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Sweep

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A breath of Thou Art sweeps I Am away and the heart becomes clear. A breath of I Am sweeps Thou Art away and the heart becomes clear. Beloved, you are the clarity within clarity. So my breath is one, yet two, ever departing, ever returning. And so my heart is whole, yet contain s twin chambers, O sparkling emptiness who tastes the Self as Other! The moth folds her wings perfectly on a petal of blue lupine. The raven complains perfectly about nothing from a misty pine. A tear perfectly kisses my cheek for no reason. If you do not heal your own seeing , how can you heal anything you see ? The earth will be purified, not by politics, but by astonishment. It isn’t more work but less wanting that cleanses our water, wind, and soil. Thus we return to the crystal of No Thought. Our ambitions dissolve like clouds in a sky that was never not already blue. Look! The entangled filaments of creation pour out of your eyes, and the gold that glistens in that silk is y...
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Thank You Little Creature

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                                   At the quantum level of energy , every wave-particle is a vibration of the entire cosmic field . Therefore m y heart contains all the light that is, was, or ever shall be. So does yours.  But the  human mind work s with methodical desperation to deny this fact, constructing elaborate arguments to justify our finite, dis-eased, and victimized condition. The mind cannot endure th e paradox: while I am a boundless continuum of light extending in all directions at once, I am also an infinitesimal particle, a photon of the very glow that surrounds and contains me.  Thus the Upanishads declare, "Ano - raniyan Mahato - mahiyan: One atom of the smallest is greater than the greatest." While the mind cannot endure the paradox, the eye of the heart sees it clearly. Passing through and within the subtlest, most interior dimension of the microcosm,...
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Small Things

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Pay attention to a crumb fallen from the altar, stuck to the janitor's boot-sole. It is the body of God.   Pay attention to this breath sinking to your belly, rising to your forehead, dissolving into starlight. A deer trail  circling back to itself in the greenbelt between public housing projects. The moon in daylight  not quite full  floating among russet leaves.  Nothing is finished. That doesn’t matter. Presence is to disappear. Three unharvested tomatoes glowing hollow as lanterns. A spider flinging its silken path homeward from an old garden buddha to the withered rose. The last evening light fondling small things like the hand of the dying, not with regret but inextinguishable gratitude.   Zen garden, Kyoto
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Not Enough

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 It's not enough to be the sky, you must become the loam. No need to alchemize an angel. Just be a mycorrhizal hypha plunging like a dolphin through waves of sod. It's not enough to be more, you must become what you are. All kingdoms  gathered in your body, finned, slithering, wingéd and hooved.  Find the far  quasar  grit-spark    closed in a clam shell, chaffed  by darkness into pearl. Churn a butter song from silence. Wed eleven genders in one calyx, anther and ovule, you and I. Ferment the nectar of the microbiome, undulate continuum of musk,  incense and putrefaction. Baptize golden idols of death  in your birth canal.  It's not enough to be loam. You must become the sky. Photo: Kristy Thompson
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