Reaching In, Reaching Out

comments 20
Poetry

Some nights are for forgiveness.

I can only let the mail
pile up for so long.
Then I have to open the notes
I’ve been sending myself
since who knows when,
and really drink them in.
Notice the handmade paper,
the choice of twine,
the careful hand-writing,
the postmarks from places
I never knew I’d been.
How did I get there?
When was I lost at sea?
I realize…
a distance has been opened,
and it’s measure is a sinking grief.
What good is being king
if you do not bless your subjects
with your holy presence?
The messages speak
using the only means available.
That strange body symptom,
that visiting sense of futility,
the disgust at my own needy efforts,
the pain of circumstance,
the fatigue of striving
for the one change that never comes—
these are the avenues desire walks.
I leave my perch to walk amongst them,
find my missing pieces,
wrap my arm around them
and hold them close.
Tickle their noses.
Shelter them from distance
and tell them stories
until they fall asleep in my embrace.

Some nights are for forgiveness,
for abandoning plans and
taking myself down to the water,
down by the sea to whisper
all night long to those parts of me
still far beyond the horizon clinging
to their little rafts in the wind,
desperate and confused,
wondering where I’ve gone.

This way…
Over here…

I love you…

A Blown Correlation

comments 13
Poetry

After a day of cotton skies
and bituminous questions
about my fate,
a gap appeared in the sky
and sheets of light rained down.
Leaves glowed like stained glass,
the air trembled softly in the trees
as it awoke from its slumber,
and a butterfly took flight.
Grace is like that,
just a flicker of brilliance,
a single data point that destroys
years of careful correlations
but brings the mountain into view.
When I beheld the light from the summit
my mind changed phase,
becoming translucent like the leaves.
The molecules holding my past
in whirling electronic orbits
photo-oxidized
into a field of resonating suns,
and now, even on cloudy nights,
I can hear the stars whispering.

Underground

comments 18
Poetry

I’m a vein of flickering ore
woven through undisturbed rock,
a compacted silence.
I’m the tunnel winding past,
an opening pulled from one darkness
to another, in a line, and a walker
who wanders along its length.
Each direction dissolves into vacancy.
In the half light of a torch
someone left behind,
I look at the wooden braces
and sense the immensity of the weight above.
Who built this place?
Where were they going?
What were they looking for down here,
miles beyond the reach of sound,
cutting paths through sleeping stone?
What will wake it up?
Beyond the reach of the lamplight,
I’ve learned to trust this groping quiet.
It’s like an incinerator of identities.
I pinch the dust from the walls
between my thumb and two fingers,
rub it gently back and forth,
and it starts to glow softly.
This is a clue.
Who has left me this message?
I press my ear to the cut stone passage, and listen:
waves are leaving me that will never return.
I lay down and dream of
a woman planting seeds
into my heart.  One by one
she holds them up to look at them,
inspecting both sides carefully,
touches each one softly to her lips,
then places them inside a ventricle.
When it’s full,
she presses the valve closed between her fingers,
then waters my chest from a can.
The strange thing is, I’m not even cut,
even though all the seeds are stuffed
into one of my ventricles.
Maybe this isn’t a dream.
I have already died, I decided,
but that was a long time ago,
longer ago than I can remember,
on a day just like this one.
I’ve been wandering here for an age,
and I’m going to die again, anyway,
down here alone in this tunnel,
so the seeds will sprout.
She told me the vines
will travel through the rock,
following the vein of flickering ore.
When the vines are thick as a man’s arm
and wound all through the stone,
and there is nothing left of me
but a pair of boots in this empty hallway
the vines will die.
Mice will emerge from them
and run along the flickering vein of ore,
cheeping to one another in their own language.
Down here, that’s like being tickled
by an entire battalion of feather dusters.
It’s a thrill while it lasts.
Then they, too, will lie down and sleep.
Probably turn into geodes.
I’ll find myself walking again,
only I’ll be someone else altogether this time,
an amnesiac in a familiar darkness,
rubbing that glowing stone dust between my fingers,
wondering…

This could go on forever,
but I don’t think it will, because
I’ve started to see the graffiti.
Like the other day I walked past a man
with a name tag that said The Poet.
He was mumbling at the rock
and holding a can of spray paint.
I sidled past, caught in my thoughts,
careful not to bump him in the act of spraying,
and when I realized I had stumbled
all the way through a Curiosity without
even stopping to squint my eyes at it,
I went back to take stock.
There was just a hole in the stone wall
shaped like a big oak door
and an EXIT sign painted above it.

