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Chidananda's Mind-Loka
October’s wind-swept days have come,
the air turned chill, the trees all bare.
From waters off Jamaica Bay
through early morning’s mist and fog,
the long-necked geese are taking flight.
Their darkened beaks like shadows
rend the skies, their mournful cries
recalling autumns now long past
and summers that could never last.
In this time of changing seasons,
of swirling leaves and muffled rain
that gently grays the muted dawn –
a piercing stillness –
and my Master too was gone.
Like migrant geese that fly away
in answer to some silent call,
he parted for a distant world,
a sunlit clime,
just leaving winter far behind.
The snow falls deep in endless drifts
heavy, wide and full;
soon buries all in whitest grief.
Time slows, then stops as life grows still –
and nothing moves or ever will.
My lips freeze shut, my throat turns numb;
my eyes in glaze like frosted glass.
Inside this changeless world of ice,
this glacial world, this frozen vast,
my heart becomes the deepest well,
the darkest empty – cold and damp;
and like a narrow stairway steep
where dimming light is never caught,
my spirit sinks to blackest thought.
This winter surely shall not pass.
Outside my life the days go on;
the earth acquires a softer hue.
Brooks once frozen winter still
bestir with life.
Sprouting saplings, sweet young grass
reach up for light.
Leaf-green laughter bursts like shoots –
golden faces lifted sunward.
Thrilling to the rush of spring,
even the sky begins to sing.
But here in the dark the coldness remains;
here in my heart the snow is forever.
Aloof from the world, away from sight,
I dream the sleep of arctic night.
In months or years I cannot say,
when through my mind the seasons pass
and autumn there returns at last,
this winter dream will finally end.
That day when all the trees are bare,
their leaves full blown across the lake,
something fierce in me shall break
wild and sudden free.
With a sharp but soundless thunder cry,
like the white-throat geese I too shall fly
through soaring blue of endless sky
to that shining world beyond the sun,
all calm and bright,
where my Master sits on his throne of light
and life eternal is calling me.
Revised
Oct. 11, 2007
A SPIRITUAL ODYSSEY THROUGH MONGOLIA
The Mongolian steppes stretch as far as the eye can see – right to the edge of the sky: hard-packed dirt and shale punctuated by small shrubs and feathergrass. Here and there, a lone ger – the round nomadic tent – with dung smoke rising through its roof hole toward a pale sun!
Just a few weeks earlier, frozen stallions galloped across the white plains and giant snowflakes, like pounding hooves, tumbled from the sky. But now it was early spring, just before the rains, when rivers still ran dry and half-starved animals wandered the dusty plains. Caught in the gap between seasons, lost between the emptiness of the land and the bright, unchanging stillness of the sky, life in the steppes seemed to hang suspended – trembling with readiness.
And then that fateful call was heard – carried by the fierce winds blowing in from the Gobi desert – that a high monk had come to their land, a great Buddha-like soul who had descended from Heaven to raise the ‘horse spirit’ of the nation. From the far-off mountains and distant valleys, they collected their white stallions and drove them to gathering points beneath the blue of the sky.
And for two days the great spiritual figure, who had crossed oceans and continents to reach these tiny spots, lifted the horses into the air – using a modified calf-raise machine to raise a wooden platform, on which the animals stood. When all was done, Indian spiritual Master Sri Chinmoy had lifted 58 white horses, symbolizing what the nomadic people believed was the “wind horse” of their country – its inner strength or spiritual essence.
One of the nomadic riders presented Sri Chinmoy with a white racing stallion – a most precious and sacred gift from a Mongolian nomad – as well as a white mare. Sri Chinmoy immediately composed a song about it, called “O King of the Horses,” which his students sang on the empty steppes, their voices lost in the wind.
The 75-year-old spiritual Master also lifted with one arm some of the youngest and oldest souls in the country – little children as well as centenarians over 100 years of age. Jargal Dolgor, wearing her finest rubber boots and del, the traditional robe-like dress, said afterwards, “Sri Chinmoy is not an ordinary man. He is a monk. I am feeling very good, very happy inside now.” The 104-year-old woman received the “Lifting up the World with a Oneness-Heart” medallion but was too frail to mount the stairs to the overhead lifting platform to be lifted. She said Sri Chinmoy’s students from America and Europe – who had accompanied their teacher to Mongolia – were the first Westerners she had ever seen in her lifetime.
