Things That Make No Difference At All

"The Blessed One set these questions aside, for they are questions not tending toward edification. Is the cosmos eternal or not eternal? Is the cosmos finite or infinite? Are the soul and body the same or different? After death, does a Buddha exist or not exist, both exist and not exist, or neither exist nor not exist?" ~Malunkya Sutta i.426

These are things that make no difference at all:

Whether God's word is written in a book, on the palm of your hand, or in the veins of an alder leaf.

Whether you call the deep end of your soul Allah or Jesus.

Whether or not He was born of a virgin: for natural conception is also a miracle.

Whether you name the Great Silence mother or father: for She is both.

Whether the cosmos expands into a frozen crystal hologram, or all our prayers finally converge in a human face of blazing compassion.

Whether you call the deep end of your soul Allah or Jesus.

Whether a man or a woman raise you, or two women, or two men, as long as they feed your soul with tears.

Whether your brow is anointed by the hand of a priest, or by your own hand wiping away the holy sweat of earthly labor.

Whether you gnash on keilbasa sausage with city soot and slaw, or drink pure prana from an alpine hermitage: it is all the milk of the Goddess.

Whether the edges of nations exist on the curved body of the world, or only on maps.

Whether the government has any real authority, or the government is a paper house blown down by a fierce new wind.

Whether the newe wind is the Spirit of God, or your own breath.

Whether your ancestors dwell in the dream-time or in your blood, riding winged dragons of DNA.  

Whether or not you call it Nirvana when you fall asleep in meditation.  

Whether you gain instant satori, or drown for a trillion years in the torrent of loving-kindness: what has this to do with your baby's cry?

Whether the cosmos is a lightning flash, a stream of bubbles, or a wisp of fog in the glow of some ineffable future morning.

Whether you prick your finger on a thorn when you reach for the rose.  

Whether you give the mountain a name, or it floats in cloud silence forever.

Whether or not you are remembered, having for this moment truly lived.  

Whether we are white or black, of the East or West: for all of us rent this verdant home from the same nut-brown ancestor.  

Whether you gaze at the full moon, or sleep away the night: for the moon's fingers are always at work in your body, pruning your tangled nerves, gleaning what is ripe.

Whether cities, temples, and churches collapse as armies exhaust themselves in a furious futile final war: for we shall sustain our kind by spontaneity, self-organized in local healing farms of organic song. 

Whether you keep your word or give your word or your word becomes flesh, as long as it is your word and not another's. 

Whether we address each other by name, or with eyes only, using the holy Thou of silence as our pronoun.

Whether there is no tomorrow, or whether there has ever been tomorrow.

Whether you postpone till the end of the ages your cup of sorrow, your taste of joy.

It makes no difference, no difference at all.

For then and now and always the Beloved awaits you, in the patient yearning conflagration of your heart.