Roots

Where am I from?

I am from the roots of a tree

without form;

a river with no depth

a canvas with no paint

An untainted, un-tattered, untouched, unknown divine miracle,

the unborn.

-------------

Without form,

there is no name, no label, no habits, no judgment, no scorn,

no pity, no forlorn misery, no shame, no fear, no blame, no ignorance…

just a heart beating wisdom of, the Sutra,

a reverberating light chanting, the Mantra.

Without form,

there is peace, an awakening; room for impermanent change

because everything and nothing changes,

thus, the irony of meaning and purpose;

the paradox of life.     

---------

Who am I?

I am a she, a daughter, a sister, a child, a human being.

Alas, as she wakens, she becomes real!

She begins to feel, as she bonds with a mother, who’s one;

one with the earth, wind and the sun;

one whom once too had become.

Blossoming into life,

Breathing the air,

enjoying simplicity without credence or despair.

Every new scent,

a discovery,

an exotic revelry,

beautiful and true,

a precious unity.

II

But as she awakens to the world around her,

Her fantasy will break, her heart will crush and her brain will rush,

forgetting what she knew as a babe,  

forgetting the universal gift we call the present.

Lost in a maze of endless possibilities and unclear deliveries,

She will freeze up, calm up and jam up.

She may even loose it all and forget her gratitude cup.

She may wallow in self-pity, curse God, her neighbors, even the old oak trees.

she will eventually become forlorn

and fall to her knees, in prayer, like a newborn again

she will foresee, things will not be as she once believed,

through the blood, sweat and tear stained blindfold,

finally shredded,

she will see truth expose itself as suffering

dreaded fears will unravel,

stumble her into regret, unleaded.

-----

Saw blood, felt pain.  Saw greed, felt envy.  Saw madness, felt confused.  Saw death, felt grief.  Saw injustice, felt anger.  Saw corruption, felt useless.  Saw war, felt sadness and fear.  Saw addiction, felt desire.  Saw ignorance, felt frustration.  Saw shame, felt doubt.  And the list goes on and on and on…

-----

At times, but for the most part, she will still be the tree without form, yet it may take a lifetime to find her source again, her beauty, he perfectly imperfect grace, her creativity, her spiritual space.

As her world drifts in and out of consciousness and her beautiful, perfect emptiness is replaced by an orchestra of colors, splashing from a palate to a blank slate so fast like Picasso.  

Never looking quite perfect.  Never looking quite sane.  Never looking cautious.  And never, ever, the same.

How do you then explain to a young lady, that she is perfectly imperfect and that’s what makes her so beautiful?  How do you explain, the lies behind the masquerade?  

How, when everyday for her is a battle.