Homage and Gratitude to all of my Teachers,
who always and only pointed me back to myself!
Manifold indeed are the paths one can walk,
but the way of others can never be mine —
moment to moment I discover my own.
To do so, I relinquish the dubious security
of any borrowed or second-hand certainty.
There is no certainty in being true,
nor regret in utter insecurity.
When I sobered up a little,
I began cleaning my cave by first
discarding all judgment and opinion,
until everything just let go and resumed
its own natural state, as if I’d never wandered
in the dark night, seeking shelter from that which
merely wished to rest at last and disappear with me.
One day the sound of the murmuring stream
stopped — sudden gratitude flooded my heart.
Now, clear or muddy, it just runs on,
sometimes noticed, sometimes not.
A stream of dreams in a dream of streams —
when every direction is the same,
we can relax and enjoy the flow.
It will not harm us.
We can understand,
and in understanding,
we can learn to forgive.
In forgiving everyone everything,
something quietly exhales.
Birth and death tenderly caress,
dream characters awaken to dissolve,
then mind peeks out from under the covers,
smiling coyly: “Oh, what did I miss?”
when we are softened and
opened enough to accept things
as they actually are, to accept that
we simply are, never knowing what that
is, except that we simply, undeniably, are,
the old conflict knotting the heart, the wanting
of anything to be otherwise, gracefully subsides.
There is great mercy here.
We can allow the anxious animals
to move closer in and huddle next to us —
all searching creatures of the daylight,
yearning for the welcoming embrace
of a tenderly falling night.
Vastness pumps itself luxuriously
through every bloodstream, circling
an oasis named the Heart.
The Heart is the infinite abode.
It has no boundary of flesh, thought,
judgment, or even choice.
This streaming power pours unceasingly
from the same source as all anxious animals,
lovers, sense of self and no-self.
The energy required to resist,
to oppose, is the same that powers
the contraption of clinging.
I left that rusting machine
at the base of some old mountain,
near a riverbank with my uniform of reason,
and now I float, naked on the currents,
dazzled by the glinting streambed stones
gliding swiftly by beneath me.