A Beginning Story

In the Beginning, Nothing Was.  Out of Nothing, Is brought forth everything.  

Where did Is come from?  Is comes from Isness, but beyond that is unknown by me.  

Is brought forth first the life of the lifeless, the heat and the cold and the elements.  They were brought forth in their order, and they are still being brought forth.  The lifeless then began to coalesce, to join form with form, and gather together.  Gravity pulled them together, spun them, and held them.  

The life of the lifeless resonated with the Is, and together they birthed the living, and they are still doing so.  Life felt the power and resonance of the Is immediately, and began to multiply and divide itself.  The diversity of life came into being, for, like Gravity, Change is a part of the Is.  The Changingness which does not change, like swirling fog.

When do we come in to the story?  Now, now is our time, but we are not the arrived at end.  We are not the point of the story.  The Is is too vast for our small selves to be the apex of the story of creation unfinished.  Will we put shackles on God, attempting to stop the narrative like small children when we hear our names?  Change happens and time goes on, like a roiling river.  We go on with it, or we sit on the bank and cry our salty tears until, dessicated, we fall to dust.

In our smallness, still we can know Is.   Perhaps not in entirety, but still in intimacy.  Like a fish swimming in the ocean knows the water, or a babe nursing knows its mother.

God Save Me From Important Poets

What’s hidden?

It’s all out there

Global warming, nuclear destruction, other people’s wars

our wars,

racism,

wife beating,

the tendency of school systems to betray children with special needs.

It’s all out there

Everyday

it is looking in at us, peering

through the glass

poking us with sticks and throwing

bad foods we weren’t meant to eat

amusing itself with the way we contort ourselves to accommodate what we cannot change.

Do we have to celebrate this relationship?

Must we be tough victims of circumstance?

I know it was exciting at first, full of powerful innuendo and

the almost promise of sex.

Secrets told

But aren’t you just a bit bored of ugliness and violence?

It’s all out there,

peering in

inescapable

But here, here inside, there is something else

some neglected houseplant with an impossibly large and fragrant flower

some cheerful child sitting alone in the dusty corner waiting for us to hang up the phone

an old wood floor in need of a mop

a forgotten decoration still up from some party long gone.

Look look look

Here is our hidden beauty

Mightn’t we sing a bit about this?

Can we water the plant and bathe the baby?

Clean the floor and plug in those lights some evening?

Isn’t there something tasty in the kitchen just waiting to be assembled?

And if we do,

If we attend

and protect

and eat

and dance

Might not the neighbors be curious

come out of the their houses, as though just to check the mail

and see us and half invite themselves over?

Might we slowly with intention

push back that zoo-going misery

increase the size of our cage

invert the world?

Inhabit it?

And if we fail 

– and we fail –

(we might fail)

and we are all falling down

anyhow

Can we not go singing and celebrating

crying with understanding

because we have lost what wonderful

because we have understood what was lost

because we know the beauty

because we were in it and we didn’t just give it away?

It is so much easier to write about misery

to call unhappiness meaningful

so much easier to be important.

There is another meaning

and another depth

What’s hidden?

Being Ordinary

Lately, I’ve been thinking about being ordinary, and the great value in ordinariness – not from the societal viewpoint, though of course it is valuable to have ordinary people, but to the self.  As an ordinary person, I am not using great energy to set my self apart – and aside from the famous and the wealthy, trying to set oneself apart is futile.  You work very hard, expend lots of energy and money, and at best you are the pinnacle of some counterculture group.  You are still a dues-paying member of the group.  You look like them, you think like them.  You might feel different, but mainly in contrast to your parents, or to strangers you assume you know all about.

If you push yourself to an ultimate extreme you can become a mountain hermit, or a psychopath.

However, in pursuit of no glory, living an ordinary life, pursing only personal integrity, happiness in the old sense, connection to friends, family and neighbors, authenticity – then you may find that you really are an individual.

Do not seek to follow in the footsteps of the wise.

Seek what they sought.

-Basho

The Is

Thinking about Rumi:  “Drink all your passion and be a disgrace.”  Difficult – it  sounds like letting go to the point of irresponsibility.  I can’t believe that.  But – thinking about passion:  Rumi’s passion for Shams, for God.  Passionate exuberance.  My passions for creating, making, gardening – and into my mind came, exuberantly, “Be! Be! Be! Be!”  I discounted it – it sounds so passive.  But again, I heard it, “Be! Be! Be! Be!”  like the voice of an excited, happy, demanding child.  I thought, is creating (my passion) Being (which seems passive)?  Perhaps Being, ardent, exuberant Being, is the foundation of creating.  The name of God is, “I AM.”  Is.  Being.

From the Is comes everything – ourselves, stars, galaxies, neutrons, life.  That is creative in exemplariness.  If I “Be!” with exuberance, what might I accomplish creatively.  Then there is no need to worry about irresponsibility.  I will not suddenly forget my children in a creative fit.  My children are a part of my being, part of what I create, part of what I have created.  I am exuberant with them, about them, because of them.

So where is the disgrace?  Is it the disgrace not of bad behavior, but of unconventional personalness?  Being, I am wholly myself – not a follower of advertising, not a flawed attempt at conformity.  I sing with my less than perfect voice, my house is a mess, my nails are bitten.  I have hairs growing on my chin.  Following my Being, I am opened up to social embarrassment.  I am sure Rumi saw that as positive, an aid to stripping away worldliness and finding what truly matters.

SAMENESS

Over all hilltops

is peace

in all the treetops

you feel

barely a breeze;

The birds in the forest have 

stopped their song

Wait, before long

you too will be still.