation of energy loss – or gain – in my body is caused by identification with said body, coupled with the belief that energy is finite and fixed. I question this popular paradigm that posits human beings as a collective of hungry vampire energy-suckers. As far as I’m concerned they’re sucking at the wrong source.
What if all those beliefs were untrue?
What if our ‘real’ energy was something utterly
and so unavoidable that you’d have to conclude
IT was your
own dear Self?
floating, arms outstretched,
rolling like the playful whales
that so love this benign bay
turning down, head-first, diving,
sweeping the sandy bottoms,
rising again, breaking free into
then doing it all again and again
in these balmy waters
called the Coral Sea
and I ask myself:
what is It that never gets wet?
what is It that never moves a muscle?
what is It that is aware-ing all this
and I know that I know,
have known It always,
have never been apart from It
and this is the greatest
giggles this morning
a dear wee ‘me’ cut-out
sitting in the little lifeboat
each stroke of the oars a
pouring green tea into a cup (Kyoto and Edinburgh) scratching left armpit midges and mites and mozzies (The English Lakes and tropical Queensland) melting into coral-washed clouds (India, Kenya, France, Italy…)
around the world, faster than light
in the shimmering luminosity
of a cerebral spaceship
yet no muscle moves
and nothing affects
this oceanic stillness