The Secret

The secret of meditation

could not be hidden.

A seamless lineage of gurus,

rank upon rank of warrior monks,

infallible succession

of a hundred popes,  

a thousand dalai lamas,

could not keep it.

Distant ashrams,  

hidden mountain caves

could not contain it.

The secret of meditation

could not be obscured by

esoteric doctrines 

in languages extinct,

advanced initiations 

whispered in the shrine,

or post-modernist scholars 

babbling on about

the deconstruction of God.

The secret of meditation 

is out now, revealed 

by the breeze's first kiss,

the indiscretion of a tree frog,

the vanishing mist

of a golden morning.

Unveiled by the scent of rain 

on hay grass, 

the silent explosion

of a purple crocus.

Given away by the gaze 

of a baby in a shopping cart

as you stand in line

at the drug store.

Wander the edge of any meadow,

behold the hidden face 

of a god unknown

in the wild forget-me-not,

tiny as a fingertip,

blue as the riot of sky.

Ancient lips were sealed.

Their spell needed breaking.

Now ineffable silence 


The singing begins.

Photo by my amazing friend, Kristy Thompson

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