All phenomena bear the mark of Emptiness; their true nature is the nature of
no Birth no Death, no Being no Non-being, no Defilement no Purity, no Increasing no Decreasing. – The Heart Sutra
The morning breeze performs a pas de deux with each newborn yarrow flower that came bursting through the grass in tight bunches under cover of night. Silent and unwitnessed, the earth creates a fresh array of sensory seduction while we sleep. On awakening, we can look, inhale and join the dance. We can draw our blinds and shield our eyes from the fragile reminders of our own vulnerability. We can shatter the silence with a catharsis of feigned indignation.
We can sit still and become a purple yarrow flower, the silent power of Maya enticing a low-flying and bottom heavy yellow drone in search of nectar. We can be the nectar and we can drink of it. We can wordlessly understand that nothing is other than ourselves.
When the breeze feels like hope, I know that Mind is grasping forward. When it feels like regret, I know that Mind is arching backward. When Mind is mute, aware without specificity, time stops. This is where god lives. This is the home to which we inevitably return, finally oblivious to the cold sweat dream remnants of arrogant fears and scheming. No body. One Mind. Om tat sat.
I, me, mine approach their expiration in subtle increments every day, every hour, every minute, fighting with futility and brute force for survival. But sometimes, caught off guard, eyes following a whirlpool of cream spinning a circuitous route around the spoon in my coffee, I forget to remember myself and stumble into the paradise where I no longer have a name. Can I stay here? I ask no one in particular. By way of an answer, Mind recalls yesterday and my name and the things I’ve told myself to love and the things I’ve told myself to hate. Paradise lost.
No worries. True Love, the undiscriminating life force, is never out of reach. It silently sustains everything by doing absolutely nothing. All one has to do is forget. Remember?