Sri Chinmoy came to this central Asian country, he said, to serve the heart and the life of the Mongolian people, and their President, Nambaryn Enkhbayar, presented him with his nation’s ‘Medal of Friendship.’ Sri Chinmoy came as a brother and a friend, but he swept through the land like a warrior, a 21st century Chingiss Khaan. In 10 short days – from May 14-24 – he conquered the minds and hearts of an entire people.
Mongolians encountered on the street said they regarded him as their own teacher. The Director of the Choijin Lama Temple Museum, where the 75-year-old spiritual leader meditated before the statues of Mother Kali and Lord Buddha, called Sri Chinmoy “the teacher of my heart.” The host of Morning Guest, after interviewing him for national TV, asked Sri Chinmoy to consider himself and his crew “your followers and keep us in your heart.”
The people of Mongolia were like the wild ponies ranging over the steppes – ribs protruding, half-starved from the long winter. They were spiritually famished, and this Indian teacher was like the spring rain that sent sweet grass shooting up from the dusty plains and brought new hope and light to a people still recovering from the cold winter of Communism. Sri Chinmoy came to this country with nothing but his inner simplicity, his spiritual depth and his meditative grandeur. For this parched land, it was like a great rainstorm, and wherever the drops fell, the dry Mongolian desert blossomed with flowers and trees – with art, music and spirituality.
Great flocks of birds filled the meditation hall in his Ulaan Baatar hotel from the hundreds of bird drawings he completed each day. His luminous Jharna Kala paintings gave the city’s “Art” Gallery a subtle, ethereal beauty not previously seen in this rough land. The Vice Chairman of the Union of Mongolian Artists, which sponsored the Master’s art exhibit, presented him with the Union’s highest award – the first time ever to a foreigner. “Many artists have come up to me and thanked me for bring your art to Mongolia,” he told the spiritual leader. “This gallery will always be open for you.”
Music seemed to fill the air wherever Sri Chinmoy walked. He composed more than 50 Bengali and several English songs in Mongolia, and his World Harmony Concert at the Ulaan Bataar Palace brought a soaring musical consciousness to a country where music is as integral to life as the wind and sun. The famous Mongolian composer N. Jantsannorov introduced the Concert.
In the tradition of the great Buddha figures of the past, the spiritual leader delivered two major talks during his stay. His poetry lecture at the Government Palace was introduced by MP Gandhi Tugusjargal, who described the experience as “one of the most precious moments in my life.” Afterwards, Dr. G. Mend-Ooyo, President of the Mongolian Academy of Culture and Poetry, presented Sri Chinmoy with the Academy’s ‘Pegasus’ Award. “May your…genius soar like the legendary winged horse in the eternal sky covering the four corners of the globe,” the Award proclaimed. At a later meeting, the Mongolian poet presented the spiritual teacher with a copy of his newly published Nomadic Lyrics, “dedicated to my dear friend and brother Sri Chinmoy.”
Sri Chinmoy’s lecture on art at the State Academic Theatre of Drama was opened by the Rector of the Mongolian University of Culture and Arts, who presented the Master with his University’s cap and mantle, along with an Honorary Doctorate Degree “for his great contribution to the development of human peace and enlightenment.”
The spiritual leader also made several presentations of his own. He offered the U Thant Peace Award, plus an original painting, to President Enkhbayar when he came to visit the Master’s art exhibit. He also presented the “Lifting up the World with a Oneness-Heart” medallion to several cultural and political luminaries.
Even the brightest of times must come to an end, and Sri Chinmoy left Mongolia shortly after midnight on May 25. When his plane flew off into the cold night, vanishing among the stars, this Indian spiritual teacher left behind a special brilliance that shall forever light up the vast Mongolian steppes. “I shall never forget my visit to your country and the boundless love and compassion that you and your people have showered upon me,” he told President Enkhbayar just before leaving. Mongolia, too, will always remember this Indian Master whose love and simplicity found an eternal home in the Mongolian heart.
# # #
and before the flowers of eden
and before the flowers of eden
fields ablaze with golden firebuds
bursting pistils bright with pollen
planets ringed with fiery insects
hornets diving burning meadows
sunlight flowing dense as lava
in the brightness before the flowers of eden
glowing shapes just flaming skyward
roaring grasses, rivers of sun
an incandescence of bees, humming
like waterfalls
ecstatic songbirds plunging, gorging
in splendor,
throats exploding with light,
symphonies of fire
...