I marked it down for further investigation.

Then later I saw the woman with the seeds.
She wrote a long, flowing note
down the tunnel wall
that went on for days and days
and I followed about two steps behind her the whole way,
reading every swirl and curl of it.
It said, basically,
There’s a whole lot more happening
right now than you are inclined to believe
but you can’t see it yet,
so we’re doing this for a little while.

You see what I mean?
The clues are really piling up.
Silence is like a tremendous Eye
that’s just about to Open.

All Your Playful Swatting

comments 23
Poetry

A body is neither a limit nor a cage,
but a flower on the vine of who you are.

And those bees buzzing
all around you?
Those zoom-zoom experiences
that keep swarming your life?
They just want to
collect your holy nectar
and take it back to their hive
so they can toast you
all winter long, quite possibly
for the rest of their lives.

Best to stop swatting them away
and open your petals wide–
invite them in for a landing.
Let them suckle upon
the sweet marrow of your being,
and carry your Love to wherever it’s needed.

The flower’s surrender does not require
an understanding of where its gifts are taken,
only the loss of all opinion concerning worthiness.

Those buzzing beauties will never stop trying, anyway.
Having tasted your sweetness once before,
they are incapable of interpreting
your shrieks and karate chops as anything but
the most exuberant, holy jokes.

Oh, how they love it when you tease them so.

You should know–
all your playful swatting is just
fanning the flame at the center of their being,
reminding them with agonizing Desire
that the very nature of their existence
is a perpetual coming closer.

Drummed, Holy

comments 6
Poetry

All our assumptions were wrong.
The strangest part
is realizing we always knew this,
even in the hour of our deepest pain.

We’re like a secret of the universe
that wandered through the trees
to a scenic overlook and stood slack-jawed
peering into a crevasse full of stars and comets
choreographing the meaning of existence,
then got whacked in the back of the head
with a frying pan
and splattered into a corpus callosum of
inter-combinant reverberations.

Now we’re each whipping back and forth
past and through one another like
a wave packet of space-blurred special effects,
each of us in a state of constant acceleration
with our stomachs clenched
in our own little tonal vehicles,
thinking separately but all at once,
How did this happen?
I’m gonna’ find out who did this,
and I’m gonna’ fix ’em.

Keep in mind, that’s just one approach.

Hafiz hopped into my orbit once,
just as smooth as the seventh day,
like living in bouncy houses
was perfectly natural for
quantum rubber bands of awareness like us,
and told me another one–
something very wink-wink about how
a holy drum in the hand of God
just loves to be struck,
doesn’t it?

I got to thinking then.
Who knows…
we might even be a tambourine.

Someone really good at signal theory
and Fourier Transforms really ought
to get to the bottom of this.

* * * * *

Jesus, Unfolding

comments 12
Christ / Poetry

I met Jesus
while crawling
on my belly
beneath a rock,
scratched and bleeding,
panting with the effort
to catch a single drop of dew
with my swollen tongue,
straining to taste its coolness
before it swelled,
and gravity plucked it
out from under me.

I’d been trying the same stunt
every morning at this spot for three days.
Now I was too weak to move on.

At the last moment, I hesitated.
It was like the whole world hit pause–
as if my need had been temporarily interrupted
or I had been tapped on the shoulder
by a boy with cracked eye glasses,
asking for directions to the bus stand.
I saw minuscule, swirling motion,
the unfolding of light into color,
and the vision of an Ocean, dancing.
For a moment, I was Empty.

Then hungrily, I drew near,
grunting with the effort
to pull my carcass across the sand.
I leaned close, extending
my tongue through crackling pain.

“Not like this,” He whispered.

I heard Him, and I stopped.
I squinted at the drop,
at its oscillating structure,
at its whirling, sentient equanimity.
“Brokenness cannot carry what I Am.
You must do it.  Carry me with you.”

