He had heard the stories of miraculous transformations,
how one must first be willing to surrender everything,
even their life, for the sake of the truth’s revelation.
That was the story — “no guts, no glory.”
There are many stories. Endless.
He wasn’t interested in stories of glory, nor was there
anything about him which required transformation.
The miracle had already happened — here we are!
Everything was already modifying itself, nothing
remained the same — not him, not the big mind,
not the universe which was consciousness itself,
not ordinary beings who became extraordinary,
not the sky, earth, or water gods. Nothing.
Just so, he finally sat down and focused on his breath.
He was breathing, but then he was being breathed.
Then there was only breathing, breathing.
Had anything changed, except perception?
He did not ponder, there was no contemplation.
Some say the pure light is the exhalation of God,
although whatever is said or known does not matter.
There is a great respiration. The whole universe
keeps appearing and disappearing, appearing
and disappearing, now a bird in the distance
is sweetly singing — listen, that is the glory.