Intimations of dawn.
The empty meadow waiting, stirring
with fullness
a vague readiness
the luminous pregnancy of being.
Intuitions of a new race:
thoughts falling like rain
on the flowers of eden.
originally published in Now, Vol 1, slightly revised Oct. 05
The birthing Before the call of birth, my mind like a hawk sits perched on the tree of thoughts unborn, its branches bare and shorn, abandoned, gnarled, forlorn. It stands on a windless hill in a sky ever hazy bright in empty stillness-light. The hawk from dreamless time just watches the river below where soon it too will go, back to the life of flow. Closer now the river roar, rush of life from deepest core, driving forward fierce and blind, drawing in my drowning mind. Then the sudden crash of sight, deafening flash of brightest light, milk just flowing sweet like pain, softest breasts all gently lain. Beaked and angry lips now living curving toward their swollen giving thirsting, cruel – unforgiving.
originally published in Now, Vol 2, - revised Dec. 2006
..parsed-literal:
A curiosity of being And the sun dropped like a flame to an empty sky, exploring the endless darkness with the pale light of dawn. In that shining stillness, giant mountains still new from creation rose from the planet surface. In the slowness of time, the dimness of wakening, they sensed the ambient brightness, their granite hands holding the blueness of the sky in cupped astonishment. From this curiosity of being, this vague encounter between density and airiness, the first thought, insubstantial, floated to earth. Where it touched the soil wild grasses sprang up, meadows filled with flowers, faces, fields of nations, pale birches, dark ferns and races, staring up at the spreading light, gazing in awe at the mountain height far above. From this curiosity of being, this vague encounter between mind and mystery, the first prayer rose to the sky circling like a bird. In the slowness of time, more came, then endless waves – great formations, migrations, vast flights of understanding, spiraling eddies of light vanishing into stars that lit the mind of night. And God, in His curiosity of being, looked down, touching the earth with astonished hands.
originally published in Panorama April 2001, slightly revised 2005
The night swans
Soon night will come and more, glide past my face with calm beauty like swans on a lake, a faint presence against the darkening shore. With a silent flutter of wings a rush of memories fills the wood: silver moons like birds startled to the sky and far below where once the tree house stood, stand I. But now the pines cast shadows green upon my lungs and in the silence I can hear the slow, rhythmic breathing of night and faint hooves of deer. Soon I’ll merge with the stillness, join the shadows, sink into the dark, rich soil by water's edge. Yes, I think death will come like that, like a soft cry from heaven: six white swans emerging from the dusk on a calm, still lake... and I shall make seven.
originally published in Swans along the Sunlit Path, slightly revised Oct. 2005
Her face was puffy and blistered, her feet so swollen she could barely walk. And she was suffering from a bad cold and cough. But none of that mattered to Ishita Dam-Widder, who declared with a big grin, "I've never been happier in my life."
The 38-year-old personnel manager at Madal Bal Zurich had just completed her first Sri Chinmoy Six-Day Race.
"I feel like a newborn baby! All I'm going to do now is eat and sleep - just what a baby does."
From April 28-May 4 she had been running and walking virtually non-stop around a one-mile loop in Flushing Meadow Park, Queens, averaging about 52 miles a day.
"It was like a physical and spiritual transformation," she said. "Because you're moving all the time and things are going faster -- even the digestion -- the body is throwing off its poisons and getting purified.
"And because things are moving faster on the inner plane also, if you're in a good consciousness you can make enormous spiritual progress. It's like living a whole lifetime in six days.
"When you're running a race like this, the trees and sky seem so beautiful, so alive. Even colors look brighter and more intense. At first I thought I was hallucinating, but other runners said they had similar experiences. I think that because you are purer inside, you see more purity outside.
"And I was so happy when I was running. I didn't think it would be this great. At one point I felt this could be my whole life. Of course, the body won't allow that, but I was ready to go on running forever."
One of the nice things about this kind of race, she said, was the peace of mind she experienced. "Everything was there: food, clothing, medical help -- all my needs were taken care of. I have so many mental problems at work, but during the race I had nothing to worry about except running.
"I saw Guru twice. I was happy to see him, but it wasn't really necessary because I constantly felt his spiritual presence. They kept the light on in his gazebo, and I could see it from way off; so I felt he was always there.
"He's always with us inwardly, but it's only at times like this -- when you think about nothing but the basics -- that you recognize this so strongly.
