That bird is You, the One Who dreams this whole thing up – this sky, these birds, this endlessly enchanting bird song on the cusp of quiescent extinction.
Yes, it must be You, since You’re the One Who lives us! When our head bows down to touch the ground, you are that ground, the head, and the bowing.
When the light across the sky is changing, it is only You that changes. You’re never the same light shining twice, even though You never change, but only become more You.
In a display of humor beyond compare, You are the One Who gave us this mind — what a grand comedian!
Even though it has no endurance, we employ it to imagine some personal continuity. Even though it had no beginning, we want it to never end.
Even though it cannot be grasped, we are always trying to get hold of it. Even though it cannot be tamed, we are always trying to control it.
Even though it is immovable, it seems to wander all over the place. Even though it can’t be found, it leaves its trace in every face. Here, there, and everywhere — what could be more obvious!
A big waste of time would be trying to make some religion out of it. When it appears in saints, it does not become holy. When it appears in demons, it does not become evil.
It is the same in both heaven and hell, in right thoughts and wrong, in temples as well as in saloons, in nirvana as well as samsara, in mosquitoes as well as Buddhas, in the ardent lover and vicious hater, in the barking dog and the opera diva, in the peaceful pilgrim and violent warrior, in cacophonies of words and deepest silence.
But let’s not bother with any of that, right now I just want to talk about You!
Your Mercy is never in question, except for those still confused by any preference. Your Silence is enough, though if anyone feels the sudden urge to scream, it’s safe to say: You’re the screamer, the screaming, the scream!
Before a single thought arises, You are present and unaccounted for. Before the beginningless beginning, You are the foundation and function of pure consciousness — inconceivable — but we still like to make up names for You, like Source, Supreme Self, or Dharmakaya.
You are the projector, and You that screen on which all is projected, so we may as well cook up some spirit popcorn, sit back, and enjoy Your eternal show, since You are also mind’s main projection!
When You meditate upon Yourself, everything becomes open and perfectly transparent — a welcome breeze on a lazy summer afternoon, or fresh-fallen snow where dogs and children romp about, imitating You.
Either way, You cast no vote – You’re busy with Your Mysterious Way, and that’s the gist of this poem, this play. You are the featured film of the day, and the characters, props, and ingenious plot are nothing but Your display!
You are the lover we leave to be with the lover You are. You are the Great Soul our souls are entwined within – You Yourself are the twining.
Those who imagine they are working on themselves are like kids blowing bubbles that pop in the air. When the work is over You don’t rest. You Are Rest. You are what works, even when it seems to not.
Undeterred by the exquisite calamity appearing in the universal funhouse mirror, You flip the switch and nothing happens. In Reality, nothing happens! To actually be able to appreciate that is Your generous Gift.
You alone are the Giver, the Giving, the Gifted, and the Gift!
Thank You! Thank You! Thank You!
The evidence that anything other than You might even exist becomes more difficult to fall for the longer one contemplates You — the Light behind the mind that grants all these astonishing birds the miraculous power of flight.
Body/Mind/Soul/Light – that’s all Your Idea, Your dreamy dream, as are all the brilliant birds, beings, and blessings You’ve dreamed up to populate Your perfect Sky of Mind, Your Mind of Love.
I fly to You through the Sky of Mind, though it is really just You, being Yourself, and flying without moving! When the mind flies into the heart, everyone lands back on the original tree where they began, though no one has really gone anywhere.
You whirl in place and Nothing happens: no creation, nor destruction, no departure or arrival, nothing to anticipate, so nothing to regret.
The pure confusion this creates is the perfect play of Your mysterious compassion. One might call it “The Wound of Love”.
You opened Your hand and I flew out. I fly through the sky with Your wound in my heart, trailing a ribbon of tears and laughter.
You’re the open wound in every heart – and You, it’s perfect mending.