One atop another atop another atop another
Piled up so high we don't know what lies beneath
We don't remember
Or dare not look, for it might disturb
The tower of cards and paperweights
We have come to adopt
Out of which we have carved our houses
In which we live
Around which our routines cling like vines
Artificial rooms and ladders
We dare not disturb
Nor we care to turn away from
These laws are the patches
That cover the pipe leaks
The contracts but zip-ties
To force flow together
We clamp with restrictions
Where the pressure is mounting
To avoid those unseemly leaks
To appear like our machinery
Is correct and proper and clean
Yet what truly underlies us
Is rarely what it seems.
We place bucket excuses where we can't
Avoid the over or under flow
To collect it or feed it.
Delaying and ignoring all along
That the cause of the misflow
lies deeper than we've known.
Like a lazy mechanic, we patch up the gaps
We tighten what seems loose and move on.
The buckets we litter our floor with
Every once in a while
They fill and they spill and they fall
Or the channels that carry our life flow
They burst or they dry or they break
And then we feel and we cry and we curse
All the flow we had so long ignored.
Tis then a fair chance to remember
We're meant to actually fix these flows
By looking and seeking inside
Through deeper understanding.
If awareness gleams out from the dark
Veil of our forgetfulness
If curiosity sparks within
About the dynamics and mechanics in us
About what we truly are
If diligence rises from the squalor
Of our own self-contempt
If we glimpse the light of care
That lies in the core of our being
We may then choose to turn inward
And see. And feel. And trace. And understand.
And accept.
Our flow, our misflow, and its cause.
Then but trust that the light of awareness we have shed
On the ailing cause or wound
Will gradually and stepwise help heal
Our inflamed and dry channels
Our gappy and patchy pipes
Beyond what we've known
Then the patches fall off, obsolete.
Then the clamps and zip-ties that
Were meant as arm cast and sling
Become handicaps, straightjacket and noose.
Then the buckets are naught but obstacles
We can pick up and drain out and let go
This turning inward and exploring
Becomes then invaluable method
Of the experienced mechanic
We can again and again turn to
To find the cause of an ailment
Of a misflow, mispressure, or leak.
And slowly, and gently, and suddenly,
We'll find we can mop up the damp floors
We'll again walk where there were old puddles
We'll rush to and fro less and less,
Not needing to reinforce the patches
Not draining the filled, littering buckets
Not avoiding the slippery floors
Just being. Just flowing.
Just breathing. Just seeing.
Then softly, then brightly, then soltiduminously
We see the fullness
The eternal spectacle
Of what is Here.
Of what We Are.
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