A Bow

There is a genuflection that ends at the feet of the master. But there's another bow that shatters your forehead and pours your soul into the ground, melting the distinction between I and Thou.

This bending pulls you through every maelstrom of loss, down to the abysmal wound of awakening.

More intimate than joy, death is only the sheath of a blue and wonderfully useless blade. Learn from the exquisite gesture of the new moon how to bow without purpose, slicing the darkness of your doubt into delicious silver minnows.

Now your Guru is a white-tailed fawn curled among the gnarled fingers of an ancient cedar. Your Guru is a dying coral reef, the sound of the plaintive frog who lives in your geranium pot, an endangered lioness.

Your Guru is a moth-wing settling on a lapis hydrangea, the muffled mourning of your daughter for her grandmother's soul.

Wander the earth, bidding 'Namaste' to whatever perishes. Genuflect to every weed along your path. Fertilize each flower with the sting of your gaze.