The Note

If you glanced out your front window and saw me walking towards your door, you might imagine that you know me, that I have a familiar look, a friendly face when you least expected to see or know one — nobody special, someone who would understand that you only wished to hear the song of your beautiful canary, someone who would, in deference to that beauteous song bird, simply leave a narrow note by your doorbell, after knocking once or twice, and when you got this note — maybe tomorrow, maybe by this time next week, maybe in the time it takes for limitless awareness to ripen and unfold at the heart — you would open it and read:

I was here. You know me, though
not by name. It’s not important.
I heard the beautiful canary
singing. It was enough.

With my hand made of flesh and bone,
with my hand made of blood and sinew,
with this hand composed of thought,
with my every thought made of mind,
with this mind I raised a single hand.

I was standing, knocking on your door,
the door made of wood and metal,
metal made of mind, a mind door
appearing in the midst of space,
this space made of emptiness,
still, transparent, this emptiness
pristine, not a thing amidst things,
not an object of mind, not really a door,
not even a mind, and I was knocking,
smiling, I was knocking on your door.

It was in perfect beauty that I walked
to your door. There was beauty before me,
beauty behind me, and all there is, this
beauty, it surrounds me. It leads me
to this door, leads me to your door.

I was standing at your doorway with a heart
floating on a foam of ecstasy, of beauty,
with my hand composed of every beauty,
and my mind, my mind made of beauty,
beauty this emptiness, beauty this fullness,
beauty this very heart-essence, the essence
of you and me, of all of us, of everything
with any beautiful sense of beauty —
beauty our rest and beauty our motion,
our motion erasing itself in more beauty —
that same beauty was knocking at your door.

There is beauty in the shadow, as much
as in the shine, beauty in the mist and fog,
the euphoria that thrills the air just before rain,
beauty in the leaves, twigs, and stunning stones
strewn along the path, a path with beauty,
beauty returning once again to beauty,
a path that led to your front door.

I wandered, mindless, to your door,
drawn to beauty, I knew it from memory —
that personal impersonal beauty, I sensed it.
In an instant, life can change forever.
I have no words, no beautiful words
to coax you from your silence,
to coax you to the door.

I am nothing but flowing water, ripples
without beginning, I change but I do not.
It is that beauty I came to share with you,
with you who can bear your own silence.
I was flowing, silent, washed up to your door.

I will show you the beauty of the water
we are, flowing together, molecular bliss.
I’ll appear like sudden soft rain falling
on a cloudless day, or maybe I’ll sizzle
with white lightning, a zigzag lightning
lit with hot beauty, an electric mirror
of our same sheer beauty, this beauty
flashing brightly here, flashing
at your cottage door.

For us, there need be no confusion
about what remains when the embers
turn to ash. This is beauty, that is beauty,
yet I renounce all prior beauty now
to walk on water to your door.

When I leave here I’ll be smiling,
happy to walk in beauty, happy
to leave even beauty behind.

Before me, only beauty.
Behind me beauty shines.

I am leaving you this note here.
I am leaving it behind.

If you read it you will realize,
though this note has not been signed,
the canary’s song as I am leaving:
it’s the sound of our one mind.


About Bob OHearn

My name is Bob O'Hearn, and I live with my Beloved Mate, Mazie, in the foothills of the Northern California Sierra Nevada Mountains. I have a number of blog sites you may enjoy: Photo Gallery: Essays on the Conscious Process: Compiled Poetry and Prosetry: Verses and ramblings on life as it is: Verses and Variations on the Investigation of Mind Nature: Verses on the Play of Consciousness: Poetic Fiction, Fable, Fantabulation: Poems of the Mountain Hermit: Love Poems from The Book of Yes: Autobiographical Fragments, Memories, Stories, and Tall Tales: Ancient and modern spiritual texts, creatively refreshed: Writings from selected Western Mystics, Classic and Modern: Wisdom of a Spirit Guide: Thank You!
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