The Mind That Never Was

Something Inexplicable

Open eyes or closed, it makes little difference.

Now, without hesitation, it moves towards you.

It wears the kind of look only you know —

see, it is your own look.

You move towards yourself but disappear

in the moving, and only something

inexplicable arrives.

It is not a sensation, not a thrilling bliss

or any kind of common or uncommon excitement.

Without gravity or density, it appears to be

empty, yet it is empty of emptiness too.

You called out from your secret place,

now here is the response.

When the family dog comes running, tail

wagging, you know that you are home at last.

This home is not a place on any map — if it can be

located in time and space, then whatever that is

is not this, nor is it even close.

Nobody can point their finger and say,

“Here is the mind” or “There is the mind”.

When the river merges with the ocean, it doesn’t

breathe a sigh of relief or make any special claim —

it’s just water into water, and nothing need be said.

In your transcendental form, you recline on the embers

of your own funeral pyre as memories, thoughts,

emotions, and perceptions all go up in flame.

Only you emerge unscathed, moving towards yourself,

wearing the kind of look which only you recognize.

Everything which came before completely disappears

in the movement — only something inexplicable arrives.

The Temple of What Is

Welcome to the Temple of What Is,

which is no different than anyplace else,

except in the mind that clings to preference.

Imagine relaxing with friends around a warm campfire,

your uncontrived faith, compassion, wisdom, and devotion

all signs that you have heard the teaching and taken it to heart,

having recognized directly that the nature of all multiplicity

is nondual, and things in themselves are pure and simple.

Now that you have finally relinquished allegiance

to any doctrine, dogma, philosophical position,

or religious conceit, you find that you are

no longer inclined to doubt the obvious:

the utter futility and wasted effort

of trying to figure “This” out with mind.

Greatly relieved by such illuminating grace,

even to the point of treating each other kindly

in every circumstance, all stressful motivation

for competition and self-assertion has dissolved

in the realization of the essential unity of creation.

Without any agenda, scheme, or strategy

aimed at having things be other than they are,

or attempting to manipulate and fix outcomes,

and without prolonging that endless war of ideas

in pursuit and confirmation of some fictional entity,

typically called “myself”, you abide instead as peace.

The Chain of Pretending

First we pretend that we exist

as independent and enduring persons.

Then we pretend there are others who are

going about and performing the same trick.

Then we pretend that we suffer some sort of separation

between our pretend self and those imaginary others.

Then we pretend that we can find a way to relieve ourselves

of the suffering resulting from such wry pretensions.

If we happen to be very imaginative, we pretend

that we have discovered such a wonderful scheme.

In the ensuing fun, we might enthusiastically proclaim

our made-up religion to all of our fictional playmates.

We may even pretend that we are just the one to alleviate

their imaginary disease, in the costume of a sage or priest.

Many take this seriously, or at least pretend to –

after all, it’s fun to pretend!

That’s why He pretends –

Mister Satchitananda Himself.

Mr. Supreme Reality.

We say “He”, but that’s just pretending too.

He pretends to be us, then He pretends

to forget that He is just pretending.

Then He searches for Himself

to finally find and remind Himself

that He’s just been pretending.

He must love this game of pretending,

because it is all He seems to want to do!

When He finally gets tired and takes a long nap,

everything that he made up twinkles and disappears.

Then there is nothing, the same state in which we now exist,

but without the dreamy baggage of our personal pretense.

No wonder it’s called “The Divine Comedy”!

The Gift

We often tend to underestimate the power of ideas.

We may convince ourselves that we’ve gone beyond them,

that we dwell in the rarefied atmosphere of pristine awareness,

that we have paid our dues and now enjoy the thought-free state,

that we’ve died to the ego and now ride a wave of impersonal bliss.

Yes, how convincing we can sound, unless we’re confronted

by the slightest challenge to our presumptuous claims

by anyone who’s taken the time and energy to think

for themselves, rather than parrot an idealism

borne of the willingness to believe

in their own propaganda.

As it is, all we are ever really attempting

to protect and defend is some personal self-image

which we’re reluctant to examine in the clear light of day,

because to do so might reveal that we are not as enlightened

as we’ve imagined ourselves to be, despite our pretenses otherwise.

Perhaps the greatest kindness we can bestow on ourselves

is to climb on down from our lofty throne and simply

allow the mirror to reflect what we are, exactly

as we honestly are — there’s a gift of grace

in genuine humility.

The Lure of Experience

Somebody once had a big idea.

I say “idea”, but maybe it was more

like a thought. If it was a thought, then

it is probably more like a dream, since both

are equally disposable — we have a thought,

then it’s gone; we dream, then it’s gone too.

Even if it seemed really important at the time,

what did it actually amount to in the big picture?

I’ve heard there is a great sea of consciousness,

and so the big idea was to drop some hooks down

into this dreamy ocean, bait them with experiences,

then troll along to see who or what would bite.

Sooner or later, we come swimming along, innocent

as little minnows fresh from the egg, spot the gleam

of reflected light, then bite off more than we can chew.

We wriggle around a bit from one scenario to the next,

but once we’re hooked on experience, it’s hard

to let go and get ourselves free.

The more we struggle, the deeper that hook

digs into our skin, until at last we collapse,

give up, and then get reeled in.

