You’ve been with me
for what seems an eternity.
A shadowy presence,
keeping me up some nights
bringing an edge to my day
and nothing I do makes you go away.
Always here but you won’t show your face
until now.
This morning we met,
as if for the first time
I saw you without the veil,
not so dreadful after all.
Grateful, I welcomed you in
with an open heart.
We sat together like the best of friends
until the incense burned out
and the sun lit the sky.
We rose as one with a smile.
As I sit for meditation
I’m struck by the morning’s
complete generosity.
It gives all,
holding not a thing
back for itself.
It asks nothing of me
except to fall into its open arms
completely
like a lover’s warm embrace.
The birds sing this song
from my very heart
until the birds and I disappear
and nothing remains
except all that is here.
– Lisa Ernst
Incense close, sandalwood
Just outside insects sing a steady cadence
Dogs bark a few yards down
Cars whisper on a distant road
Each revealing its nature
Full and ephemeral
Like endless breath arising
and fading to nothingness
This moment, perfect moment
Gratitude
– Lisa Ernst
I’d rather feel the raw sting of grief,
Alive in my heart
Than to keep it at bay and only know
The dry ache of something
Too far away to touch
Be foolishly in love,
because love is all there is.
There is no way into presence
except through a love exchange.
If someone asks, But what is love?
answer, Dissolving the will.
– Rumi
Let the moment consume you,
Let it swallow you whole
All of you,
Until nothing is left
Nothing to cling to, nothing to let go
No ground to stand on and nowhere to fall
Nowhere, and yet
Everywhere
I first discovered the poet Tagore while hiking at Radnor Lake. I came across a bench with a small plaque on the front, honoring a woman who had died in her 40’s. It stopped me in my tracks:
“The butterfly counts not months but moments and has time enough.”
Succinct and penetrating, a reminder of how easy it is to get caught in the feeling of not having enough time, forgetting this moment, the only moment.
One of Tagore’s most touching poems always catches my heart and brings a tear to my eye:
On the day when the lotus bloomed, alas, my mind was straying,
and I knew it not. My basket was empty and the flower remained unheeded.
Only now and again a sadness fell upon me, and I started up from my
dream and felt a sweet trace of a strange fragrance in the south wind.
That vague sweetness made my heart ache with longing and it seemed to
me that is was the eager breath of the summer seeking for its completion.
I knew not then that it was so near, that it was mine, and that this
perfect sweetness had blossomed in the depth of my own heart.
The Lotus Blooms in The Mud 