Between the Aether and the Mud

We live

somewhere 

between the aether

and the mud.

Dwelling on the

dirt of the lives

we inhabit,

abiding as a “we”

in the shelters of 

our being.

The simple and glorious

transcendence 

of the molecules 

we learn to call

thought or feeling; and

sometimes even desire,

haunt us with 

meanings

we are not always

given to understand.

And yet, 

we persist

in the mysterium tremendum

as waifs looking for porridge

each and every day. 

Something small

for our bowls;

a tiny morsel for

which we beg.

Angels 

bound to carcasses 

with a call to 

wonder and awe.  

And, in all the

fanfare of quarks and quasars

as they perform their

murmurations all about us,

we are given

small moments of pause

in which we can -

as we close our

eyes - drink in the

clambering vastness of

the Yosemite Valley 

or the damp loamy humus 

of Great Redwood Sequoias

or the sidewinding curves

of the Delaware River.

Only sight,

only smell;

leave the understanding

for another day.

For today, just leave room

for your center to hold all

it consumes in stillness

and repose;

chewing on it slowly, 

so as not to choke 

on the grandeur.

The True Test

Could it be

the true test

of the clarity

and worth of

a soul is

the suffering it

has survived.

Its ability

to stand

while broken.

It arrives in

whatever space

it inhabits

with no fanfare

or finger pointing.

It does not

seek to rise above

on the backs of

innuendo and

accusation.

Facing into the

horror, it braces

as if its eyes were

closed and pointed

to the winds of

severe change and

relocation. It

shall not

be moved.

Feeling the

blasts of what

is named

across its cheeks

and edges

of its ears.

It finds no need

for justifying

explanation

or a trivial

varnishing of

a thing.

A gargoyle

resting its

head in its

hands.

The wave has no

need of discourse,

the sun no need

of banter.

A stone is unmoved

by insults.

Resting in

the ever-present

idleness of being,

it does not

move to grow.

Its nourishment is

in the stillness

of self.  In its

perch and

point of vantage

viewing-absorption

it is abraded by

the ripples of

suffering and woe

that have coursed

over its

“itness” and self.

An alchemy of

a solid affirmation

that everything belongs.

The dis-ingenuous-ness

of a rosy painted outcome

stands against the rawness

of reality that is true;

Job’s friends

unable to stare into

the vacuous-ness of

the universe of pain.

Perhaps it means

this; or maybe it requires

that. Reaching out for

form where formlessness

rules the day.

Suchness is crafted

from the gathered

nuclei of tears

that have run along

the dirty face of agony

and abandoned hope.

We reach these places

in the chaos of

form.

Lean into these

undoings with

acknowledged wordlessness

and rampant indefinability.

The circumscribable

is uncircumscribed.

The heavy snow

sits months on end

above the ginseng seeds

and crocus bulbs

longing to find day.

The tearing away

of melting snow

washes the soil

with the gift of growth,

carrying winter

away in rivulets

of supple freshness

and the morning song

of birds.

Piercing the Settling Veil

You cannot listen
too deeply into the
offerings of your soul.
Any word that slips
out, any image -
light as a feather -
is tied and woven
together with the whole.

A massive cloud
settles it's coolness
into vacuum of
the rock-walled valley.

I struggle to see
through to the other side.

In the morning I awaken;
my longing desire hungers
to remember the places
I had been in my dreaming.

I call out to the shadows
I feel stirring, and the images
it seems I knew in my sleeping,
hoping they will tell me
what I can no longer know
for sure.

They will reveal
the hidden wisdom that slowly
slips through my fingers
with the falling grains of
sand in the hourglass that
marks the spiral motion
of the time of our waking.

Who was there?
What did we do?
How will I feed this
thirst I feel to put
the pieces of my
fond yearning back
into a similar proximity
or familiar connection?

I cannot find the
edges to myself in
this steamy mirror
of my morning dilemma.

A raven rises
to meet the dawn.
A trout snaps a
fly from the surface
of the stream.
A hawk snatches
a robin still in flight.

Some of this
feels familiar
like memories of
planting gardens
as a child. Some
of it is grasping
at straws learning
to trust that what
arises is connected;
what I remember is
somehow important.

We spend all our days
being stripped of the pride
that challenges us to
doubt the truth of our
own soul's longing.

Look through the
glass dimly and recognize
the clarity of a hazy mirror.
Feel for the strands
that bind you to the
eternal warp and woof.

Those threads are golden.