Without thinking, I touched the drop
to the mouth of a little glass vial
I’d picked up from an abandoned car
and carried across two state lines,
a mesa, through a committee of sleeping vultures,
along an abandoned set of railroad tracks
and past the dotted pattern of a running wolf–
hoping my scent was carrying the other way.

After it was in the vial, I sat up,
and then I cursed my fool self.
I jeered at the rock and smacked
my own head with my fist
and cried until I shook up and down
in waving, detestable heaves.
I hated my self for what I’d done
and for my crippledness
and for letting that drop of water
talk me out of the one act
that could have saved my dried out bones.

But I found I could walk, and so I did.
He never told me where to go or what to do,
but He told me other things–
about how the hills were made,
and the ravines carved out,
and the most ancient dust congealed into a ball.

On the fourth day I asked Him,
“How come if brokenness can’t carry you,
but I can?”

He told me how the very place
we were walking on used to be a jungle
filled with white, tree-climbing monkeys
and tasty nuts the size of a small fist
and fleshy melon fruits and yellow flowers
and even though the sun was the same then
as now, the place was surely desolate as hell,
wasn’t it?

But later we passed a grove of trees that day.
And a hummingbird hummed like they do
and did a zoom-zoom jig in very air before me.

The next day I told Him I loved it,
all of it,
everything,
even if was a naked,
sun-baked,
parched,
man-eating
strip of rock and cracked dirt.

Then that night it rained.
I held Him close to my chest
and we sat under a rock and watched
and I filled a canteen
and at one point I got up
and did something part Navajo
and part Scottish and it
yanked me in two directions at once and
very nearly broke my ankle straight off.
When I stopped I saw
two families and a donkey
gathered at the top of a rise,
looking at me quizzically.

We started traveling together.

I told them about how the mountains
in the distance had been made from scratch
and how rivers used to flow right where we walked,
and one of the little girls found a white flower.
One of the men was sick when we started,
but I gave him my vial to carry and Jesus
told him how stars conspire to make bones,
and bones conspire to stand men up,
and standing men conspire to make dreams,
and dreams conspire to make stars,
and by the time He got through telling that,
the man was a sight better.

We found the ocean eventually,
after crossing the mountains
into hills full of fruit and game.
One day I looked down in the vial
and saw it was dry as a bone
and I half to panicked.

Then I heard Him laughing.

“When did that happen?” I asked.

“When you took me in,” He said.

“When did that happen?” I asked.

Then He told me a story about how
the wind blew for years and years and years
and storms flickered across the sky
and men and women without thoughts
sang up the whales and the heavens
and leather-skinned beasts with horns.

Jesus is just how it starts for some of us.
We carry Him next to us until
all distinctions are lost.
And then it just keeps going on from there.

Jabberwocky Detonation

comments 6
Poetry

The Only Principle is this:
Nothing happens
that doesn’t unfold within
a field of awareness,
and every awareness
is held by a greater one
because no awareness
is great enough to hold itself.

This is precisely true,
even though awareness is
always, only and ever… One.

(That last bit’s the Other Principle.)

Using language as we are here
is like trying to make a hole
in the Emptiness by
using teaspoons to
scoop out little dollops of it
and peek through to the other side.
For argument’s sake,
let’s just say you could.
Where would you put them?
Perhaps you could eat them
one little bite at a time
and make them disappear that way.
What’s strange is that
you could do so
all day long and never be full,
even though Emptiness
is filling us to overflowing
in every moment.

The most anthropomorphic statement
I ever heard was that the universe
could never be run on a platform of awareness,
because the universe is too reliable and precise for that.
Milk-a-say-whut!?  Look here—
just because your mind resorts to thought
every time the wind blows, doesn’t mean
the only Awareness there Is has the same proclivity.
Those same prognosticationists who said
it wasn’t awareness at all
claimed it was self-deploying inevitabilities called laws
that arise from manifold configurations
of curled-in-on-themselves
ingots of jam-packed energy
that detonate spontaneously
without any awareness
in or behind or through them whatsoever
and then much, much, much, later,
when things have cooled off,
build up to it (awareness).
Now that’s a tricky thing, my friend–
building all the way up like that
to nothing at all…

I’m not saying nothing detonated.
I’m saying that Nothing itself probably did detonate…
in, as and through a field of awareness.
I can have a pet theory or two of my own, can’t I?
I think of space as a maverick propensity.

