Читать книгу Stirrup of the Sun & Moon - Frank LaRue Owen - Страница 9

…a love poem…of sorts

Part One: The Longing

Are you fishing in your sleep again?

Oh come on. We all know how it starts.

A deep pang inside.

A longing.

That old familiar question rattling around inside your mind:

“Where is the one for me?”

So, you start imagining a soul.

What do they look like?

What does their laugh sound like?

What does the curve of their body feel like in the dark?

All of this imagining gets the best of you.

It stokes an image inside…The Ideal One.

Don’t stand too close to the heat, pilgrim,

for a fire has been lit

and it’s burning up all of your common sense.

This longing is ancient and powerful and vast.

It feels like it might even swallow you up

if you chose to stay with it.

We can’t have that, now can we?

So, you aim it all outward.

You become a Human Movie Projector.

“Hey you! Stand still! Stop moving! I’m busy projecting onto you.

No. No. Don’t speak. You might ruin the moment.”

Like a fisherman on the shoreline,

you attach this inner image of The Ideal One

onto a hook of your own making.

You don’t realize you fashioned a hook, but you did.

It happened somewhere between sleep and waking.

Don’t be so hard on yourself.

You were just following instructions;

the same troubled, outworn instructions

given to everybody else,

and you followed them impeccably.

You cast that inner image out —

out into the world, every day.

Multiple times a minute even.

And so, there you are…hoping

and hoping…and hoping

“The One” will come and bite the hook.

You’re fishing in your sleep again

“fishing” in your “sleep” again

not realizing the real prize-catch

has been swimming inside you all along.

Until we embrace the Indwelling One

there is only exile in the Territory of Love

…even if we somehow arrange

to have a stranger’s warm body

sleeping next to us.

Part Two: The Feast

We were never taught how to properly relate to the Indwelling World.

None of us were,

and now this world of modernistas isn’t even set up for it.

So when longing shows up, all hell breaks loose.

We become our own bull in our own china shop.

It has become so ingrained

to interpret longing-as-lack

instead of the fullness that it is.

And so, like cosmic clockwork,

we assume the longing is empty

instead of boundless and full

rich and fertile

ripe for the planting and eventual harvest.

Like the poor fools in the Running of the Bulls

who get trampled

and are somehow shocked when they are,

the human condition is one of endlessly running around

trying to fill the longing

with something…or someone.

It cannot be done, and never will,

as long as longing is seen through the eyes of poverty.

The longing in the soul

is the soul itself

wanting to know

the fullness of the soul itself.

It isn’t empty any more than the darkness of space is.

It is a doorway into a vast realm that has no edges, no bottom.

It is an endless expanse

and the solidity we take to be reality

is formless and empty,

and the emptiness contains

an incomprehensible fullness.

“It”

—if we can even say that, for “it” is no-thing —

includes the person on the bus beside you,

the checkout girl in the grocery store,

the man who delivered your mail;

they all have a doorway

to the same endless expanse within them too.

And many of them are looking outside themselves

for something or someone

to fill the vast boundless longing

they are feeling right alongside you.

What is already inside this space

within you, them, everyone

is an energy —

a life-giving

life-bestowing

life-sustaining fullness;

but rather than bringing forth

the abundant feast that is there,

we go outward

and onward

hunting for scraps and crumbs instead.

This longing is ancient and powerful and vast.

It feels like it might even swallow you up

if you chose to stay with it.

Stay with it.

Stay with it.

If you do, it will lead you.

And one day,

maybe one day,

you will cross paths with someone

whose inner doorway reminds you of your own…

But it will never truly happen

if you

don’t learn

how to be

alone.

__

To the tune of “Touch” / SOMA, Steve Roach + Robert Rich and “Ohroo” / The 10,000 Steps / Biomusique