"I felt a strong connection with my inner self during the race. I started out with the idea of going to sleep at mid¬night and waking up at four. But each night something got me up earlier. The mind says you need the sleep, but the inner being says get up and run.
"I don't think I slept more than a few hours during the whole six days. If you had told me in advance that I would be sleeping only 10 or 11 hours in six days, I never would have signed up for the race."
Of course there was pain, she said. In the beginning, her stomach hurt and her face was very swollen. Later on, when her feet began to swell, she wrapped them in cabbage -- which drew out the inflammation -- and had to run in oversized shoes.
"I was often sick as a child, so I'm used to body pain. With each difficulty, I told myself, 'This is just another new challenge, an experience that will come, then go.'
"Each time I had a serious problem there was always somebody to solve it - either one of the runners who had gone through the same difficulty, or the medical people. They told me, 'Oh yes, everybody has that. It's normal.' So it didn't bother me, because I knew it would disappear.
"Nobody can run a multi-day race and not go through pain. But when the race ends you forget all the suffering and remember only the good things."
One of the good things she remembers is her new understanding of her spiritual teacher's philosophy.
"When you see so many runners from different countries coming together to do the same thing, you begin to understand Sri Chinmoy's vision of a oneness-world-family.
"In everyday life we don't see the common goal we share with everyone because the world is too big and contains too much variety. But the race reduces our world to a small scale, and it's very apparent that we're all running the same loop. For me, this was a first step toward growing into the consciousness of a oneness-world-family."
Ishita began the race with no expectations. "I've run the Sri Chinmoy 47-miler many times, and each time I wanted to exceed my previous time. But in this race I didn't have even one expectation -- except to do my best, avoid serious injury and try to stay happy. Those were my only goals. I didn't compete, not even with myself. I just wanted to run; I just wanted to be.
"For 10 months I was looking forward to the race. I had such an inner feeling of wanting to do it. Now that it's over, I feel I really achieved some¬thing. You get so much more than you give. And if you don't spoil it, you're able to keep the things that you achieved.
"My first night in a normal bed I felt so sad that it was over. I wanted to go back and continue running. I can't explain it, but even when I was sleeping, in my mind I was still running."
reprinted from Anahata Nada, newsletter of the Sri Chinmoy Centre
Running an 'ultra' or multi-day race is like traveling to another dimension, with its own sense of time and space — a world buffeted by intense and volatile emotional weather — where most of the running is done inside.
For 38-year-old Abichal, who completed the Sri Chinmoy 700-miler for the first time this year, an 'ultra' is like a retreat into a monastery.
"It's a gradual descent into yourself. You slowly sink into a peaceful energy field where normal mental activity is shut down, everything is focused and life is very simple.
"At the same time, things below the surface come up that you're normally able to ignore. Since you're not distracted by everyday life, you have to deal with them, and it's a chance for real inner progress. But it gets pretty intense, especially when you're going through so much physical pain."
Namitabha, 35, who completed the Sri Chinmoy 3,100-miler this past summer, explained that the mind is one of the biggest problems in these races. "The mind says, 'I've been running for five hours and now I need a break,' or 'It's too hot, so I better rest.' And the thought of running for 50 days straight is enough to drive the mind crazy.
"But if I keep on going, after a while the mind just surrenders to the experience, the body adapts and everything becomes like a river. Then I feel I can run forever."
Dipali, 41, who has run about a dozen 'ultras' over the past nine years and holds the women's six-day world record, agrees. "But I've learned how to shut up the mind, to go beyond the exhaustion, beyond the blisters and stomach problems," she said. "I've learned to run from my heart."
The Sri Chinmoy Marathon Team sponsors six and 10-day races each spring...a simultaneous 700-mile, 1,000-mile and 1,300-mile race every fall...and a 3,100-mile race over the summer.
"There's a big difference between running a 1,300-mile race and running the 3,100-miler," explained Suprabha, 43, who is the only woman to have done both.
"In the 1,300-mile event, you get just a couple of hours' rest a night and can fall asleep while running. Many times I'd wake up on the course and find my feet parked on the turn-around cone, and a couple of times I almost ran into the river.
"The 3,100-mile race is structured so you get at least six hours' rest nightly, since the body couldn't keep running that far without it. Since I'm not struggling so much with exhaustion, I can remain more peaceful and meditative.
