His name is the old way.
Not the ancient,
tap root to source,
worthy of honor,
elder,
way.
His is the tired,
worn out,
forlorn and ready to die
way.
Scanning the past incessantly,
everywhere his suffering, theirs.
“Choices,” he says, “we must make better choices.”
“Maybe this time", he says,
drawn by the intoxicating aroma
of the next hope.
But his imaginings are saturated with a great suspicion,
and his body shudders once again,
afraid of everything,
even joy.
He thinks he knows what he wants,
but everywhere there is too much dust.
The very effort to see just muddies the water.
It is time we released him from his duties,
his burden,
his impossible task:
the effort to secure
certainty
in that which is always
changing.
“So what then?” he accuses, “just give up, give in to it all?”
Ha!
If only he knew that in
reacting so quickly,
with such vigilance,
to the darkness,
self-consciously pushing it away,
he failed to receive it deeply enough into
the alchemical heart where our love removes its mask
and returns the dark
to original essence,
the very life it is made from.
Released,
it becomes transformed,
available then for orgiastic yes to the new dream.
How to speak of this,
this new way,
ancient way?
How to describe that which is seen
only where there is no
thing,
that which is heard
only in silence?
Somehow, we find our way.
The core glows,
and truth beckons.
Aware as the still source,
empty of content,
the pen moves by itself.
“Rest here, belong to this simple moment”, she says.
Alert, we abide as pure potential,
a vast presence whose nature is intelligence.
Despite appearances, there is only one of us.
We are curious
but not too interested,
for desire
can get so quickly
ahead of itself.
We are unmoving yet contain all that moves,
unflinching,
undefended,
utterly intimate
with even the smallest turn of the wheel.
Here there is no possession,
no control,
no avoidance of pain,
no interest in getting there,
to that place,
sometime,
somewhere.
This then, the great choice:
to relinquish everything,
all hope,
all fear,
and rest as
the choiceless,
the choice which has already been made.
This is no head in the clouds,
repelled by the earth or
humanity
passivity.
This is home in the gutter
as well as the throne
moment to moment
devotion
to the love,
unfolding.
Everything,
honored,
recognized,
nourished.
This is moment to moment
devotion
attention
deep listening
to the love,
to the choice that has already been made.
Despite appearances,
there is only one of us.
Here is clarity,
freed from preconception,
revealing infinite possibility.
To open to it all,
without promise,
this becomes the great willingness.
Purpose is clear.
Time is no more.
All is well.
Free,
and yet fully here.
Not the ancient,
tap root to source,
worthy of honor,
elder,
way.
His is the tired,
worn out,
forlorn and ready to die
way.
Scanning the past incessantly,
everywhere his suffering, theirs.
“Choices,” he says, “we must make better choices.”
“Maybe this time", he says,
drawn by the intoxicating aroma
of the next hope.
But his imaginings are saturated with a great suspicion,
and his body shudders once again,
afraid of everything,
even joy.
He thinks he knows what he wants,
but everywhere there is too much dust.
The very effort to see just muddies the water.
It is time we released him from his duties,
his burden,
his impossible task:
the effort to secure
certainty
in that which is always
changing.
“So what then?” he accuses, “just give up, give in to it all?”
Ha!
If only he knew that in
reacting so quickly,
with such vigilance,
to the darkness,
self-consciously pushing it away,
he failed to receive it deeply enough into
the alchemical heart where our love removes its mask
and returns the dark
to original essence,
the very life it is made from.
Released,
it becomes transformed,
available then for orgiastic yes to the new dream.
How to speak of this,
this new way,
ancient way?
How to describe that which is seen
only where there is no
thing,
that which is heard
only in silence?
Somehow, we find our way.
The core glows,
and truth beckons.
Aware as the still source,
empty of content,
the pen moves by itself.
“Rest here, belong to this simple moment”, she says.
Alert, we abide as pure potential,
a vast presence whose nature is intelligence.
Despite appearances, there is only one of us.
We are curious
but not too interested,
for desire
can get so quickly
ahead of itself.
We are unmoving yet contain all that moves,
unflinching,
undefended,
utterly intimate
with even the smallest turn of the wheel.
Here there is no possession,
no control,
no avoidance of pain,
no interest in getting there,
to that place,
sometime,
somewhere.
This then, the great choice:
to relinquish everything,
all hope,
all fear,
and rest as
the choiceless,
the choice which has already been made.
This is no head in the clouds,
repelled by the earth or
humanity
passivity.
This is home in the gutter
as well as the throne
moment to moment
devotion
to the love,
unfolding.
Everything,
honored,
recognized,
nourished.
This is moment to moment
devotion
attention
deep listening
to the love,
to the choice that has already been made.
Despite appearances,
there is only one of us.
Here is clarity,
freed from preconception,
revealing infinite possibility.
To open to it all,
without promise,
this becomes the great willingness.
Purpose is clear.
Time is no more.
All is well.
Free,
and yet fully here.
