The Self as Nature
Thy garden seat resplendent in the sunlight dappling through;
And all the leaves a’rustle singing dew song;
There’s nothing there but harmony ‘tween all the me’s and you’s,
As Sun sinks down and night stars sing along.
(Unknown bad 19th century songster.)
On the yellow chair, under the dragon mesquite,
A butterfly, pale as muted sunlight;
There’s rustling in the thinned-out mesquite leaves.
A cricket sings all to order from the giant tomato;
To the south, far-off human sound—
Suspended in time, thought gone still,
Releasing arcs of wonder, awe, quietude—
A congelation, it’s about me, this time.
There’s bad news in the papers, everybody’s
Humming with some current that feels bad—
This flavor of Now—
Fear obscures forces
Fear obscures forces
Rooted deep in the well of life
Calling for attention.
Calling for attention.
Its depths are our depths.
Fear makes boundary,
A natural line,
We walk amongst the structures
It has fashioned.
Something happens,
Some sense of oneness,
Or a hint or a dream.
Something someone says.
Some trouble.
And there is resonance.
Think a deep cave,
Blind Polyphemôs waking up;
A rent in the fabric
Intelligence flooding through;
A trapdoor
Opening into Nothing.
There’s this gathering of materials,
High octane forces; it’s Geppetto’s work-shop;
Upheaval, thunder, lightning
Upon the darkness of the waters;
Vision dissolving in Sun-sparkle
In the dew leaves; in the hush sound in the cottonwoods;
Renewing, and renewing, always in search of some perfection;
Always the change—change’s reason for being—
The body knows. It senses creative power
In that presence; it has its feelers
Deep in the bedrock.
We open ourselves to it—
Oh great One—are there unfathomed depths?
A natural line,
We walk amongst the structures
It has fashioned.
Something happens,
Some sense of oneness,
Or a hint or a dream.
Something someone says.
Some trouble.
And there is resonance.
Think a deep cave,
Blind Polyphemôs waking up;
A rent in the fabric
Intelligence flooding through;
A trapdoor
Opening into Nothing.
There’s this gathering of materials,
High octane forces; it’s Geppetto’s work-shop;
Upheaval, thunder, lightning
Upon the darkness of the waters;
Vision dissolving in Sun-sparkle
In the dew leaves; in the hush sound in the cottonwoods;
Renewing, and renewing, always in search of some perfection;
Always the change—change’s reason for being—
The body knows. It senses creative power
In that presence; it has its feelers
Deep in the bedrock.
We open ourselves to it—
Oh great One—are there unfathomed depths?
I can say no more about it.
