The gardens of the Christ

The gardens of the Christ                                                                                 
 
In Meherazad’s quietude, no one around,
not even myself; opposite Mandali Hall,
 
the pillowed floor, the adorned chair,
not having the heart to enter
 
or even to step upon the veranda or around back
to mount the narrow stoop to His bedroom door. 
 
Instead, I sit in the weeping dust, a mortal,
cumbersome sacrilege in the gardens of the Christ.
 
How heedless and indulgent were my visits!
How unsettled and self-centered among the mandali,
 
more concerned about fitting into a foreign milieu
than baring my soul to a majesty and grace
 
I had not imagined existed; nor ever could exist.
And the mercy then and now of my Lord
 
overwhelming me in the imagined Meherazad dust,
as He forgave and forgives my ignorance, my trespass,
 
my effrontery and bids me welcome.  As no one ever has,
ever had or ever could, He bids me welcome.
 
O child of God, as Rumi said – You knew my coins
were counterfeit and You accepted them anyway.

Like love

Like love                                                                                                         
 
Freedom of a sort is belief in an ironclad destiny –
leaving one with little to contest;
 
relieved of the onus (if not the habit)
of evaluation – approval or censure.
 
The idea of free will is intrinsically
bound to the idea of human autonomy
 
with its associated errors, sins, failures and regrets.  
Like love itself, faith in destiny sets one free from judgment,
 
holding no one, none of us, responsible
for our human nature, for the karma we’ve inherited
 
and for who in ignorance and illusion
we have taken ourselves and others to be.
 
O child of God, your perceptions are threatening
to turn your whole world upside down.

Toddler

Toddler                                                                                                 
 
Each morning I say the Prayers –
I have for years – words well worn,
 
rolling off my tongue slightly sweet – like prasad.
I begin earnestly but, soon my mind
 
drifts away like a lost kite; like a boy
gazing from his classroom window
         
or a toddler nodding off in the church pew.
Would anyone fault that schoolboy 
 
for preferring the day’s green pleasures?
Or the child wandering off to dreamland
 
under a preacher’s sonorous tones?
I go easy on myself, saying the words You left,
 
trying to keep awake, trying to stay focused
on the blackboard at the head of the class.
 
O child of God, it’s arrogant to consider yourself more
than a toddler playing at the Master’s feet.

                                (from  A Jewel in the Dust, 2011)

Gift from God

Gift from God                                                                                                  
 
Don’t lead your life, said my Lord.  Tag along behind it. 
Give it to God and let it wander where it will. 
 
Don’t think of what happens to you as your life
but God’s creation, gift, game and adventure.  
 
Not a plunging through but a parting of the foliage
to discover all along where it leads
 
and what within it is your task to perform.
Everything is locked by fate firmly into place
 
yet it is flowing, flowing, flowing.      
Look upon your fate as following that flow.
 
The Avatar avowed He is one with karma.
Try to be one with karma also, said my Lord,
 
others and your own, while in your heart
knowing it could never have been otherwise.
 
O child of God, in Zen they named it tathata –
thusness or suchness.  You may call it gift from God.