this resistance/this willingness
This resistance/this willingness –
It’s the same thing, you know.
This bitter/this sweet
This aching/this relief
This wonder/this terror
The same thread, day after day, and me/and you out there thinking we have something better to do.
You and me at the concert,
at the pool party,
at the movies, munching popcorn;
You and me at the game show, at the gun store, at the drive-through ordering our lattes – “Grande, wait, no, venti, please. Skim vanilla, with a little extra foam.”
The edge of the world
the oceanic wet, the desert stretched out in the sun
the wildflower field, the forest
where acorns scatter,
once above and now below.
And all of this resistance/this willingness
to receive, to be here, to see
to begin to finish to take the fucking step already what are you waiting for, an invitation?
All of it, waiting/not waiting
just sitting there minding its own business
here it is
all for me/and all for you.
This hunger/this fullness
This thirst/this flood
This drought/this glass of water glistening on the table
This mud, this blood, this darkness/this color, this cloud, this light
I woke up tunneling into density, into darkness
I woke up in a conversation about the looping threads of time.
Oh, there is so much to tell you, while I am waking up and tunneling,
that sometimes I don’t know where to – or how to – begin.
We were standing in a room – well, they were, I was watching.
And one teacher said to the other, “Of course you can travel back through time. The only thing you must never do,” and here he leaned in closer, “is loop back through a thread you have already traveled.’
And I leaned in, too, to listen, as the one teacher said to the other,
“You can do anything you want to. All you need is to make a map.”
And this next part may not seem to follow but this is how it happened:
I woke up alive.
I woke up alive and tunneling –
– and shedding every single story about what I can and cannot do.
Shedding what once was but isn’t anymore and never was no good in the first place.
Shedding your/my lies about this ‘won’t hurt a bit
lie still it is all for the good don’t worry go back to sleep.”
Awake, in the dark, all the time now,
and I am fine with that.
That won’t trick me trip me stop me
I am over the illusion/gift whispering my name/your name
with the promise that we are could ever get so high, so happy, so satiated, so numb
that we will never feel this pain.
My father is dead.
My mother is dying.
I don’t want to feel better.
I want to feel alive
And I do –
When I open to what is here:
I love them. They are leaving.
I let this burn and heal me.
I tunnel straight down to the molten core
where the treasure that I’ve been seeking/running from all of my life
is calling and responding – and has been all the time.
this resistance/this willingness
to feel what is here.
To love what we love even when it’s leaving.
To hurt when we hurt.
This is the shoreline.
I know this is confusing/I don’t care anymore.
I know that I may sound as if my brain has caught on fire.
This radical willingness,
this unbound curiosity,
this absolute certainty,
Being real in a world of illusion feels like – and is a kind of madness.
Stand up/Sit down.
Want to do it/don’t want to do it.
It makes no difference anymore.
Here we are,
down beneath the bedrock of bullshit on which our world seems built
the layers of shame doubt fear terror guilt garbage fire hate disapproval malice heartbreak judgment
the veils of abracadabra telling us, “You may think you are somewhere, someone, something – but you will never be, never get, never do enough to arrive.”
Down here, in the darkness, that is over/that never was.
Down here we are
suffering and strong.
Down here we are alive.
And as above,
And it is waiting/not waiting
for us to arrive.