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Goldmund

for Adin –

while adults sat to fold in prayer rooms you could be found scouring the fields like a hawk, unfolding tendrils into arabesques and treehouses into mosques, kaleidoscopic in every vein and leaf. singing your evensongs as if to remind us that “Pachamama, too, is beautiful beyond belief."

there are so many ways to say ’thank you,’ so you celebrate God in the form of sunlight, in the form of the Kodama springing from mossy rocks and petrichor, as well as that of your simple, crooning body’s warmths.

and though you kneel not at the altar of Kuan Yin nor of Kali, you wear your gentle hands out singing praise through tireless acts of service, from day to day, for the divine compassion of the beating human heart.

it is thus that you weave your sacred meanings - not from ivory towers, or carved of ivory drapings, but of sun-kissed feet, calloused and dirty and sanctified through travel; or, of immortalising the beauty of the lands and stars, and out of deepened moments bathed in the nectar of sweet joy and intimacy. it is a practice you know so well.

indeed you’ve lain down pristine scriptures for your muddy toes, your indigenous heart; felt that the love of God is all the richer when barefoot and running free through open charts. for I know you’ve found that, at just the right angle, the reed flute’s hymn it whistles oh so beautifully through your golden hair. that, or it makes funny noises, and you giggle --

you giggle because you remember that there is no monarchy without a court jester, without the divine joker, awakened and without destination, there to remind us that this is all make-believe anyway and you know it’s all a game in the way that Beethoven is a dance and Hamlet is a play, and the butterfly minuet is but another of Chuang Tzu’s dreams.

“we speak of the ineffable in different languages,” you say, and now I see you chase not exalted states for you know already that this here is your exalted dream and ecstasy: this very body the Buddha, these very hands the Hanuman, this very river the Shakti.

it is thus that you follow, not the anchoring hum of mantras, but that of the wild geese at dawn. like you, they need no compass to know that that what feels right inside is enough to tell you of the way home.

so if you ever feel lost, you need but to let this emptiness - which is a wordless knowing - fill inside your mind and body like a singing bowl. remember: it is not a begging bowl, but a receiving bowl, cupping the bounties of Pachamama's ever flowing universe.

you may find that the singing is that of sirens after all who are simply calling you back into the silent home that is your own unfettered rememberance of your place in the stars -

your oneness with the whole.

On How to Be a Garden

take this pain you feel and make of it an offering. release it up into the boundless, boundless skies where the shapeless night transforms into streaks of gold and Persian rose. out here is where you hold the endless things. become like the distant cloud, slowly its contours, and dissolve; rain, down, down onto the fertile clay of earth singing as you fall. perhaps you’d forgotten, but your tears are her tears; your song is her song. for the great Mother has carved from the cavernous oceans of you heart these delicate, intricate gorges along your palms - tributaries for her rivers. perhaps you’d forgotten, but these hands are able hands, they bear the mark of your Maker, composer of birdsong, sculptor of sea-life and sierras. but right now, they are yours alone. so start creating with them, and the rivers in you will begin to move. you will braid the path of your own life, strand by strand hour by hour with your such soft and brave animal fingers - that which were once a newborn’s, fumbling for the light as they weather into an elder’s wise and gentle touch. as you weave with threads from the inner kingdom drawn from boundless skies, let them entwine as your fever-hot, scrawling cooling, rooting, thickening art in your little patch of sun and soil in this brokenhearted world. you are not forgotten. this, this is the ancient, native work of embroidery it is what traces the cartography of the blindly writhing, groping human spirit; a maze of endless complexity and inexhaustible ways for something to alchemise or to be beautiful, that will one day all come together and glimmer like an orchestra of white-hot dying stars magnificent. these are the constellations that will guide our descendants welcome them to the human family again and again, from hand to hand, from life to life. know that grandmother has already been here before, healing in the shadows of imperialism and war, all to string together the golden beads that now adorn your spine. you shall be comforted, too, by the radiant daylight of Van Gogh, the burning sunset of Neruda, and Beethoven’s deep and somber moonlight. like a forest rooting together underground, we are all but learning to love what is mortal. so keep stumbling forward. let the tapestries reveal your sweet heritage, these pulses of eternity echoing on in you: as the tooth and claw of your exquisite human sensitivity, the deep loneliness of your greatest becomings as well as the quiet whisper of your unyielding courage and love for life out in this wilderness of infinite time. you will grow your heart into a garden of thorned yet ever so tender roses. remember - it is here and now, in the free fall of this shapeless night that is the only place where roses can bloom; and it is you, weary passenger, who are the only one who can show us all how to plant this seed, thread this node, and light this path ahead as you sing your lonesome pilgrim's song for us on your meandering way back home.