Since only an unaware being
could imagine awareness was as flighty
as a room full of monkeys and typewriters
to begin with, and then conclude the laws themselves
were the product of the luckiest collection
of monkeys and typewriters ever assembled
whose mandates followed them around everywhere they went
informing the color and half-life of every particle in the area
like a teleporting jabberwocky entourage of precision,
and since there are no unaware beings,
I went out for a sandwich.

Aside from violating the Only Principle there is,
as well as the Other Principle,
you could see how some folks
could try and make these ideas stick.
They’re quite amazing.

When they ask you that question
about trees falling
and making a sound or not—
don’t answer it.
Don’t even move.
Just close your eyes
and be like that still point
inside a rocket engine
that never so much as flinches
during take-off, the one
from which all thrust is derived.
And for godsakes, don’t think!
Maybe it’ll happen to you
like it did to Hafiz, when he said,
I’ll show you a law,
and then disappeared…
simultaneously appearing Everywhere,
and still home for supper.

I call that a Jabberwocky Detonation.
Helps to know who you are,
you wanna’ try that stunt…
Also to decide going into it
what colors you’re universe will have.

Of course.

Sometimes I Wonder…

comments 20
Poetry

Sometimes I get the feeling
everything so far
has been a few of us stragglers
wandering around this old museum
just before closing,
picking up little polished stones
one-by-one
and pewter sculptures
and moon rocks
and animal claws
and ivory eye sockets
and a fake cutlass
and playing make believe
and telling each other
all sorts of cute fictions
about ghost conjuring
and sunken ships
and people who eat nails
or swallow flaming swords
while God has been outside
waiting in the car
this whole time
with the engine running,
tapping the steering wheel,
wondering,
what the hell
are those guys doing
in there!?
Come on…
Let’s go!

Did you forget that
your Brother’s coming home tonight?
Or that you’re helping me open up
a new universe in celebration?

Sometimes I put down that
glass eye and look out the window
and I wonder–
Ooohh… look!
A pile of seventeenth century
cast iron cannon balls!
Guys… check this out!

Existence. Purpose. Non-Existence. Love.

comments 31
Course Ideas

This post has its roots in a number of threads that have woven through my awareness over the course of the past few weeks, and which as an ensemble beg a few of the questions I try to tackle.  One of the delights of open-minded dialogue is its ability to reveal how little we know about the subjects regarding which we thought the opposite was true, and in making the discrepancy apparent, to inspire us to take a fresh look at the ideas we are carrying and the questions we are asking.  It is a process that, if engaged with willingness and joy, I see potentially continuing without end, as we are swept gently along a flowing river of conscious awareness of steadily deepening and expanding proportions.  I have great respect for the meandering direction of awareness, and think that as the mind is freed of attachment to conceptual identification, the river flowing through it brings gifts from unknown places upstream.

Beautiful pieces come together.

As a first point of backdrop, this fall a new three-in-one edition of A Course of Love (ACOL) will be published.  (The Course of Love consists of three books: A Course of Love, The Treatises of A Course of Love, and The Dialogues of A Course of Love.)  As a successor to A Course in Miracles (ACIM), I think ACOL has enjoyed a lukewarm reception by the ACIM community to date.  An obvious question is why?  What is different about it?  There are any number of related questions and possible answers I won’t try and tackle here, but this question of what is different about ACOL is a thread that forms a delicate knot with a thread about non-dualistic philosophies I’ve enjoyed following with my friend Hariod.

Hariod has a wonderful blog about what she describes as contentedness, which I don’t believe I’m incorrect in stating has its roots in cultivation of non-dualistic awareness.  I’ve greatly enjoyed reading and contemplating her views and shares, and recently found myself trying to explain what ACIM was all about—what overlaps there were, and maybe were not.  I found it difficult to address the subject very well.  Something about the conversation made me want to be thorough and scholarly, and careful to be true to each stream joining the river despite winging it on a limited budget of time.  I think it is generally accepted that ACIM is, at least to a very significant extent, a non-dualistic course aimed at training the mind to perceive in ways that engender peace, albeit an approach steeped in theistic terminology.  But is it just your basic non-dualistic philosophy dressed up in Christian terms?  Are all of the distinctions with non-dualistic philosophy just window dressing, or is there an essential and valuable distinction to be considered?

