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Month: January 2013

Renunciation

Sacrifice and renunciation

arrived as two teachers

speaking in the evening

and waking me in the night

with a blank slate wiped briefly.

 

Listening to them too early

is a fierce denial

of blood and flesh and chlorophyll,

responding to demands

that are heard as a promise of power,

a reaper’s scythe applied before harvest,

slicing where no grain is grown.

 

These tools are sharp

and will cut away

illusion, projection, comfort, vice,

a pyre of all we know

ignited, smoking, lost.

 

And me learning about everyday myth

on the edge of sleep

where my body is pressed by sensation

that lives only in my mind,

knowing samsara is like this,

everywhere not real.

 

Yet what I also know

from this place in my waking

is that true sacrifice

means agonies of attachment,

deep compelling bonds of love

that have substance,

sons on altars with fathers in tears.

There is no cool ease here,

no shrugging off the world

in preference to space

… oh, maybe for a season,

but beauty will find you

and grasp you by the throat

so that you taste each ripe fruit

and gasp with the bright pain of love

and have no mask left

for hiding your laughter at nature’s caress.

 

And that is the season

for learning to work with the scythe,

when all you love

needs harvesting,

not for storage

but so the field can be readied

for new planting.

 

This cutting away

is painful,

it is not for the weak

as the scythe takes a practiced body

and precise mind.

 

There is a fierce energy

that wants to blow away illusion

so we live on the stark slab

with no ties.

 

Like inhale and exhale,

Gaia knows we cannot raze ourselves to rock

only,

knows we are this fragile web

of intertwinings co-breathing,

knows that rock slabs in vacuum

have no life.

 

And so renunciation

means seeing the illusion

in all that we love,

seeing how this real child is truly loved

and freely given,

seeing how this real small self

is precious and still just pretend,

a temporary binding of cells,

a process of sandcastle and shoreline.

A closing the door

on some pleasures

to make space for other knowing.

A grieving of losses,

a black slate wiped briefly

with real tears.

Endings

Endings

come after

and before

and after

and then there is the space

beside the hospital bed

between them.

 

And in this space

there are words, and none,

places of soft longing

and no safety

and remembering sweetness.

 

So I frame my mouth

into a circle

to send you a puff of breath

across the miles;

if the candle flickers

you will know that it was me

reminding you of your light,

the way you help others

sink bravely into their fear

so it can warm them.