Under their trilling
The path of knowledge has
petered out
into a thick pine wood
ripe with scent and birdsong.
Its remainder does not
lie undiscovered up ahead.
It simply goes no
farther.
There’s no key to God’s
door
on my considerable chain
–
a weight I’ve accumulated
for years.
There’s no lock on God’s
door;
most likely there’s no
door at all out this far.
What I should do now is
toss these keys,
scatter the last of my
bread crumbs
for the gathered,
guileless birds
and await my Beloved
under their trilling –
hand outstretched but no
longer for begging,
merely waiting, do or
die, for Him
to take my hand and lead
me home.
O child of God, leave it
– your salvation
has always been entirely
up to Him.
(Drawing by Rich Panico)
Of stars and stones
When they plant my stone
on the green hillside
nothing earth-shattering
will occur –
the ocean and the stars
will function as ever before
once my little boat slips
under the waves.
Often I listen to the
world now as if I’m in a casket.
Listen to my thoughts as
if they were wind in the trees.
Listen beyond the
palpable noises,
beyond the stream of my
thoughts
to the silence underlying
every sound, inside and out.
The silence of stars and
stones. The silence of the blue sky
behind the clouds. The silence of death.
I listen to – whether
real or imagined –
the silence my Lord saved
up for a lifetime
and left for me and others
to listen to in our loneliness.
O child of God, why not,
asked Meher,
consider yourself already
dead?
God-sent
If my virtue requires a
villain
I can be sure that I’m
duping myself,
dabbling in duality with
a quality
that belongs to another
realm.
True virtue is God-sent,
borne
of benevolence, humility
and equanimity.
It breaks us down –
nearer to dust and ashes.
Virtue that lifts us
above others
is a subtle self
promotion, an empty grand gesture
that for whatever good it
does,
adds to the darkness, the
ignorance
and hypocrisy of
ourselves and the world.
O child of God, in the
depths of a ruse
nothing is ever
completely what it seems.
When you look for God
The path seems more like
a river now
than a road – I’m being
pulled down it.
I haven’t the choice even
of opening or shutting my
eyes.
God, through the Law,
does that.
The river wends where it
will,
flowing also through my
mind –
torrents of thoughts,
emotions, moods
often turgid with the
impedimenta of fear.
Attachment is not only
about desire, apparently,
it’s about existence – my
existence. It seems
I am a witness not a
participant of my journey.
Thus I am bound and thus
I am infinitely free.
Realization of that
freedom is my destiny (I am told).
My search (which is not
mine to claim)
is an unfolding of that
destiny –
ever fated to seek and
never find God
for I do not exist apart
from Him.
O child, when you look
for God, Rumi said,
God is in the look of
your eyes.
The mercy of God
They sell a child’s car
seat
with a steering wheel
attached
to keep junior busy in
the backseat
driving the car along
with Dad.
Such is my relationship
with God.
I’ve sought most of my
life and failed
to find one truth which
would
disprove the obvious,
terrifying notion
that I am utterly at the
mercy of God.
God Almighty has
left me no choice,
no influence, power or
control.
No saving myself through
any efforts,
merit, prayers of my
own.
Yes, all the Realized
Ones
say God is Love. God is my true Self.
I am firmly lodged under
my own thumb.
But that truth is so very
far away.
Not much comfort to my
unrealized self
with no work to do, no
vows to keep,
no power of rescue or the
alleviation of pain.
O child of God, becoming
helpless and hopeless
is not an attainment but
a revelation.
Giving myself up for dead
I got myself lost in the
back country,
romping out of the barn
on a jet black horse
just as day broke. Rode wild and loose
for a long ways. Lost my bearings.
I’ve nosed my old horse
around ever since
studying every
bleached-boned hint of a trail,
every wagon rut, dry
gulch
cattle run that might
lead home.
At last I stumbled upon
an old ghost of a
prospector
who advised me to drop
the reins.
Let that tired, hungry
horse under me
find its own way back to
the stable.
I might not like the
route or ride it takes,
but return, the old man
said,
by giving myself up for
dead;
by dropping all pride and
purpose,
false hope, shallow
expertise
to surrender completely,
beyond any intent or
desire.
O child of God, not a
trace of resistance!
Surrender tolerates no
dishonesty.
My worn out boots
My worn out boots are on
His porch
but my back is to His
door.
I’ve knocked randomly,
rang the bell.
Without an answer I’ve
turned again
toward where I came from
down the shady stone walk
through the trim, thick
grass
that leads back to the
busy street.
Everything passing out
there seems
(momentarily) important –
each phase,
crisis, new adventure,
each fleeting attachment.
Everything but God at
every moment
seems alive and
urgent. Everything
but His quiet house set
back from the road;
everything but getting a
foot inside that door.
My worn out boots are on
His welcome mat.
I’m not going anywhere –
a blessing
and a curse – as I turn
again briefly
to ring and knock, shout
and study
how at last I might slip
inside.
O child of God, to enter
His house
turn forever your back
upon the world.
