Today we only speak silently
and know everyone hears.
Today we cry only dry tears,
and others gently wipe our eyes.
Today we mourn what we fear is lost
and together vow to retain it.
Today the sun shines less brightly
and we know the dark cloud
will eventually pass.
Today we hug, each
to all the others, though
we sit alone as a sangha.
This is but a single moment
and we sit with and within it,
breathing in and breathing out.
In this case, a Sangha meeting the day after the shootings at Stoneman Douglas High School in Parkland, Florida, but as easily the day after any tragedy of which there are too many.
Today I will hope to master,
if only for a brief moment, not
not being attached to thoughts,
but recognizing them and letting them pass,
since the thought of recognition must
replace the thought that was recognized,
not trying for anything on the cushion
including not trying to not try
for anything for that is the only way
that you can find nothing, which
is what you were trying for in the first place,
not putting into words concepts
which must by their nature defy language
but rather assuming the position
and just let things
Somewhere in the world
at this very moment,
is being laid to ruin.
It is our nature to tear down
what we cannot understand,
what we hold different,
what does not comport
with our present view
of how things ought to be.
Somewhere in the world
at this very moment
is being born,
is being created,
out of an idea,
a thought, an emotion.
We are all
somewhere in the world
at this very moment.
He is certain that there is
that single moment when it will be
exactly the right time for it.
There must be such a moment, for it
will not happen until that instant arrives
and he knows it must be arriving soon.
He isn’t sure how he will know
when the moment arrives, just that
it will signal itself, somehow
and he will know with enough warning
that it will happen on schedule.
Until then, he will sit, patiently
on the mat, staring at the wall
and imagining what samadhi
will feel like when it comes.
Sit down and be silent,
you always want to speak
at the worst possible moment,
whispering incessantly in my ear
when I cannot answer you.
When I call on you, you prefer
to avoid me, playing off
in a corner somewhere
sampling the joys of the day
to be forgotten by nightfall
when I seek to converse.
You take great joy in teasing me
dangling pearls and withdrawing
them at my first grasp, playing
hide and go seek while knowing
all the nooks and crannies.
You prosper in the dark
flitting about, and I can only
feel the breeze as you dash by,
and occasionally touch your skirts
as they brush against by leg.
You are the spoiled child,
petulant, pouting for days
when I chastise you, mocking
when I have little to say to you,
frustrating to the point of distraction
and loved nonetheless.
This wave touches the shore
just as it should,
that wave touches the shore
just as it should.
You may wait
for a wave that touches
but not as it should
or you can sit
and let the waves
wash over you.
What is there in a yawn
that has time inexorably slow,
flattening notes by some unknown
but ever constant fraction of a tone
so that each lingers painfully before proceeding?
A moment is locked in place,
frozen like Schroedinger’s cat