Thursday, July 1, 2010

3 June 2010

written while on my retreat:

Last day, want to write poems, could this be a poem? If you say so.

Sitting in the stupa in front of a gigantic Buddha with Western features. A man's man, but also a girl's girl. The Buddha is hollow and filled with blessing wrapped around incense and some prayers that are packaged to unintentionally resemble packages of Top Ramen. Was the Buddha a starving college student? I will stop joking, more sacred. (But laughter could be the most holy of all.)

Kept seeing Disney characters in the Stupa's marble floor during my ommm time. A bluebird from Cinderella and at first a cat (Cheshire?), but then the White Rabbit from Alice in Wonderland. I swear. Interestingly enough, I saw the smallest (not likely, but at the moment), cutest (debatable), lightest grayest (sure, if I say so) bunny on my way up here. It hid from me, I should have followed it. Or maybe it raced (and beat) me up here.

Oh little bunny, what blessings have you offered?

I dedicated today to gentleness, specifically gentleness to myself. I struggle to feel okay with "just" focusing on myself, which is another reason I need to focus on myself. Gentleness breeds gentleness and bunnies breed constantly.

And what is my lineage? I'm not sure. My automatic response is, "Oh, probably Zen." But today I claimed my lineage to be the lineage of poets.

Allen Ginsberg, you are on my mind.

Emily, I recall the dream where you whispered to me.

Rumi, you romantic, ancient son-of-a-bitch (excuse me).

I asked for their blessings, for the blessing of inspiration and maybe something else.

Where is my hat? On the chair behind me. No hat in the Stupa-- I can respect that. So that means no pocket watch for you, bunny.

You will meditate indefinitely.

And so I keep writing without time or a cover for my head. Let's expand, like space, like mind. Oh, there's the mysterious bluebird. I keep mentioning the disappearing rabbit, but this bluebird stays hidden in the open.

Observant flight, static.

The bluebird's enneagram number is probably a five. Of course, a five (me) always sees the five in everyone else. Bluebird, care for some tea for exactly one hour? Then back to our castles, back to you acting like a clothespin for the ungrateful Cinder.

Her mopping could be her meditation, her scrubbing her savior (read that how you will).

Will today's cursive be full of the abstract? Or will the sun at noon crack like the hard boiled egg I should have had at breakfast?


1 comment:

Jack W. said...

Your writing is the tao of now. I love you.