The ground of being is that which embeds and transcends all opposites, manifesting all perception and all the cosmos. It is the implicit and imperceptible unity behind all explicit difference. Between the germinal opposition of light and dark emerge the earth and the sky, the trees and the rivers, the abject horrors and breath-taking beauties of all the world.

Behind it all, You abide. You, the forever witness and creator, marrying light and dark with your eyes, sound and silence with your ears, good and evil with your heart. You are the all-embracing love, the unitive and ever-fertile ground of being, the light that shines on all the ten thousand things.

You shine on all pain and all joy, on all thought forms and bodily sensations, on all the beatific landscapes of the universe and on all the suffering, discomfort and sadness of the world alike. Embracing all indiscriminately, without dimension, without location, without possession. It is only through your light that the river of life is manifested, known, held, and passes away.How does it feel to be the light that shines on all things? (Pictured: Buddha Statue at Haeinsa Temple, Korea.)

Amniotic

In the streetlamp moonlight of a dark and nameless alley And under furtive cover of our leaden quilts of longing breath The ever growing lily of our shrouded, mystic valley Is shyly, gently hiding. Sweetly in this safe and holy space She begins to unfurl now, to dawn a new and ardent spring To the rhythmic throbs of our heavy, slowly, beating hearts As they pulse and pulse, through our creaturely, warm and gentle limbs... For the first time now to unveil Our very own living and cosmic work of art. We begin to unfold like fragile petals, to so defencelessly reveal Our soft and fragrant centres: Naught but all Eternity herself, but so modestly concealed Behind our dark and speckled eyes so tender. Like little nymphs and creatures coming out to play In the cover of the mystic, pregnant dark - And underneath the unutterable and the infinite That are these stunning starlit skies... We’ve found each other at the hearth of love, to finally herald in The sacred shedding of our heavy, earthen guises Like hallowed and weightless meadowlarks Singing of the scent of precious blossoms Carried so gently in Samsara’s evening wind... And yet look with me and see -- What beauty has now emerged In us playing to be you, and playing to be me: Family, soft spots and shadows, Life stories and velvet dragonflies. Laughter, depth, tenderness and seeing, Soul gazing and eskimo kisses. The adagio piano dancing in the mist, Your head on my belly, Your soft fingers in mine. We are the most beautiful sound next to silence, The most beautiful duality next to God. ... Indeed, in this dream-like amnion of haze and sweet caress Like a famous movie still, or God’s most beauteous painting framed, We’ve now forever captured, in endless time now to arrest This one timeless, nameless parenthesis in which we once felt perfect heaven... And together always will.

our little blackbird

in between two gentle notes lies an unspeaking parenthesis of sound. you, me, and the thing-in-itself: our little blackbird, unbound.

this, a wordless phantom, fleeting, flitting, soaring against the backdrop of this such fathomless living concert hall that stands before us roaring: the great golden-hour sky, its trees swaying, dancing, singing and howling in the great evening wind, as through all the calms and all the storms, its mountainous pulse rises, rises, and falls with the great inpourings and outpourings of cosmic breath…

… here, somewhere inside the such slightly, lightly, trembling lips of a growing and slender-stemmed rose are parting.

whispered in but a single whiff of sweet perfume, her slow secret, imperceptible, is at once held, and at once lost in the arms of the infinite.

and, just so, like the faded secret of a rosebud petal or the nameless blackbird song amidst the wind — in this parenthesis between the two eternities, you’ve forever pressed into our world, my world, a true and sacred home: simply but the loveliness of the purest, gentle beauties.

thus by grace of the sensitivities of your bodhisattva eyes and through the moving motions of your bodhisattva fingers, of everything i have learnt and have been taught, the truth of beauty is the one that will always linger.

for i know now, that it is simply that which in between two gentle notes resounds: you, me, and the thing-in-itself: our little blackbird, unbound.

What is a poet? An unhappy man who hides deep anguish in his heart, but whose lips are so formed that when the sigh and cry pass through them, it sounds like lovely music. And people flock around the poet and say: ‘Sing again soon’ - that is, ‘May new sufferings torment your soul but your lips be fashioned as before, for the cry would only frighten us, but the music, that is blissful.