Wouldn’t you just know it —

it’s a “Catch and Release” program,

and soon we find ourselves back at sea again,

perhaps more suspicious this time around,

at least until the bright gleam from

that shiny hook draws us in.

The Other Side of Stone

Small stones are scattered everywhere. Just look down.
They are not pretending, nor do they secretly complain.
Whatever is, simply is. Beyond that — only dreaming.

Everything is being dreamed in its own unique way,
all of it imbued with the resonance of some majesty
which we, the dreamed characters, can’t fathom.

Even though dinosaurs vanished from this planet
60 million years ago, it seems just like yesterday
to the patient stones. That’s how relaxed it can be.

They weren’t always stones, but shards of light
that grew denser in vibration until achieving
the visibly solid form of a stone for awhile.

Down the rocky shoreline towers a stone lighthouse.
Beneath its searching light, we bend, pick up pebbles,
and without thought, toss them into the oceanic chaos.

There’s no place for them to land that isn’t a living part
of the same serenely churning substance as dinosaurs,
houses of light, or these pale used words to describe it.

Even the stones are in transition, quietly waiting
to find what pertains on the veiled other side:

in the midst of vast stillness, pinpoints of light,
skipping stones threading an ocean of night.

Loose lips
lay claim that
“Ego” is my name,
just a fanciful play
in a fast moving game,
though would you find
some fault in me, I say
look closer, not in vain —
what stands before you now
is well and fully free of blame!

The one saints strive to be without
is simply that which — king or lout —
reflects a schism in the view,
the mirror here suggests
a clue;

but lest you judge me well or ill,
“The play’s the thing”,
or so says Will!

In nature’s tryst of light and dark,
and even as the curtains part, behold
already here I am, do not mistake me
for a man, or as the wise ones
will tell true:

‘tis not a thing the mouthing actors do,
but you yourself who script the plot,
and in such nets the Fish is caught!

Witness how imaginary tales spin forth,
illusory scenes to happenstance reflect,
and how the causes do compound
to render their inevitable effect.

What hath arisen surely shall decease,
gone the way of any windblown fleece,
impersonally vanishing from sight —
out of mind and on into the night.

Tightrope Walking

Balancing on a tightrope
stretched across the virtual
topography of “my” story, who
actually stands revealed in the light,
perpetually morphing in the poignant play
of flesh and blood, catastrophe and glory:

a costumed clown with a borrowed frown,
a small boy waving a toy sword at the sky,
a fool with the answer, who’s still
asking “Why?”,

or a wounded warrior rallying around
a weary wagon train of wry belief,
a projection of resistance,
seeking for relief?

In reality we are none of them,
yet in love’s wild perplexing play
of paradox, we are all of them too!

When self-images are taken seriously
we tend to lose the humor of the view –
the gift of its intended amusement —
trapped instead in fixation’s glue.

All identities are meant as costumes
to express love’s innocent delight,
a vehicle to play life’s game
of incarnating light.

Somehow still we manage to forget,
spawning the dramas which ensue,
though even such forgetfulness
is a part of love’s play too!

Here all of us are teetering,
walking tightropes stretching
from our beginning to our end.

When all the props have dropped away,
on whom or what should we depend?

There’s no safety net to catch us
if we trip and fall, except that love
which kindly brought us here
to answer love’s own call.

Touching Down

There may come a time when your belief

pauses in its flight and questions itself.

Perhaps it will only be for a brief moment,

but in the breathless space of that small opening

your feet may touch the ground again.

It will feel somewhat strange at first

and yet vaguely reminiscent, as if

you once walked the earth naturally.

Soon enough you find yourself

back in the clouds, the dreamy sky,

but now you remember the sensation

of solidity, the vitality of upright walking.

Yes, you imagine you may try it

again, perhaps sometime soon.

This makes the contours of your mouth

form into a very slight but definite smile.

Train Time

One by one thoughts come loose from their track
and plunge like tumbling rail cars over a cliff
and into the bottomless void below.

There will be no welcoming afterlife for them,
no well-earned heaven, nor torment of hell.

They simply return to that same empty space
from which they arose, but worn down now,
like tired old men who have seen it all
and have no enthusiasm for seeing more.

Still, there are always new thoughts arising —
shifting and jiving impatiently at the station,
eagerly anticipating the very next train.

Maybe this will finally be the one
that actually arrives at a destination,
a train which manages to get somewhere.

Although it never really does, the new thoughts
remain youthfully optimistic, like naive children
they’re irrepressible, the future can look so hopeful!

The train trip will always start out fine —
there’s blue sky ahead, there are places to go,
so much to consider and thoughtfully dwell on!

Alas, it’s only a matter of time before the wheels
begin to wobble and the next thing you know
the whole blessed thing is coming apart.

Every thought is exactly like that.
Pay attention, you’ll see what I mean.

There are those who’ll try to stop the train
rather than letting it run its course.

They wave their flags, they flash their signs.
They don’t last long — stay off the tracks!

The wise let the trains travel on, indifferent
to their inevitable fate — why bother to interfere,
just relax as each narrative crumbles and disappears.

Make of it whatever you may — thoughts roll on
as they always will, but as it travels ‘round the bend,
don’t be too surprised when your train story ends.