Month: August 2012

“Life sucks,”

the Buddha said,

scratched and smiling.

The falling makes you bleed,

abrasions in the tumbling,

sometimes broken bones

or even dying,

which you think is someone else’s problem.

And so you perch

on that slippery slope,

angry at the wobble,

trying to find a balance

– no, a perfect balance –

and get mad at your wiggling

and try not to hear the mountain rumbling

because it is terrifying.

The falling is inevitable.

And personal.

Coming soon to a theatre near you.

Very soon and very near.

You can choose to wait for the earthquake,

or the avalanche, or the mudslide.

If you like high drama, cling a little longer.

Or you can choose today,

with its gentle springtime

or lush summer

or auburn cool or diamond frost

… today would be good

to start rolling.

 

When Magdalena bought her oil

to slather on the feet of her beloved

while she could still touch them,

seeing in her knowing eye

the thorns ahead

and cherishing each rough callus

of his travelling toes

… she might have been shocked by their anger,

surprised out of her joy

by the judgement of their fear,

awakened to the limits of their minds.

She might have turned in puzzlement

as they counted the cost,

scared by the rich perfume in the air,

the smell of death and decadent sweet life.

She might have turned up her palms,

surrendered to the flow

that was her liberation,

her deep embrace of celebration,

ushering in more compassion

in her vulnerable act of love,

helpless to make them understand.

In her moment of exposure

she might have also seen her road ahead,

her lonely exile, her incommunicable joy,

her running yearning longing to share.

Facing the angry friends,

she might have doubted for a moment

her own wisdom,

the integrated tingle of her body,

which had moved with love

to give away her treasures,

making room for the expensive gifts

she poured onto his soles,

the abandonment of tears and hair

and deferential reverence wiping at the oil.

She might have stood there for a second,

tear-streaked and laughing,

oil dripping from her stringy tresses,

exultation ebbing

in the face of their incomprehension.

And in that shattered moment,

with its layers of loss,

and its layers of succulent glow,

despair and total satiation intermingled,

she might have turned again,

and caught his eye,

and shared the cosmic joke,

and breathed in one deep breath

before the tidying.

Dawning,

grey sky dipping reverentially

to unseen tremors of bright

hiding below the horizon

passive except in the choice to face east

(or here in the north, mostly east),

accepting reverberations of light

and how they change the dark we know.

Fait accompli

even in a piercing grey

with no visible sun,

the dawning will happen

and happened years ago

and will rise again tomorrow.

The becoming is now in these cool shadows

and now in these streaks of arriving

and now in the disruption of familiar dark by the carnival of glory,

and now in the riot of shining

that warms the heart again

on its journey to evening.

Make your own bell if you need to,

invent a sound that will not let you rest,

one that touches your morning

with bright mourning,

the tragic joy of life that is death that is life,

listen to it

calling you to rise.

Stand to whatever real posture you can,

crumple in to the authenticity

that can carry you onwards,

make room for the tolling of the gong.

Faint or strong,

the carillon of your days

is making music

and longs to be heard.

Lick this ice cream,

feel how it is cold and sweet at once,

notice how eager I am to share,

to let it drip on my fingers

and yours

engaged in the sloppy pleasure of living.

Taste what I offer

in this simple act,

scooping what is here,

my childlike concentration and clumsy grace

savouring another now.