I found the tree of trust!
I have been seeking it Recently
Ever since it took a morning Walk
Without me.
I found it glowing
Within
Hallelujah!
Life is so uncomfortable
In its absence.
And dawning
(Not for the first time
but such glimpses of understanding
do take off)
The exhilarating sensation
That trust is not in someone
Or even something
But a totally independent phenomenon
Fluid
Unshakable
Even by the most magnificent of tempests.
You know,
It’s not just the ear that is attuned to music!
But behind the eyes
May prickle.
And those Purkinje fibers in the heart,
May tremble
And reverberate
To Beethoven’s
Moonlight Sonata.
Not only
From external stimuli
Do such things happen.
Love, unfathomable love,
Stirs those strings.
And then you can hear
The song of your heart.
If one were to consider where the human race is at in terms of the life cycle of a butterfly, we may well find ourselves sorely disappointed. It could be that except for a rare few, countable on one hand only perhaps, not many of us could call ourselves butterflies! Probably the majority of us are at the caterpillar stage! Voraciously eating, dedicated to particular foods, growing bigger and bigger, expanding and expanding, a mouth, an intestine and an exit!
Perhaps some have seen the futility of the never-ending search for satisfaction in the outside world through entertainment of the senses and have curled up, wrapped themselves around themselves, generated a camouflage cover and positioned themselves in some suitably hidden yet adequate of temperature and humidity, to allow whatever changes evolution offers, to occur in the privacy of their own inwardness.
During this time, all the matter that was the result of that voracious eating, all the stored energy, the juiciness of life, is broken down entirely and used to create anew something of unspeakable beauty. Not all succeed in this phase. For some the preparation was not adequate, the chosen place not secure or in some other way inadequate, some fall out of life at this stage but all is not lost. Everything that they are is recycled and again enters the fray, same odds at birth, to again run the gamut between birth and death, the cycle of life.
And those that succeed! Well what is that? The beauty of color, flight upwards once wings dry in the soft breeze of an early summer day as they gently flutter these new appendages and experiment with this new body of light and flight and the ability to reproduce. What special gifts are provided at this stage. Flying flowers visit stationary ones and partake of the nectar lovingly prepared and in the process regenerate the provider of the juice of life by inadvertently gathering the pollen and deposit it as they sample flower after flower.
Humanity’s peak is not entirely butterfly like. No flight for us except with the assistance of some mechanical device; sex tends to get left behind rather than becoming the main aim! But the gift of drinking deeply from the nectar of the gods is on offer, available at all stages if we only open ours eyes, cast off the dream-like trance, and encounter existence directly.
The darkness of night is coming along fast, And the shadows of love Close in the body and the mind. Open the window to the West, and disappear Into the air inside you. Near your breastbone there is an open flower. Drink the honey that is all around that flower. Waves are coming in: There is so much magnificence near the ocean. Listen: Sound of immense seashells! Sound of bells Kabir says, ‘Friend, listen, This is what I have to say: The guest I love is inside me!’ Friend, hope for the guest while you are alive. Jump into experience while you are alive. Think and think while you are alive. What you call ‘salvation’ Belongs to the time before death. If you don’t break your ropes while you’re alive, Do you think ghosts Will do it after?
The idea that the soul will join with the ecstatic Just because the body is rotten – That is all fantasy. What is found is found then. If you find nothing now, you will simply end up With an apartment in the city of death.
And if you make love with the divine now, In the next life you will have the face Of satisfied desire. Then plunge into the truth, Find out who the teacher is, Believe in the great sound! Kabir says this: ‘When the guest is being searched for, it is the Intensity of the longing for the guest That does all the work. Look at me… You will see a slave of that intensity.’
-Kabir
As seen in Osho’s book on Kabir, The Revolution, Discourse #9
I experienced so clearly the sense of being imprisoned and constricted when I casually accepted the offer from my job some years ago to do a master’s degree. My employer would, so to speak, pay for it. I would work for them for three years after completing it. I had always wanted to do a master’s degree!
I so enjoyed the studying. I love integrating ideas, choosing just the right word, incorporating the learning and understanding into my daily work. I always knew that having to pay the piper would cause problems and, boy, did it. I found it excruciating to be locked into a work position for a specified amount of time. I may well have worked there, unconcerned, for three years, but the fact that it was written in stone, threw my mind into turmoil.
I struggled and wriggled and created much misery for myself (hopefully not others). There would be moments of seeing clearly, all misery somehow magically vanishing, but then, I would start the whole storm up again.
Slowly, slowly, I saw the relationship between the hook of my desire feeding into a whole host of consequences which I found confining. The more I wriggled and resisted, the more painful the situation proved. But, it was not really the situation causing the pain. It was the way I was choosing to experience it.
Confined
And, I, and only I, was the one who had initiated the whole conundrum. It was such a strong lesson in how to be more conscious in my choices. How an apparently simple desire can lead one on the road to great distress. This small writing emerged from that experience.
I construct With great precision Domes That imprison. Thought, concepts The ruts of repetition Form crisscrossing beams Diminishing space Compressing my spirit. I see my work I abhor it I struggle Within its confines And find I only create Further Confining structures. I seek freedom But find myself Flailing In a barrage Of constant Assembly. All effort to escape Compounds The imprisonment. In despair I stop!
From where come you
My thoughts
You’re not, you are
Again you’re not
You lead me to your sons and daughters
I have known your ancestors
But on careful inspection
You disappear into silence
Come back and make a stand
But no you fold
Like a nomad’s tent
A shadow hiding
-purushottama
This is from the collection of stories, essays, poems and insights that is compiled to form the book From Lemurs to Lamas: Confessions of a Bodhisattva. Order the book Here.
Touched by majesty
Bathed in glorious mystery
Surely shaken, perhaps awakened
Worked, played, meditated, celebrated
We knew it was time in magic.
When the moment passed
Some put away the treasure
Knowing that when the time was right
We’d bring it forth and let it shine.
So, we burrowed, and integrated
Hibernated and some emigrated
There were those who propagated
Even a few were castigated
Still the treasure we knew
Lived in us – our life.
Been hiding in the dark lying in wait
Searching for the time of Now.
As time came, always knew it would,
To shine, to share, to be aware.
Need not wait no more
For surely Now – is the time to
Be
Unto ourselves – the Light.
-purushottama
“Be ye lamps unto yourselves, be a refuge to yourselves. Hold fast to Truth as a lamp; hold fast to the Truth as a refuge. Look not for a refuge in anyone beside yourselves. And those, who shall be a lamp unto themselves, shall betake themselves to no external refuge, but holding fast to the Truth as their lamp, and holding fast to the Truth as their refuge, they shall reach the topmost height.”
Buddha’s Farewell Message to Ananda
This is from the collection of stories, essays, poems and insights that is compiled to form the book From Lemurs to Lamas: Confessions of a Bodhisattva. Order the book Here.
My father is the sky in which I breathe
My mother is the Earth on which I walk
I know their son but I am not he.
Then, who am I?
My heart is love
My head insight,
I am both, no, neither.
So, who am I?
When I close my eyes, the whole world disappears
When I open my eyes, I am reborn
I witness all of life.
But who Is this I?
-purushottama
This is from the collection of stories, essays, poems and insights that is compiled to form the book From Lemurs to Lamas: Confessions of a Bodhisattva. Order the book Here.
This is from the collection of stories, essays, poems and insights that is compiled to form the book From Lemurs to Lamas: Confessions of a Bodhisattva. Order the book Here.
