Feeling To Infinity

Jigme Lingpa once said that, aside from the ground
expanse, everything is a lie, and a grand one at that.

November, and it’s overcast, a chill damp day
between rain days, and now we remember
there is a brilliant shine above the layer
of moist clouds; somehow we drift up,
up through the air, through the mists,
the low-hanging clouds; here it’s yes,
limitless euphoria, we are one point
of immaculate attention, wordless,
as we are lifted higher, the feeling
of acceleration, soon planets fade
in the distance, then galaxies; ah,
no November out in space, no time
to count or measure, we are landing
on another blue world, a water world
where we move underwater; we’ll float,
mindless in our joy, for centuries, aeons,
until we climb out onto a strand of dry land,
and eventually we find the tree, we stand by it,
we pluck a glowing apple, we eat of it and know
by the sweet and luscious taste of it that it is good

laying next to you
not moving
just smiling, grateful
if there was any other paradise
it would surely be redundant
there is enough of infinity
right here, by your side
without any effort or design
my breath matches yours
the world, the galaxy
inhales, exhales
it is such a simplicity
before thought, before mind
just breathing together
being breathed together
by what lives us, loves us
breathes us into each other
again and again, like now
like always, such bliss,
and we are grateful,
laying next to each other,
not moving, just smiling

Out where we walk there are occasional round
white pebbles interspersed with the others —
the brown, grey, the black, the undecided.

Oh, how those Mountain Blue Jays love to play —
swiftly stitching in and out through the gorgeous gold
and crimson skirts of November’s brilliant Maples!

Meandering among the fallen forest leaves, my head
is gently caressed by a reaching Evergreen branch.

Gazing up through the grove, I watch massive cumulus
clouds silently rising over marbled mountain peaks.

How striking as they ascend against the blue-bold
sides of sky — my subtle self suddenly soars up!

From somewhere in the distance, the wafting aroma
of wood smoke blends with fresh forest fragrances.

On an inviting Liquid Amber leaf, a plump insect
pauses from its foraging to bask in the Autumn sun.

It is always so intoxicating — these sun-splashed days
interspersed with times of rain and mountain mists!

Even though they fear it, among all the many animals,
why are humans the only ones who hope for death?

From the heart of existence came a song:

it was like the first bird testifying in the dark
before the dawning light of day arrives;

or the sudden memory of an ancient joy
once believed to be long forgotten.

It was like the salmon’s beating heart,
surmounting the last narrow barrier
to the waiting spawning grounds;

or like the wealthy official, brushing
his hands in satisfaction after consigning
everything he owned to a consuming bonfire.

To some ears, it may sound like a soldier
returning from the war — his darling sweetheart
runs to greet him, to throw her arms around him —

yet if he gazes off into the mystic distance, some
might imagine the song was more like a sorrow,
but laced with a secret throb of euphoria;

like a desert traveler nearing an oasis
who has seen too many mirages, endured
too many disappointments, yet still believes,
still has faith, and then lets go of even that;

or like a blind man at the opera, hearing
the “Flower Duet” from “Lakme”
for the first time — the sound of his tears
as they slide down his glowing face.

Imagine walking through the streets
of an abandoned village, it is midnight,
and from an open window a white curtain
suddenly unfurls like a flag of surrender —

perhaps it was like that, or like a tree branch
heavy with ripe cherries, a little too high
for reaching hands, but not for doves;

or like a massive wave, rolling across the sea
for a thousand churning miles or more,
and your anchor has been severed,
now you’re left to ride the liquid wind.

And then there are the laughing children,
playing and shouting gleefully in a language
nobody has heard before, and you’re with them,
smiling, happy — not a stranger in this land anymore.

Perhaps it could be compared to that,
or like warm rain falling through the roof
of a ruined old mountain temple, moistening
the stones where your dust was once scattered;

or again, like the surging feeling of being
in love, but not caring with whom,
because love is all that matters;

or like the space between the fog horn blasts —
you’re alone, adrift, on a misty sea, there’s a melody
carried on the salty breeze, as you fall into her trance.

And it is just like that, all of that, but unfathomably
more, beyond what the mind can see, know, or be,
but if you were to hear it at all, just as you do
now, you would know for yourself, as you
always have, exactly what I mean.

When I woke this morning, I realized
one of my bodies had gone missing.

The November trees, their colorful fallen leaves,
the chill-blue sky, the swiftly moving clouds —
I turn around in circles to harvest this beauty.

No matter where they’ve strayed during the day,
the local birds all return home here at dusk
to nestle in the abundant Cherry Laurels.