Poem: A Dream of Buddha's Teardrops

Be ye lamps unto yourselves. Be your own reliance. Hold to the truth within yourselves as to the only lamp.

The Buddha assumes responsibility of collecting all the world’s pain in a single, solitary teardrop: “The other teardrops are for good measure--strength in numbers,” the Buddha chuckles. Down by the Bodhi tree, the Buddha’s teardrops nourish life in the soil: (digging) roots, the natural darkness, earthworms, grubs, insects, moles, moss, lichens, snakes. Each drop feeds 1001 hungry children in the midst of Silence and the Great Solitude— forty days and forty nights in silent presence. Beside the Buddha, a woman of Pure Mind, a seed of love roots, a tall purple flower blooms, carries the hope of the universe, heralds what the Buddha knows, claims is already here, “already present.” The Buddha laughs aloud, speaks, “Oh, Greatness, it is only the Preserver of Life—I shall plant seeds for her coming!” The Buddha takes from her pockets a single rock, beads, rice, two handfuls of seeds, throws them high up above the heart-shaped leaves and canopy of the Bodhi tree— 1001 doves take flight, feed their mighty hunger. The Buddha smiles as she smells the sweet scent of hope, fluttering. The Buddha's compassion consumes anger with a single, solitary teardrop of understanding, creates a universe of karmic task—her hands clasped, legs crossed in prayer. The Buddha takes two handfuls of white sand from a red, silk pouch, lets each single, solitary grain take flight with the wind. The Buddha waits for stars to twinkle, nourishes a planet of dreams, in between breaths, gives them life. No one knows she moves into unknown galaxies only few understand the Buddha is quiet and still enough to become. No jewel is worth more than the diamond embedded in the Buddha’s heart. A river of light flows through the depths of the Infinite Unknown, comes full circle: The Buddha continues, “My heart flowers. My rose is ripe for the getting. Thorns should never keep you from picking. My rose is in bloom,” she sings. “I am delighted.” The Buddha, in full lotus, smiles, knows no hatred, no anger, only a secret, goes back to her lesson: the root of human suffering. The Buddha’s teardrops meet the Great Divine. The source echoes, in the void out of time, “It’s love.” Weeps with us, “It’s love.” The Buddha’s heart-mind wakes-reverberates to its long, yearning cry.

To Those Running From Skeleton Woman

A Love Letter December 2006 

 Freeing myself from a place of confusion takes grace, and faith. It takes movement and a momentum that forges a new reality, a state not torn between ways, to make what is dual, whole. Freedom from confusion mostly takes grace, a kind and generous answer to the silent prayers in the heart of humankind. Yes. No. Something as simple as "Tread the path on the high ground. Bring sustenance--food and water. There will be plenty of air." To breathe, deeply. Would suffice. Change is good. It is simple, although it bears the fruit of a new world, of roads taken, of complexities and long, drawn-out answers discovered. (And undiscovered.) There is but one question: It is the flavor of life, the beat of drums that thumps the chest, driving us into a frenzy of feeling, of wanting and needing, of sensing truth and the infinite vibe that drives the chariot. Another world is abloom with the fire of the chariot's wheels. My heart is connected to my head via "satellite." My heart speaks in a tongue my head fruitlessly tries to translate. I tell my head, "You over-analyze--the truth got lost in translation." Forget your Rosetta stone. Follow the voice of the silent muse. Remember and recognize, order and harmony speak in the natural universe, full of mystery, oblivious to the untrained eye, in the language of the Soul. Laboring over analysis, categorization, of what smells of heart and soul is a dubious task that affords only death: It is where dreams die. I mention the word "intuition." I write of the existence of a world that exists inseparably with the world around us. In infinite possibilities. What is "God-plasma?" And the blueprint of the Universe? We cover our heads to block out the sun. But, we need light like we need our Mother's bosom to sleep in at night. We need each other in a language that is not ours alone. It is a language of faith that arose as we took our first breath; the faith and grace that allowed our seed to root and become a tree. We struggle together, weighing our love and our fear, our gains and our losses. That struggle is the force of life in its ebb and flow; its inhalation and exhalation. We are fruitless without this exchange. We are dead without this faith. There is a force that has tied our fates together in a knot. (We untangle each other out of our struggle, in faith and in love, for commitment and lasting union.) Our destinies echo the willingness, intelligence, and love of the Creator, who created us out of tears of joy and sorrow. Tears whetted by the fluidity and soul of the Universe. I understand a secret I am unaccustomed at making practice. I understand the answer, but forgot how to communicate the question. My roots are my soul's decent into the warm mantle of the Earth and her motherly kindness. She caresses my desire with a mirrored desire to give birth, to create. You and I, we have laughed together, but we have not yet learned to cry together. We are at our defenses, watchful of the slightest sight or assumption of indiscretion. Our hearts beat "hurt." Our knuckles are white with anger. Our pain bears fruit of an unseemly and unjust creator. Frustrated with the misunderstanding of the force that guides us, we spin our webs in anger. What follows makes little sense, and soon we begin to notice the web of confusion that was spun in doubt. What was once a simple road is now a discouraging detour. Mistrust and fear, and all that it sparks and spoils, describes our toil. We fear what we want most because we don't believe we deserve it. We doubt life has in store for us the good we desire. We fear failure. We continue to spin our wheels and webs of confusion. Eventually, we'll beat our heads hard enough against the wall, and our hearts will have to take over. Out of confusion comes realization. Out of struggle comes wholeness and new life. Out of wood becomes lumber. Out of this lumber, we build a house. Out of this house, with love, faith, trust, responsibility, kindness, patience, and commitment, we create a home. Out of our home, where we live, grow, and nurture and support a family, we create a temple. Our temple stands as a testament to the labor of our love. Through our fear, we'll never imagine an oasis, a home made refuge out of our labor and love. We will burn down each house we build together until we create a home that, when we enter, out of mutual trust and respect, we wipe our feet and leave our shoes and fears at the door. There is reckoning, and it only comes by the storm of action and awareness. Movement comes from within, not without. It is dependent on your energy for its life. You bear it like only an attentive, loving parent would. Give it what it needs.