Makeshift scaffolding
Meher Baba laboring in the body,
established schools, dispensaries, ashrams
and, at their height, abandoned them.
Mere scaffolding, He said, for the real work,
explaining no further.
One day my lifetime’s structures,
including this weathered tent of skin and bones,
shall also be razed, dismantled, dispersed –
things I consider vital, valuable and dear.
The real work having been accomplished,
all the apparent, quite human and temporal activities
shall come to an end, without sufficient explanation,
the makeshift scaffolding irrevocably removed.
O child of God, only the real work matters,
accomplished beyond your efforts and ability to grasp.
Love unadulterated
Eye to eye stand the man-eating tiger and I,
a safety sheet of plexiglass between us;
his ochre eyes gazing nonchalantly
as I admire his glinting tri-colored coat
and the symmetrical arrangement beneath it
of his latent danger, thrilling power and grace.
In the wild, I would enjoy no such beauty,
find no such magic and majesty,
my admiration thwarted by terror.
Daily our vulnerable selves
miss the terrible beauty of God and His creation
for fear of our own pain and demise.
It’s not the world from which
we must be liberated but our attachment
to this human, deeply-held view.
Free from self; free from mind;
free from death and fear,
we shall gain a God’s eye view
and become again capable
of love unadulterated.
O child of God, Meher said where there is fear,
there’s no love.
Where there’s love, there’s no fear.
Where you go to die
Folded body; observing the breath.
Trying to keep a toehold in the here and now
as wave upon wave of illusion crashes over me.
I’ve been told, time and again,
I must live in the now, where the real things are,
but lately I see – the now is where you go to die –
the false self sputtering to a halt
from lack of fuel; thoughts evanescing
before they can take root
and establish fully the ego
where it lives – in the realm
of mind and imagination.
There is only space in the now
for pure consciousness (none for me).
Meditation is a means of acquainting myself
with the reality of my own non-existence
while still tightly wrapped
in the illusion of self.
O child of God, the truth is unclaimed,
everyone cosseted in their own imagination.
Something to be said
There is something to be said for silence
when you’re clamoring to get into heaven.
When you find your entreaties only accentuate the divide;
when the only strategy left is to abandon all
strategies.
A long while ago you discovered there is no why.
Now you’re learning there is no how, no when or where,
only the Who left for investigation, merely a concept,
a designation, unsound in Its true Oneness.
There is something to be said for silence
when you discover the tongue in your skull and mind
will never whisper the Word you need but belongs
to an ancient companion you’ve never really known,
roughly detaining you outside the gates,
keeping you from the truth of Who you really are.
O child of God, it takes many lifetimes for the truth
of Meher to begin its penetration of your habitual view.
