Confessions of a Modern Meditator.
I get it now.
Black is white
Day is night
Wrong is right.
My husband looks away from the television and turns to me;
What is going on! What in the world…..!
And I get it just like that.
There is no ruling from a lifetime past but happy anarchy.
And not worse but maybe better than the lie of safety and reason we supposed
from a prettily clothed and fiercely contained hearth
while outside the door the unfathomable cruelty of men and nature
appeared to randomly batter only those outside.
We are all outside now equally homeless and at home;
under the light, bending in the wind, shouting at the stars
in every language with every expletive available.
I am a modern meditator
My mantra has no Hindu spirit attachment to a past.
I would not know or care to compare
it to any other for which there is no measure anyway.
That is a miserable’s pastime.
Here is a tone like a hypnotist’s clue, unspoken,
it’s power unbroken by attachment to anything but the memory
of me when I received it.
Sometimes sitting; this hypnotic key and I are not enough.
Momentary protection by the mantra’s magical cocoon is
fleeting impermanence that turns back to an illusion of writing in stone when eyelids open.
So much waits at the door.
The emptiness of this transitory seat is illusion I will not bear.
I bring all of it into my quiet place.
I open the door to this inviting home.
To ready for a party is hard work of course.
But the resulting harmony of home serves me well too.
I know what to throw out and what to polish.
This home is left the better when the last guest smiles goodbye.
Still, this architecture has been battered as it’s not well designed to withstand storms.
It was not made to bend in the wind.
whether by my making or happenstance.
Does it matter?
Renovation is made in this hypnosis; this modern meditation.
Nothing outside is a stranger when you invite it in.
You feed the strange what you feed your loved ones.
You must remember to feed yourself as a loved one too.
With all inside, who will tear down your walls?
In you go with the rest of it;
With the storm and the sorrow and the mean and the crazy,
With the things you cannot fathom, with the life you cannot grasp.
What threatens from remote banks is much mystery perceived as threat.
Though threat might make its home in fear,
It has no grasp in a kindly place.
It has no choice but to amend.
re-posted on Rebelle Society as Confessions of a Modern Meditator