When I
lie there dying, or here,
for it is always here that we lie,
or stand, or walk, or die,
I don’t want to realize, My God,
it was
the little things, after all!
It wasn’t the party I voted for,
or whether I grokked nonduality,
or what I ate, or didn’t eat.
It had nothing to do with karma,
or which Guru I followed.
It wasn’t about the choice
to become a Christian, or a Muslim.
It was about gazing
into the face of a baby at Rite Aid.
Or the
moment I caught and held
the eye of the eighth grader
behind the dark school bus window,
and saying clearly, without words,
“I know how loneliness feels.
Therefore you are not alone.”
It was about finding the frog
who lived in my umbrella
at the
corner of the porch.
The first Autumn rain, when I
opened it, spilling him into my hand.
It was about taking him to the rose pot
and placing him among the withered petals,
telling him with words, yes words,
“You may live here all Winter.
I will listen for you at midnight.”
It was about the courage to speak with frogs.
About not minding garden dirt
caked on my knees, not taking
a shower on a Summer night
because I felt so good
about planting the tomatoes
and wearing pajamas of loam.
It was about sending my friend
who is dying far younger than I
a link to Allegri’s “Miserere,”
something as easy, as small as that.
It was about pausing on a long walk
to watch
the cumulonimbus roil
into a personal face, I won't
say whose, I'll let you find the Friend,
to whom I whispered, "Thank You,"
then had the courage to admit,
"This is possible, this is natural,
it is not foolish, it requires no believing..."
When I lie there dying may I dare
to understand, there are no big things,
only little ones, all of them somehow
threaded in a wine-dark
mandala,
a wreathe of heartbeats, growing
fainter, fainter now,
the circle
of moments when I paid
attention,
even for a
breath, growing fainter
yet
widening into blue, into the sky
of one eternal
heartbeat.
Photo: Old bench in my yard
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