The mere fact of yearning’s persistence is proof that every dream is possible.
Artistic creations help us discover who we are. Through art we explore who we are, where we’ve come from and where we are going. Art moves, awakens and stirs the heart. It is essential to our understanding of life and ourselves. Art raises consciousness, it stretches our perceptions and morphs our reality.
Sometimes more than anything, it is a film, a book, a painting or a piece of music that opens the heart when nothing else can. This beautiful poem lyrically meanders through the experience of self discovery and inquiry, offering us a pathway to what is real.
Here is Where this Love is Real
Oh, I’ve been drunk
for as long as I remember,
though it’s not from any wine
that’s crushed from vineyard grapes.
I weave and stagger blindly
through these flickering realms,
dreamy realms of time’s unraveling.
A busy cloud of mayflies
swarms around my dizziness,
drunk as I am, drunk as they are
on the nectar of this living Mystery.
You might ask a question now
for which I have no answer.
Who asks, who answers?
Does a slipstream’s fluid sutra
depend on any lips?
My lips are pressed against infinity
in a kiss of liquid yearning, the yearning
of water for itself, of a wave for the sea –
a breathless desire I cannot abandon.
Whoever I think I am –
whatever I thought I was –
that’s just what comes and goes.
Without tether or anchor now,
I seem to drift through some immensity,
eyes blinded by the brilliance of a mysterious
supernal light – its reflection, my own.
I say “my own”, and yet
it doesn’t belong to anyone,
nor can it be grasped or contained.
Terms like ‘real’ or ‘imaginary’
simply don’t apply here.
There is a fine line where
the sky seems to touch the sea.
Though it appears to be a line,
there really is no line.
In that same way, Love pours out of nowhere,
sweeping the little twigs and leaves of belief
and identity in a current of cool forgetfulness,
a gentle drowning in the swirling fluidity
of Love’s own watery simplicity.
Like melting snow
in Spring’s warming streams,
the fascination with any destiny
drops off and dissolves in the flow –
timed to a perfection
beyond mind’s comprehension.
In the letting go, something
which once seemed so complicated
now approaches a transparency.
The closer to its source,
the more transparent it becomes.
That dreamy sense of independence,
the perfume of some separate self-sense,
sifts, wafts, and weaves within the full
embrace of awareness, of limitless space,
changing perpetually, in harmony
with ordinary circumstance.
The need for any meaning drops away
in the bliss of remembrance, remembrance
prior to the appearance of any born being,
big bang, or bundled embodiment.
The search for Tao is rendered obsolete
by the Tao that cannot be sought,
cannot be lost.
For this reason, or without reason,
I kneel now in my own heart, the heart
Life made so it could feel itself and know
the secrets mind would know but cannot.
My palms turn upward, effortlessly
holding this mountain to the sky.
It is light, light as the feather I am,
a feather on the breath of the wind,
a wind of whispering yearning.
The mere fact of yearning’s persistence
is proof that every dream is possible –
anything and everything always.
In Love’s intimate presence
there’s no need of any proof,
or any convincing logic.
Existence is its own proof,
the one perfect proof of itself,
and inherent in its transient fragility,
the proof of its own final unreality.
A crumbling mountain
left that kiss upon my heart,
the kiss of utter impermanence,
and now the clouds, filled with light,
glide silently through this night of nights –
each an exhalation, a sigh from deep space.
Here is where we’ll always meet,
in that sky-like timeless space
between our poignant sighs.
Within this potent silence,
here is where the magic’s born.
Before all notions, names, or forms
which we could know or feel –
Here is where this love is real.