4.10.12
On Receiving An Image of Vic and Urgyen Rinpoche
I follow him around the room.
He’s hunched a little forward,
As if carrying some precious item
In his chest.
There's humor in the way his head wags a little;
A rumble of respect, somewhere
In the low portion of my spine.
He’s pointing at a bald man with a shining face;
Behind glasses warm eyes question
An answer--and nothing at all.
‘Take note of this one, my friend.’
‘My friend’ has so much warmth in it
That something shines in my chest
And fills my face.
‘He’s connected to the lineage
Of Suffering and its Dissolution and Return.’
I can only smile.
What is it that sparks such things?
The Friend is there.
How do we tell what is real?
The Friend lets you know.
When will I see The Friend again?
When you are seeing.
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Thank you for this, Fred. I'm deeply moved by remembering that the Friend is there--not lower case friend, but Friend. And I'll know the Friend is there in these many ways and also when I'm listening.
ReplyDeleteYou're welcome, Elaine. The poem came to me in a fugue state induced by your blog entry (motorcycle picture). Of course the reference to Rumi's use of Friend is there, but it was not planned; I was aware of it. But too, it does not NOT refer to Vic, for, after all, the true friend reflects the Friend, no? Love you, F.
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