"In an 'ultra' there's a feeling of timelessness — like entering some kind of infinity. You try to stay in the heart and also stay in motion — so the quietness you feel inside and the forward movement of the race somehow come together. It's like being inside a stillness that's always moving forward. It gives you a sense of what the soul must feel as it journeys through eternal time."
How does a long-distance runner keep going? "By going deep inside!" Suprabha declared. "Sometimes novice runners think they can barrel through an 'ultra' on sheer physical strength. But they either burn out or learn to draw on their inner qualities."
Sasha Djordjevic (Angicar), 28, explained it in terms of "going to the edge -which means not sleeping the extra couple of hours that your body is crying for, not spending two hours in medical although your legs are killing you. Most of all, you've got to have faith in yourself and God."
He recalled an experience he had during a 700-mile race "when I was extremely weak mentally and physically and feeling completely alone. I was in so much pain that all I wanted to do was quit; but quit¬ting wasn't an option for me. I knew I couldn't finish the race on my own, but help from God seemed millions of miles away. At one point I just said, 'God, if You really love me, why are You making me suffer so much?'
"Then, amazingly, I actually got an answer. It was a kind of a thought in my head that told me, 'How can I, who love you so much, make you suffer?' Suddenly, for the first time in my life, I felt an overwhelming sense of God's Love. It was like not being on earth. For the next couple of miles I was just crying the whole way.
"Another time, on the next to last day of the 1,000-miler, my handlers forgot to wake me up and I lost three hours, equivalent to about 12 miles of running. I was already pushing my limit, and the idea of making up that kind of mileage so late in the game was inconceivable. So I was just sitting there depressed and hopeless, thinking I had let my Guru down and was a total loser.
"Then I remembered the story from the Ramayana when Lord Rama asked Hanuman to bring him a special medicinal herb to save his dying brother. Since the plant grew hundreds of miles away, Hanuman knew it would be impossible to bring the medicine in time — no matter how fast he ran. But he had such love and devotion for Rama that he suddenly found himself flying, and he actually did bring the medicine in time.
"I said to myself, 'If Hanuman had enough devotion to fly, the least I can do is run. So the last 36 hours of the race I ran like any¬thing, not sleeping at all, and on the last day of the race I covered an incredible 86 miles — almost 20 miles more than I had done on the first day. I finished the race with 53 minutes to spare!
"I always have this image of myself as Arjuna and my spiritual Master as Krishna. So during the race I asked a friend to bring me a victory conch that I could blow at the end. I kept the conch in my tent, and when I was feeling weak and depressed, I sat in the tent and blew it a little bit. But after completing the 1,000 miles, I really blew it.
"Somebody who has an experience like this can never forget it. You go through hell and, with your Master's help, finally reach the goal. The feeling of joy is unimaginable!
"Running a 1,000-mile race is like condensing your entire spiritual life into a single 15-day period. You're just not the same person afterwards. Life's daily challenges seem minuscule compared to what you've already been through.
"Ultra-running is not about being a runner, but about being a spiritual seeker — about being brave, about getting closer to your Master, about making progress. There's nothing like it in the world."
reprinted from Anahata Nada, newsletter of the Sri Chinmoy Centre (August-November 1999)
"It's like setting foot on a god or goddess. You have to tread responsibly on this great, powerful being."
Jowan was talking about his recent ascent of Cho Oyu, which means "The Turquoise Goddess" in Tibetan. Rising 8,201 meters into the air between Nepal and Tibet, just 20 miles from Mt. Everest, it's the sixth highest mountain in the world.
The 24-year-old climber, accompanied by Anugata, 43, reached the summit on May 6 on his second attempt. Another member of their team, Udar, had made the summit two days earlier. All three are students of Sri Chinmoy.
"On our first try, we ran out of gas at 7,900 meters," Jowan said. "After hours and hours of walking uphill, with very little oxygen, I was starting to get dizzy and lose motor skills. One of the other guys had already turned back; the other two were going ahead. I sat there for a half hour eating candy bars, trying to decide what to do.
"Going back meant returning not to the interim camp we had set out from earlier that day, but all the way down to the base camp — almost a mile and a half below — because you can't recover at higher altitudes. So I wasn't jumping at the prospect of making this climb again.
"But it was already late afternoon, which would have meant returning from the summit in the dark, and I felt it would be unwise to continue. Also, I saw that Udar had barely moved the whole time I was sitting there; he was still close enough to talk to. So I decided to come down."
