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.