These nagging—in a very good way—thoughts coincided (though not perhaps in linear time!) with Marga’s recent post about the mystical roots of Western Civilization that contained a video interview with Peter Kingsley and some description of his book Reality.  Not having read the book, or reviewed any more of Peter’s work than was contained in the post and video, I may be misapplying or misinterpreting his work entirely, but for the purposes of this post it doesn’t really matter.  What matters is that the post acted upon thoughts latent within me and activated them, and I found myself thinking about the concept of “self” in the West, and of the concept of the “self” in the East, and of this idea of a constructive interplay between East and West.

Within my own thought constellations, I tend to think of non-duality as having its roots in the East, and of the notion of discrete selves (e.g. eternal spirits) as the primary units of existence being more of a Western philosophical vantage point—one which has perhaps been spun in a negative light of late with so much emphasis on “non-self” and rooting out the “ego”.  Discovering an author who portrays Western Civilization in a positive light, suggesting its roots lie in a conscious effort to activate holistic sensation and awareness, helped to precipitate within me an awareness of where some of the hesitancy I experience in exclusively embracing non-dualistic philosophy may lie.  It is not that I find any points of objection within the basic non-dualistic worldview; it is more that I feel there is something more to this experience we’re having in this realm than I perceive non-dualistic philosophy as exploring.

(I reserve the right to retract statements such as the one above, of course, as my experience of these things deepens, which is precisely why these discussions are invaluable.)

I think this nebulous something more may explain ACOL’s relationship to ACIM.  I think this something more is what is emerging as a fuzzy inner yearning catalyzed by my dialogues with Hariod, and what is responding to the tickle of encouragement I found in Marga’s post about Peter Kingsley’s work.  I think this something more is an unnecessary void that arises when East and West are not enjoying a healthy exchange within me (and all of us), when self and non-self are not engaged in mutually enhancing cohabitation, when God and Nirvana seem at odds with one another.  These threads all collide for me as questions about creativity, purpose and power.

There is a way in which I sense that the practice of non-duality can become an exercise in passivity, which is not to say that I think this is the intended or even a desirable outcome, but I do see it as a temporary and superficial mode of understanding and expression that seems to arise.  If suffering arises from misperception, principally expressed as identification with a self that isn’t “real”, then turning the intensity of that self down to zero on the volume dial can perhaps lead to an experience of peace.  If the world is an illusion, then discounting one’s experiences within it as “just illusions” and dialing down the volume of the world’s cantankerous proddings can likewise result in a diminishment of drama and discord.  These approaches strike me as those many have taken, and I sense and feel that there is something essential within us that is also dialed down in the process.  Something powerful, natural, and good.  Something necessary.  Something we wouldn’t have despite all we’ve been through if it wasn’t somehow the point.

What is that something more?

I’m whittling it down here to purpose.  There is something beautiful and healing I find in non-dualistic approaches to awareness, to recognizing that we are both experiencer and experience, both individual and whole, both unified and distinct.  This way of seeing brings us into contact with a reality that resides at the deepest core of our being, where concepts of self break down even as self is the only window we have for gaining a glimpse into what both holds it and lies beyond.  It’s a bit like flying a space shuttle to the sun.  The vehicle, at some point, has got to go, but it’s the only one you have for getting close that brilliance.  So, that reality we can never be without… that we discover within but not separate from what is without… what is it up to?  What are we up to?  What would a field of healed beings create?

One of the real gifts I found in the three books of A Course of Love was confirmation that Creation, which is a word I would perhaps equate to the ground of reality that is experientially touched through non-dualistic awareness, is moving.  Creation is afoot.  What’s more, Creation is afoot within us, as us.  Our existence is neither optional nor necessary, but it is the movement of Creation.  I think that our return to non-dualistic modes of perceiving unlocks our ability to move in harmony with the whole, and to become conscious embodiments of Creation’s unfolding.  And there is, in that, tremendous power we have yet to fully embody I believe, though I should perhaps say I only really speak for myself.

