how a few moments of empty-mind spiked with questions of the unanswerable kind can deliver you to your effulgent nothingness

Edgar Degas, Woman, Seen from Behind, Drying Her Hair, c.1905 - 1910

 

I take off my clothes,

lift them to my face,

inhale the fragrance of my skin.

By what alchemy was that unique odour created?

  

I soak in the bath,

submerged to my chin.

Wetness, warmth: what registers these sensations

yet never gets wet?

  

I towel-dry my mop of silver hair.

I marvel that it grows, it falls out;

more grows, automatically.

Can I spin one thread of hair?

  

I trim a toenail.

How does this perfect toe-guard

know how to grow?

Is there a how-to manual for nails (and hair and cells)?

  

My scissors slip.

I watch my bright blood slowly seep,

congeal, clot (or not).

Can I control a clot?

  

I listen to the ambient sounds of my environment.

By what miracle can I hear

the kettle boiling urgently,

and those rowdy Kookaburras?

  

I make coffee and slowly savour the flavour,

asking myself,

(eyes shut)

Where exactly is ‘taste’ located?

  

Then, uninvited, the mother of all questions shows up:

Where’s my world viewed from?

I gaze undistractedly

at my coffee cup.

  

I can’t find a point of perspective.

So then I try to find a viewer.

Can I find a fixed point,

a “me”?

  

Almost 75 years of wondering, checking for myself,

what can I report?

Well, as the saying goes:  All the lights are on but

no one’s home.

  

I imagined myself into existence,

only to find I am unfindable.

What I find is inescapable space.

Space that’s unimagined, and unarguably aware.

  

Space – ceaselessly birthing

all experience in, and as, time,

including this tricky two-step called

BE-ing.

  

Aware space, dancing

as every sensation, feeling, thought,

every belief – questioned or not,

every thing and every no-thing too.

  

And I, hobbled and hollow-boned,

know its fancy footwork as my own.

  

  

Don’t you just love the way a few moments

of empty-mind

spiked with questions of the unanswerable kind

can deliver you to your effulgent nothingness?

 

– with a deep bow, ml


Art – Edgar Degas, Woman Seen from Behind, Drying her Hair c. 1905 – 1910.
Public Domain.


 
 

there is no witness

237

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.

~

ever-present ‘I’ is an eternal insomniac

21

I seek a shift in common language,
a way to say what is actually meant

I speak of I, but don’t mean I
as a thing

I speak of it as that (mystery)
which manifests function and
process

I speak of I as ‘It’

but this ‘It’ is no-thing either, yet thought
would instantly turn it into a thing in
time and space

I as ‘It’ occupies neither time nor
space, yet – magician that it is –
manifests both in order to
show up for the party

I as ‘It’ is never caught napping;
ever-present ‘I’ is an eternal insomniac,
resting as unknowable Knowingness

and wideawake – to the n

~