Soren Kierkegaard

Destiny, 48 x 48", oil on canvas, by Simon Kenny.

coalescence

as i look into the gorge of your freckled amber eyes, you as my bond with god — the seed of creation unveils her worldly haze, behind which endless skies unfurl like a vast and golden carnation —

and all at once she dances so beautifully, through the swaying of our fingers entwined, our oscillating breaths, the hymns of our hearts, the gleam of our eyes and the gentle ripples of our spines;

through the words we speak, as nature itself awoken to its own beauty at last — now, as never sung before they take on a life of their very own, in between the stunning silences like eager notes in a grand ensemble score.

as we light up this dark and spectral room like a flower that knows simply to bloom, we know simply to coalesce, simply to unravel together as a breath of song, a pulse of love — the one and final gesture.

did it take you long to arrive? to hold my name for the first time now, like a caress under your tongue, with a taste so sweet i can feel it in my throat and in the deep of my heavy, scorching lungs?

to hold my silken body in your arms now, like the air holds the mist, and carries it in perfect dance eternal through the soft deep trees, the holy mountains and all the faces of the people we could never see?

all at once i’ve found you and though you’ve appeared to me as poetry, as art, as the passing of the canopies of clouds in early dawn never before have we met, never before with these eyes, with these gentle, crooning arms.

in this cosmic game of hide and seek, we’ve finally found in the form of you, in the form of me, this most beautiful incarnation of the one and sacred sound in the bridge between our souls, between our bright and earthen bodies.

did it take you long to find me? did it take you long to remember? now, at once and finally — in the dark of a sweet eternal September, and the arms of our shared and sacred gaze divine —

we are here now, and we are sublime.

welcome home.

Ode To Tenderness, Clara Doan, 2015.

ode to tenderness

the first cry of a baby rings across the room soft fingers, sweet, with grips like gentle moon as she bathes in whispers of the timid sleeping sun drunken lovers in shades of ripened cherry plum.

their lips like magnolias, sea salted and damp atop nervous twitches and body parts cramped muffle a warm rosebud shyly swelling at the throat unfolding with every gaze and every earnest, trembling stroke.

meanwhile she grips like tendrils along a weary tree knowing nothing, nothing but the tenderness of the doting seas, the softest voice, the warmest mother’s touch; the first and last rock on which to clutch.

how tender is the darkened supple night? when words become caresses under the flickering stellar light, and honeyed lullabies cocoon young cherubs to wondrous realms of sleep someone somewhere commits his last words to love into the moonless barren deep.

ensō

to make music to the love inside of me, to make love to the music that moves my being — to write of the ineffable, unutterable, word beyond words, love beyond love.

no earthly metaphor would contain that which defies language, no arrangement of sounds could accompany a dance greater than life. the very moment these words escape my body, i betray the entire universe inside of me, inside of you.

but i understand now, for i know you feel the same. and so, all there is left to do is to let go. how beautiful it was and came to be: the music, the drama, the final liberation, the everyman’s and poet’s surrender.

when the struggle to express oneself is no more where all of life had been a great battle of holding on — to be able to finally come again to the place where it’s okay.

it’s okay.

let’s come back to the place where we can simply be: a certain transcendence, the ground of being unmanifest — the word of Buddha untainted, a stroke of paint at the hands of a newborn child.

where enlightenment is found in letting go, in us i have found perfect eternity.

Thornthwaite Beacon, 39.4 x 39.4, oil on canvas. By Koen Lybaert.

Tesselate | Unknown, and Neuromaencer by Elsa Munoz.

tesselate

to lie in rawness of our brittle human nature lost and dazed in life uncertain in transient bodies of strangers once unknown, only to be finally found in love so certain:

two of mother Nature’s bestial children at one with the earth’s seas and soil, Her animating principle, soul and atman manifesting in these forms, in these foils —

now as our earthen bodies tesselate like tectonic plates under an endless sky of stars, you evoke a home i never knew i had... in the tenderness of who we truly are.

When you’re loving somebody, you are simply delighting in that person as such. As if another human organism, in its mental and physical aspects, were a piece of music, or a work of art, or a glorious morning.

Alan Watts

Aftermath, 60" x 36" x 1.5", oil on cavas by Simon Kenny.

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