This is not to suggest that Creation, or a “Creator”, exists in any way apart from us, but it is to say that our awareness has long been cleaved from its original and most natural domain in unity.  Our awareness has been abstractly disassociated from its origin, and the volume on our power supply dialed down as a result.

Near the end of the Dialogues of A Course of Love, we wrote together, “What we have called illusion is this simple nothingness of existence without relationship to God, and thus existence without relationship to the power of Creation.  The illusion is an illusion of simply being.”  It is worth noting that at this point in the Dialogues this illusory condition of simply being is described as a state in which creation happens to us, a state in which separateness is the dominant mode of perception and as a result we are removed experientially from the most essential nature of our existence.  Also, God at this point in the text is not an outside intelligence, force or being, but the relationship of all-to-all, a relationship that dwells within and through each of us.

And what of purpose?  A paragraph or two later we wrote, “…your acceptance of the truth of who you are and who you can be is essential to the accomplishment of our mission- to the creation of a new heaven and a new earth.”  This is it!  This is the something more not explicitly found in ACIM or is lost within its emphasis on other aspects of ego dismantling that were urgently needed therein, and which is not often emphasized in my encounters with non-dualistic philosophies and practices: the notion that we are inherently creative, that Creation itself is purposeful and that we share in that purpose, and that we are literally in the midst of transformation of heaven and earth.  Creation is happening in real time, flowing in from outside of time, and we’re it’s agents on the ground.  We are dreaming up a healed earth—a heaven expressed through this plane.  Not a separate heaven, or an abiding peace that comes with departing this plane, but a present reality powerful enough to transform every lack and poverty, to heal every wound and rift, to modulate our every experience and to supply our every need.

I think when duality is healed and our perceptions corrected (an Eastern contribution?), the field by which we are distinctly embraced and held– even as we are the field itself– is found to be alive with creative purpose, and we are integral to this creative expression (a Western contribution?).  That is the something more that imbues my day with meaning, because while it is tremendous to discover the pathways to personally sustaining peace of mind, it is intensely meaningful to recognize in each encounter the opportunity to lay a brick in a new world.

And I have to stop here because I don’t know what the next parts are yet.  All I know is Purpose is not an individual thing, though it may take on a variety of individualized expressions.  But you probably do know, and I can’t wait to hear about it…

Can It Be Enough?

comments 4
Poetry

I am fragile,
but when I shatter–
as I must, and soon–
a warmth will remain.
You will find me again.
That is the most dazzling magic.
This realization comes
while standing
at the edge of this life,
looking down,
hovering weightless–
a sand grain witness to a vast sea.
Each arriving wave softens
the distance into which
my longing stretches.
I am readying to dissolve.
Together, can we cover the Vastness?
Or will I buckle, split us into two,
and tension the crossing.
Hummingbirds don’t even
slow down when they cross the beach.
That is the nature of forgiveness–
to abandon every interpretation
and put oneself beyond reach of land.
In some moments, I know if had to,
I could absorb everything,
because I would never have to.
It is then that my arms would be Yours,
my face the sweetness You inhabit.

To migrate across the sea,
they must abandon
the weight of their conclusions
and travel light.
The darkness guides them,
protects them, wraps around them,
whistles through them, swirls in their lungs,
and creeps inside their chests
to insulate their steadily pounding hearts
with a silence that will never falter.
A lifter with a spotter like that
will shatter himself every time
and the world will drink him in.
He will awaken at dawn–
empty and nameless, visible.

Thoughtless, delicious, raw need
draws from darkness
the very feeling by which they are sustained.
Likewise, we can become what is most needed,
though long have we feared becoming that type of agency.
No more.  My conclusions are scattering.
At noon, I scraped them into a cup
and sprinkled them over the side.
The outgoing tide took them.
Uncertainty
ensures the thread of the sacred
can never be lost.  Solidify it,
hold it in your hand, and know it not.
Set it free, and it will fill all of space,
and you will glimpse your own arrival.
I have no thoughts that matter anymore.
You spoke once, and I came into existence.
That feeling will carry me across the water.
I but stagger here, glimpsing the way Your Memory
flickers through every moment, beckoning.
I will fly until I shatter, far from land.
I will fly straight for the night when You call.
Can that be enough?