9/12/2017

Drops (A Metta Meditation for the World-Sorrow)


Your heart is a small blue teardrop containing a glimmer of the sun.

Yet in its glow you keep
the sorrow and weariness of hurricanes.
You smother forest fires.
You hug the weary
whose houses have been crushed to match sticks,
whose windows are
gashes bleeding sand,
whose only light is the memory of the gale,
pulverizing glass at midnight.


But your dewdrop heart makes room for more.
You hold the devastation of Cuba and tiny Caribbean islands,
the poorest of the poor in the quaked gaping streets
of southern Mexico.
You are a nest woven of their jagged cries.
In the tiny blue egg of your spacious inhalation you keep
the sub-Saharan multitudes who thirst for their own voices.
Y
ou gather the drowned bodies of villagers from the torrents
of Nepal and Bangladesh.
The breath of you luminous silence is a eulogy
for floods and famines that the news won't tell.

You are the eye of chaos.
Yet earth's affliction is just one of your tears.
An unselved garden of grief, your lungs entangle
the weeping of other worlds.
The hollow
of your bones are rivers of planetary tribulation,
flowing into the ocean of cosmic sorrow.
In the pit of your stomach where singing begins,
you store up the groan, the agony
of galaxies.

Now here is the secret: you are wider than pain.
You embrace catastrophe
as a flame outshines the blackest wick.
Every heartbeat expands your capacity to feel
the unutterable fever of creation.
You press to your nipple the desolate throng.

With a single exhalation y
our vigilance solidifies
the hunger of multitudes,
offering it back into the ache of the un-created.


Are you the cup bearer's witness?

Does your silence
spill over the bruised rim of affliction?
Can
the
bold womb of your laboring darkness bear
an inconceivable peace?
Might your stillness not encircle birth and death?

When you break open,
the center of your body is the heart of Christ.
In the palm of your hand is the infinite diamond wound of Buddha.
Your breath is the sky.
And the
mothering pang of all human sorrow is
a bindhu,
the merest drop
,
evaporating into blue and boundless joy.
Blue and boundless joy.

________

Listen to this meditation here:
LINK.
Photo by Samantha Wallace, who took it while flying Om.



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