in memory of Kerry L.

Every face
is a facet
of the face of God.

And there are faces
that shine with a special light,
a reflection of what shines
within us all.

When such a soul
passes from this world,
it is our reminder
that God’s face can be glimpsed
in every being around us,
and that we are all blessed
to be in such company.

In the course of time,
things fail.

Old cars
need new parts;
spare tires are only
“Temporary”.

Eyes grow dimmer,
limbs grow achy.

Each of these changes
can be dealt with,
one at a time,
if we can accept
the inevitability
of change.

In the end,
everything
is temporary,
and everything
is manageable.

Sometimes
we are visited by Grace,
and we glide through each moment
with peaceful ease.

Sometimes,
we feel the sting of ego,
like a hungry insect
puncturing our serenity,
poisoning our sense
of who we are.

And always,
through all our moments
of peace or struggle,
there is that which watches,
from deep within,
ready to accept it all
with equanimity.

And that, too
(when we are moved
to watch what watches),
is Grace.

Now that the breath of life has left you,
now that your bones are ash,
still your crooked smile will linger,
emblazoned in my memory,
shining in my heart.

It will be the last of you to fade,
but only when I too am gone,
along with all the others
who have known you,
loved you.

We will all be dust one day,
but, as we roam the hills and valleys
of our own allotted space and time,
there will always be the beacon
of your crooked smile.

What if there was a “news” site
that presented the rumours, opinions,
and outright lies of each day
as a quiz, with one item,
interspersed among them,
that actually happened?

Could we train ourselves
to recognize this ever-present useless,
pernicious nonsense when we see it,
if we felt motivated enough
to look for it every day?

Could we cure ourselves of the addiction
to the adrenalin rush of feeling right,
the seductive pull of affirmation bias,
if we were inspired by the possibility
of finding out the truth?

Should we wait for the prodding
of some enlightened soul’s initiative,
spoonfed for our own electronic enlightenment,
or should we take it upon ourselves
to ferret out what is real, and what isn’t,
in this deluge of information
that we are nearly drowning in each day?

There are gifts
we take for granted
when they linger
from day to day.

We only see
what’s just been given,
or what has just
been taken away.

We are blinded
by the sameness
of what stays with us
by and by.

Until these gifts
are torn away,
and, in our grief,
we wonder why.

But there are those
who always see these gifts,
who see each day
with grateful eyes;
they are the ones
whose vision guides us
and they are the angels
in our lives.

The world my mind wants
never changes.

The world I live in
always changes.

If I could choose
to change the world
or change my mind,
I would change my mind,
and not the world.

The world will always be
as it will be,
but my mind
can always be
what I choose it to be.

What do I need to know
about knowing?

What do I need to think
about thinking?

What do I need
to know, or think,
to simply be?

I need nothing,
except to be,
without knowing
or thinking!

Why do we try to own
each little pain,
as if it were unique to us,
part of what defines us?

Why can’t we accept
that in the stream of life,
pleasures and pains
will jostle all of us
as they tumble by?

Why do we claim each one
as MINE,
forgetting that we swim
in the same soup
as every other being,
sharing joy and suffering
in all their forms?

Why do we hide
in the bubble of identity,
sheltered in the drama of our stories,
when there is so much comfort to be found
in what we hold in common?

Why do we not remember
the sea we were all born in,
that we always share,
even when we’re gone?

Language is a virus
from inner space.

It infects us with the ideas
we see our world through,
coloring everything
with shades of good and bad.

It is the syntax we use
to parse what’s real,
what should be noticed or ignored,
cherished or feared.

It is the boundaries of the maze
our thoughts wander through,
always constrained
by the paths it lays before us.

But there is another kind of thought
that comes from outside language,
bursting through its viral membranes,
exploding our perceptions
into a soup of inspiration.

These are the thoughts
that cut through language like a knife,
severing old connections
so that new ones may be formed,
breeding and informing each other,
like life itself.

And so, it is through language
that we have inherited our past;
and it is through transcending it
that we may claim our future.