Intellectually, consciously, I wondered what the sweetness of truth would
sound like. I understood that in Pema Chodron’s book, the moment she
described involved Shantideva’s perception and no one else’s. Shantideva told us
in his couplets what truth’s sweetness sounded like to him. How it sounds to me
or you is as unique as we are.

I considered not the essence of truth’s sweetness, but the sound of it. What
are the sweetest sounds I’ve heard?

Many singers and songs resonate with truth’s sweetness—Paul Robeson
singing spirituals, John Lennon with his simple, elegant anthem, Imagine, Tom
Waits in his ballads and Liam Clancy with anyone’s ballads, Bob Dylan from
1962 to 1980, Judy Collins, Lucinda Williams, and so many more.

I lived with a dog for ten years, a Familiar, who would lean into a speaker
when I played a 78 recording of Jeanette MacDonald singing “The Kerry Dance.” He
would lean into the speaker and harmonize, howling with joy. The sound of his
howling and MacDonald’s rendition of that standard had truth’s sweetness in
them.

A train passes near my home every morning between seven and eight,
and every night between ten and eleven. The chug-chug of wheels on rails and
the whistle blowing always make me grateful and feeling as if I’m hearing the
sweetness of truth. I hear it in the voices of loved ones, in bird song, in the breeze
that dances with the trees. I hear it in the heavy sighs of sleepers, in soundtracks
of favorite movies, and I hear it when I listen to a recording of Dylan Thomas
reading poems. I hear it in the buzz of bees coming into and leaving their hive, in
the whirr of hummingbirds at feeders, in the huzzah of ballparks and Vin
Scully’s radio play by play. I hear it in traffic and ocean surf, in lightning and
thunder, in horses munching alfalfa or nickering as you pass by. I know I’m
listening to the sweetness of truth while mesmerized by the speeches of Martin
Luther King, Jr.

Intellectually, I know that all of these things include, for me, the sound of
truth’s sweetness. Spiritually, I’m pretty sure that hearing the sweetness of truth
occurs when I am in the moment and really listening. I am not overly concerned
with giving it a name, I just am. I am open, all ears, grateful for every wisdomchime
of blessed sound!

*

For this meditation, allow your intellect to be your triggering mechanism.
If you are angry now, use it here. If not, recall three-to-five situations in which
you were angry, even mangry. Now, come up with single words that rename
that anger. Remember, your anger was personal, so the new names you come up
with should be, too.

Once you have your new words (and yes, of course you can make up a
word, just like I did), write a short or long line r sentence for each one.
Contemplate the release of steam from a kettle as you recite the words, lines or
sentences in any sequence and combination that feels right to you. When you feel
it is appropriate, stop and remain silent in your natural state.

*

A second stage of this meditation includes a poem. Write one, in any form
or style, about a friend or family member who made you angry, or a friend you
angered. Many people write about their parents in this exercise, or their
relationship partner. Some write about their boss, their teacher. A woman even
wrote a poem once about her dog and how angry she felt about the dog’s
neediness! But right here, right now, it is important that you choose. Write your
poem, formal or informal, brief or long, and recite it three times, pausing for at
least sixteen long breaths for reflection between each recitation.
Here are four haiku I wrote for this exercise:

The tractor stalls again.
The farmer rests awhile, dreams
of plows and horses.

*

The night is bug bite
Heaven. Mosquitoes crave blood,
and girls to drink with.

*

He did it–Mickey
Mantle in bike spokes. A man
adds up his losses.

*

A poem impales
an editor. His head falls.
Someone dims the lights.

Each haiku speaks of things breaking down, of nature out of our control,
of bad choices and unwanted intrusions. Anger is quiet and tightly tethered, but
it’s there in every tercet. By the time I wrote these haiku and recited them in
practice a few times, my anger significantly subsided. Through my poem, I
released the steam building up in the kettle. Then I was able to hear again the
sweetness of truth.

Use your own poem now to do the same.