Anugata, a more experienced climber, turned back shortly afterwards. "I've been an athlete all my life and know my body well. You have to know when to say, 'If I don't turn around now, I won't have enough energy to get back.'
"It's like diving. You take a deep breath and look at the bottom so far down, and you know you won't have enough air to make it all the way down and back again.
"Some people are ambitious; they care only about making the summit. But that's only half the journey; not coming back means failing."
Udar, the third team member, also eventually decided to return.
After a few days at base camp, Udar and another climber struck out for the summit again along a different route. Jowan and Anugata left two days later.
"Each day we moved up to a higher temporary camp. While en route to camp 2, Udar radioed to us that he and his friend had made it. But we still had a long way to go," Jowan said.
"When we reached camp 3, around 4 p.m., I was not feeling well at all. I had stomach problems and was very weak. We had eight hours to rest before our midnight departure for the summit, and I spent almost the whole time boiling and drinking water.
"By midnight I was feeling a little better, but still was not in a good space. There was one dangerous section when we were going up a 60-degree slope of hard snow; it was like climbing a very steep roof.
"I had left my ice axe behind to save weight, so I had to focus all my attention on each step, moving one foot or ski pole at a time. It was a long way down and I couldn't make a mistake.
"But if I kept up my concentration and went slowly I knew I could maintain my balance and do fine."
Anugata also found the going difficult, particularly a section of loose rock that had to be traversed after this steep snow climb.
"With so little oxygen getting into the lungs because of the altitude, 20 yards can seem like a mile. It doesn't look like you have far to go, but the body isn't responding.
"And sometimes you find yourself having long daydreams; then you come out of it and remember, 'Oh yeah, I've got to keep going.'
"Climbing is 50 percent mental. When things look bad and I'm really exhausted, I try to stay in the moment — not allowing the mind to extrapolate into the future or think how far I have to go. I just burrow into the moment and deal with the present."
After about eight and a half hours of hard climbing, with the worst of it behind them, they found the slopes leading to the summit relatively easy. At the top, they took a few photos and briefly enjoyed the view.
"But after 10 minutes it was time to return to business — the business of getting back," Jowan said. "Most mountaineering accidents happen on the way down. So you can't start enjoying yourself or feeling complacent."
The descent to camp 3 took only three hours. "It was around noon, and I was feeling strong and wanted to continue on to camp 2, but Anugata was in no rush to get down. So I went on ahead, leaving him there. He joined up with me later," Jowan explained.
"Although we're members of a team, we go at our own pace and it's not unusual for one guy to go on alone. All the climbers are in such a weakened condition that you can't really expect help from the others; you have to be self-sufficient."
It wasn't until they were back at base camp that the excitement really set in. "I felt so powerful inside — not in the ego sense but in the sense that I was full," Jowan said. "I felt like I had gained the power and purity of the mountain. It was like having a thousand meditations."
For Anugata also, mountaineering is as much a spiritual journey as a physical one.
"You feel that your spirit goes out and makes contact. There's a tangible feeling that you are here, but also out there — in the whole expanse. It's like a fish who has just swum out of the fish bowl into the vast ocean.
"I feel that the mountains are entities, and it's a privilege to be in their presence. It's not scary, since they don't mind the presence of a human being if he has humility and if he appreciates them as living beings.
"But if someone is not aware of their inner reality and wants to conquer the mountain, then the mountain may show its displeasure."
Pausing for a moment, Anugata pointed at the sky. "When you're back at base camp, the summit is like that cloud. You look at this cloud in the sky and just can't believe you went all the way up there and back. It's like a miracle."
reprinted from Anahata Nada, newsletter of the Sri Chinmoy Centre
Aquarium Like crustaceans, our minds entombed in bone, we scrape the muddy bottom deep this ocean murk of time, pulled by currents yet unknown. The distant stars give but a glimpse the golden stillness far above, where hazy suns will float like birds forever calm in silent splendor. Our minds reach for that lucent brightness with fragile, brittle, thin ideas like tiny pincers – teeth that break then tumbling, spinning, spiral down to form the porous the reefs of thought that frame our hopes, our lives, our ways. And so unseen, unsure, unfound, we crawl these crumbling ridges notched, claws just waving feebly in the air, until a time beyond all days a hand comes down to grab our shell and lift us through the sea of time far above the dark of life to the shining dawn that’s pulsing bright – our minds now sudden glorious free, dripping grandeur, drinking light.
originally published in Aug. 2002 Panorama, revised Dec. 2006
