These days I live close to the bone.
This is no mere phrase.
The face that looks at me from the mirror
Is ever older and gives a glance of skull;
The body that moves or not
Is ever thinner and juts with skeletal outline.
I could say this be not my choice,
Citing illness and age.
But we all face this end,
Whatever the appearance.
No amount of flesh or care or luck will spare us.
So I cherish my circumstance as valuable,
A visible reminder not to waste my time.
Once, long ago, she wanted my heart.
I gave her a cup of tea and a poem.
She tied a cord of red thread around my wrist
And wept before she left.
What did that mean?
We are all living with rattling skeletons
That come to us from multiples lives.
(Not just our personal one but those of the different spaces we inhabit-
Land, religion, culture, gender, species and countless other such.)
The question becomes,
What do we do with these and all they represent?
Some choose to acknowledge them,
Make friends, and even dance.
Others pretend not even to see their existence,
Or stuff them in the cellars to shift and creak.
Many spend their years running in fear
From the certain voice (deep within)
That we are all speeding towards a mirror.
And when we gaze into this, we will see?
Skeletons gazing back.
Have you learned to dance yet?
How would it be, to change our vision?
We often ask (ourselves or god or the the universe)
Why did this happen?
We see an event as a particular discrete thing
And usually when we query thus,
Feel that it be extraordinary in some way.
Often we seek some divine aid or give thanks for that perceived intervention.
Consider if you will this possibility:
There are no miracles nor curses. The playing field is level.
A joyous birth equals a tragic death. The discovery of a vaccine equals the manufacture of a deadly weapon.
And all equal the purchase of a cup of coffee.
THESE ARE ALL ORDINARY. Shocking to write.
Each came about in the same manner, with innumerable causes.
They have no special quality in and of themselves,
Though they do carry weight and impact, which we ourselves assign.
We are the ones who decide what counts as remarkable,
Either for reasons of evil or good, while we claim signs from some deity.
If we choose to see this and acknowledge
That everything is mundane and therefore also terrible and therefore also glorious,
Then we can (perhaps) take a better path.
We walk in bone fields of unknown dead
And crush the shards of countless shattered dreams
With each careless step.
Occasionally someone stops,
To whisper on the wind to those forgotten,
“I remember. I remember.”
A bird flying overhead might reply:
“You have been those bones.
Pick up whatever dreams you’ve lost and go on your way.
You will forget again soon.”
For a brief moment, the sun becomes radiant,
And the earth shifts.
I swing my mala and throw it.
It tears a hole in the fabric of this existence.
The beads disappear one by one.
I follow them,
While reflecting on impermanence.
I recite gate gate paragate
As I evanesce.
How to quiet my mind?
It often seems like a flock of restless birds:
The thoughts dart here and there, as they will.
I breathe and bid them fly away,
Yet they perch to preen and call,
Gently mocking my efforts.
Perhaps the greater wisdom
Says simply to allow the birds
To be as they are
And expand my limited meditation.
This is why I prefer to avoid the hue and cry of crowds.
The surface conviviality of group encounters
Does not come easily to me.
I would far rather engage with one person
And have a brief but meaningful conversation.
I am uninterested in simply oiling the mechanism of polite flow.
Tell me something true and real that matters to you,
Else simply smile (or not) and walk past.
I like that better than chit-chat about the weather.
Unless you are a farmer.
Then the weather is of utmost importance.
I’ve learned to listen, a most useful skill,
And nod and make social-approval noises.
Then I make my way home,
Convinced more than ever
That I am not really human
And merely dwell among you,
Always a stranger in a very strange land.
Layer upon layer upon layer
Faceted as petals
Endless as waves
Infinite in time and space
Breathe in, breathe out
Rest in impermanence
(Inspired By A Piece OF Nancy Garretson’s)