The path to presence.
Different, every time.
Time as a spiral, not a line.
The true way never looks the same
Because open eyes are always changing.
Wisdom is born of the silent spring,
the fertile darkness that lives below our knowing,
that begets our awakening,
and opens to our remembering.
Ancestral light, the substance of our wings
though they look like muscle and bone;
and, however caged, some part of us
still remembers these hearts where meant to sing us home.
The truth is, I am afraid of my shadow.
And though all the teachers say it contains a gift,
that the birthplace of my fecundity is the ugliest part of me,
I want only to look away from it, to numb, to hide it, to hide from it.
I want the well-lit path.
So I flee towards the Sun,
the fanfare and exultation,
seeking triumphant exclamation
on a road sparkling clean like my brightest meditations,
in a quest for transcendence;
retracing the steps that have brought me thus far,
centered me before,
but I turn and the shadow is still right there,
stitched to my heels.
The path to presence
is different every time.
There is so much further to go
than only light
we must balance above with below.
Pilgrim, there is no one road to follow,
the road is made by walking
over stone and bone,
is made by breathing
beyond everything you’ve ever known,
and home is an ever-shifting location.
You may taste the sweet nectar for a moment
but then the flower dies,
and you’d best learn to see the beauty in compost.
This path is understood for only an instant
sunlight caught in the hand through a prism
a rainbow bridge to absolute nowness.
This path found in the effusive glee
of a child’s first spinning dance in a summer meadow,
in the feel of my lover’s lips upon my brow,
in the silence before every sound.
The path is different every time,
because it leads to a place that can never be known,
and only in the seeking
can we ever be found.