There’s a dear little bird that visits us here in the garden, called a White-breasted Nuthatch. You pointed out to me how its beak is always tilted up, and I said that was probably because, in its mind, danger comes from above, and so the little bird must be ever vigilant, scanning the skies for predators.
Once you saw a white golden orb descending from the sky. A saint was riding inside the luminous sphere, and when it drew close to you the saint held up an index finger and spoke these words to you: “There is only one!” Then the orb rose again into the sky and disappeared.
It might have been on that same day so long ago, that I was reclining on the slanted roof of my parents’ house, looking out over the Pacific Ocean, and from my vantage point I may have seen a streak of bright light racing towards the horizon and beyond. Even though we had not yet met in this life, I felt as if I could never love you anymore than I did at that very moment.
Once we were reunited again, we stood on the hill overlooking the harbor, and the intimation of twilight had come to sweetly caress us with its promise of infinite depth to the ebony night. I remember as clearly as if it is that very moment now, as if there is no distance in time but for our momentary distractions which are soon forgotten anyway.
There, as you expanded before me into the immortal light which gives meaning to that vast expanse from which all things come and to which all shall return, you looked straight into my soul’s own eyes which were loving you so fiercely that tears would not stop flowing, and you said with not a trace of falsity or pride: “I am the sky.”
Just so, when I gaze up into the sky now I become the sky, for then there is nothing between us, neither predator nor saint. There is only the endlessness of blue, the spinning galaxies at night, or the marvelous clouds that bring delight to all daydreaming children, rain to make life grow and thrive, and snow to bless us into silence. We are all of it, just as all of it is us. We are that immense, we contain it all, though we are never truly anything but this simple, ungraspable aware space.
Perhaps because it mirrors that vast spaciousness, freedom, and clarity of our true nature, we love to rhapsodize about the sky. As Khandroma Yeshe Tsogyel sang: “When you arrive at the extinction of reality there is nothing but the spontaneity of pure potential, there is no other way to dance in the sky.” Through it all, I keep imagining as I did before that I could never love you anymore than I do at this very moment, but I always love you even more the next. And the White-breasted Nuthatch? How we love that darling too!