Archive for February, 2012
Thinking Like a Butterfly
Monday I was told I was good.
I felt relieved.
Tuesday I was ignored.
I felt invisible.
Wednesday I was snapped at.
I began to doubt myself.
On Thursday I was rejected.
Now I was afraid.
On Saturday I was thanked
for being me. My soul relaxed.
On Sunday I was left alone
till the part of me that can’t
be influenced grew tired of
submitting and resisting.
Monday I was told I was good.
By Tuesday I got off the wheel.
Before the Waterfall
The art of living isn’t that simple. But honesty makes it bearable and everything stripped of its film is bare and sincere. The tree limb cracking in the storm is as honest as the drop of rain coating a sad girl’s lip. We have been misled to think that meaning can be debated. We build meaning by being sincere, by listening to what every simple thing has to offer—letting all the meanings merge. Each sincerity is a language. When what I empty and what you empty find each other, a fullness is born. When the pain that I share finds the pain that you share, love is born. When we can face what is ours to face, and feel what is ours to feel, the heart of our heart throws itself before the waterfall where blessing after blessing is ladled on our sores till we wake and stand full term in the bliss of being ordinary.
Mark in conversation with Marianna Caccaitore
The Journey of Awakening: Conversation with Mark Nepo
Read the full transcript here.
A poem from the interview:
Winter Confession
I’ve tried to follow every wind and
listen for its source. I’ve tried to follow
every light, and with my face in the sun,
all the things we carry that are afraid of
the light scurry to the back of my mind.
I’ve tried to find the truth and when I
have, I’ve found it’s everywhere, and that
I step over it in my pain or want for some-
thing I can’t have. Thankfully there have
been ordinary blessings. When I followed
your presence into what would be our love.
When I took a left in the path that led to
the sea and stayed there for days, putting
down all the names I’d been given. How
months later, while dropping a book of
poems by George Seferis, a wet clump
of grass stained his instruction to speak
plainly. And the small light that brought
me back while I was in surgery. It was a
crack of dawn promising so much, if I
could just get up and walk beyond death’s
slim tree. And here I am, all these years
later, mouth open, still in awe. Yesterday,
in the pines, my dog put her nose in the
snow. What a teacher. I slipped to one
knee and did the same.
The Oldest Conversation
I wonder, will anyone recognize us
without our anger or our fear?
And if we stand here,
softly in the open,
will we be watered
or just mowed down?
Wait. Now that you’re here,
tell me about the moon and how
deer dream of running water
and how dogs are simply dogs.
Teach me—before we’re tossed back
in—the Sanskrit of your eyes.
The Great Wave
Regardless of what is fair or just in a situation, if we cannot face our pain, we will nurture offenses and cultivate love through being a victim. No matter how skillfully we might do this, relationships will fall away till we are sadly left alone with the pain we won’t face.
Sometimes we seek refuge from our pain in the habits of life, as if sheer routine can put our wounds to sleep. But the habits of life can make us all a little squirrelly and soon enough, we don’t want our little nest messed with. We don’t want anything unexpected or different to disrupt the little box we live in. We don’t want anything to unearth the pains we’ve buried. And just about the time we are most inflexible, some great wave of love or suffering crashes over our little box; humbling us into the unalterable fact that all the little boxes we construct are tiresome illusions. There is only one home, only one nest to which we all belong.
For those of us who survive the great wave, life becomes a seeking out of those who speak the language of the great wave. If blessed, truth and compassion become the ritual by which we greet each other: Did the great wave reach you? Was it kind or harsh? What did it break down or open? What did it give you or take away? What have you chosen to rebuild with? Who did you reach out to? Who showed up? Who ran away? Who keeps muffling the questions? Who wants to know what you see?
Just as there have always been hunters and gatherers, and those concerned with hoarding and those concerned with giving away, there have always been those reduced into Oneness by the great wave of love and suffering and those who run further inland; though this great wave covers the entire earth. Humbly, we are always members of both tribes. As for me, I’m usually the last to know; which is why I need the love and friendship of others; which is why I’m committed to being a loving friend.
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