Chiaroscuro, Tao Puro
Have you ever been so tired
that the bird’s chirping
reverberates
through the cavern of your heart?
They call it surrender,
but I don’t know
who they are
or why they are here.
I just listen
to the wind
blowing, softly
through the trees.
TAO PURO
I even remember how it felt, on a hot day in July, biking alongside the river—always moving, yet looking so still—when it dawned upon me that my heart was revealing itself to the world in the form of a response; the world called to me, and my heart sang in verse.
What more is there than this?
Perhaps it is true that this is our simple, human life; Our response, our initiation.
What am I trying to say? What song is my heart singing? I must listen. And as I do, I find:
I don’t really know. That’s, at least, the very first thing I am saying.
Maybe I’m saying that our grief at the state of the world is our heart’s response to the cruelty of our greed?
That our endless search for distraction is the fear of the change we are asked to make, by none other than our own heart, our soul?
I’m saying all of these things, surely.
But I am also speaking of gratitude. And joy. And the way the sunlight trickles through the cedar trees.
Don’t you see?
We are the mystery.
Not one we can solve through power or ideology. Not one we can win through monetary gain or the trivial pursuit of fame. Not even one that can be obsessed upon and shoved down others’ throats through concepts like diversity or authenticity, which only have power when completely lived.
Mystery beyond mystery.
The one we cannot know.
And in my heart, there is a vision: I long to hold the wounded child of the world, and let our tears be like holy water, washing away all hurts and wrongs. And the wounded child in me, too, would come out. As would yours. And his. And hers. And all those in power who do not believe in love because they have never known it.
The weeping would cause a flood—of sacred water forming an ocean—and the Earth would be made anew.
For our tears are holy water, no matter when or why they are shed. And each of us is hurt, in some way, by this mystery of life.
For all our posturing, we are still small, soft creatures longing for a bit of love in a wild world. And we are the ones to create it.
As far as visions go, I admit that it is idealistic.
But how else does love win?
Albert Einstein said, “Imagination is far more important than knowledge.”
I happen to agree.
And so we dream our love to life, and take joy in the creation.
CHIAROSCURO
But what of perfection?
asked my old and restless soul.
In our long and aimless hunt, we have made an enemy of the real and instead sought our own vain imaginings.
But as it is said, when you stop aiming to be perfect, you are finally able to be good.
I have spent long years aiming for the shores across the endless sea. And it is only lately that I see the futility of my search.
Collectively, are we any better? Are we not merely avoiding the discomfort of existence in an attempt to reach perfection? And slowly destroying ourselves because of it, losing our way like a ship at sea that cannot find the lighthouse’s guidance.
Because we still must have an aim. And high ideals are not mere fancy. Rather, our expectation that we must invariably succeed in reaching them is what drags us down.
So when I speak of grief, I think I am also speaking of the grief that we must embrace when we let our grasping at perfection die.
For if perfection does exist, it is in our complete and total surrender to the way the wind blows and tousles our hair, to the way that mistakes and unintended changes lead to beautiful outcomes, along with tragedy.
I have spent long years aiming for the shores beyond the endless sea.
Only now, beside a campfire, with the stars above as my guide, do I realize the sea to cross was always the distance between my longing, and my love.
CLARA CONIUNCTIONIS
Don’t turn away,
from the shaded veil of day.
And don’t hide your eyes,
like a beggar to mine.
Rather, dance
with me,
with this world
of our tears and our
clear imaginings.
For surely, depth is that calling of our hearts to imagine a world that is more beautiful than the one in which we live, for it sees the beauty hidden in the way things are.
And it is only through seeing beauty that it is created.
When we look back upon our lives, we see the invisible hand of fate—if you so choose to call it—and how it moves our spirit through its layers…
upon layers, upon sand and silt and ash; spinning through the clay of our heart that breathes beneath bare feet: the soil of the Earth herself.
And a soft voice begins to speak to you, reminding you of your sacred purpose here: to love and be loved. Something within you resonates with the vision it whispers, of a love beyond time.
The fire, it rises within you. Your life, a vas; its trials, your fertile soil.
No, don’t turn away. Don’t close your eyes. Your ideals and the dreaded mirror of reality—they both need you, your love: your wounded song that heals the hurts you can never heal within yourself.
We dance between these poles, as if caught between two cosmic forces we cannot see but feel at every step within the movement.
You see? The path lies in the step you take, not the direction in which you take it.
Be where your feet are.
In love with life, singing beauty into the world, at once mysterious and immanent, at once practical and intangible.
And when, one day, you hear that voice and reach out your hand to feel the weight of its vision, you will grasp another’s.
The clouds will welcome you, as they have been for ages,
and the sky will dance with you,
with this world,
of your tears and your
clear imaginings.
