The Self Made Waterfall
In Tibetan wisdom there is a saying,
It is better to love and heal, than to keep on praying.
Praying for good will, even for the most deserving life,
Praying for ill will, to those who brought you torture and strife,
But why is this so?
Could they not see the injustice, that took away your glow?
From your eyes, perhaps, when they were young,
When others had childhoods,
The child within you was hooded and hung.
Still,
Somehow,
You are here,
Now.
So believe the wind in these words when they say,
That when you turn the corner of love,
the corner of healing,
You will truly feel, that life,
Has finally come back your way.
And in this life those who wounded you, will never be able to hurt you again,
And your life’s sword wielded by love will win, no matter whatever the past, may have as pen,
There is a better path than holding onto anger, and no, this is not some BS ‘zen’.
It is the secret egg protected by even the most misguided hen, at her core,
The secret that holds wholeness, despite the storms that broke your shore,
The truth that holds boldness, though numbness would say it’s bravery is more.
It is the gift of relevance, and the parting of the irrelevant.
The life after death,
the sorcerery of the ever-present revenant.
And yes,
this love, we speak of, has always been permanent.
You’ve just been conditioned to not notice, by misguided penance and impermanence.
By holding onto hate, your sinners will never seek penitence;
and those eyes that now read, will never see what’s true,
But this understanding is not for them, it is for you.
It by no means admonishes responsibility from those who took away your hue.
This is simply, to let go of the pain, that claims itself to be more than glue.
This pain that claims ‘It IS you. It can never be NOT you’.
Well that’s only kind of true…
Especially when you look into the nature of your own who.
You’ll see there is nothing truly ‘you’, “you” can point to.
Feelings, like thoughts, are always, coming and going.
They are a kind of knowing, and yet, you are NOT a knowing, You are the WITNESS to knowing. And what you pay attention to, and observe matters.
On canvas of neurons, your paint brush of attention splatters.
You may have language. You may have culture.
Those things matter and they through this realization will not rupture.
Rather it is to capture….and also to let go…and recognize ‘faux-sight’,
A truth made illusive by the darkening hues of a repetitive-mindless night,
That illusion behind your eyes, that has grown to become darkness-bright; and trance…
Is a kind of ‘stunted weeping’, never fully grieving, and so The light forgets herself in mindless dance,
Holding onto anger, pain, hate…is like a knight without a lance;
Believing somehow hate will beget justice! when you know in your heart of hearts,
It cant.
The justified thirst for justice, does it really keep you on the healing path?
Will it truly mend what is broken? If the pieces refuse to re-fuse the heart?
Yet truth, can dim the darkness-light, And let love burn once again bright.
As the heavens piercing through left over clouds, of a storm from many a long begotten night.
The solid mountains that hold those clouds there,
Are actually,
Made of air.
If you let the blurry swirl of muddy water, tampered by thought and mindless action, settle,
You will see along, only love, was ever there. A crushed flower’s misplaced petal.
Love that should have been nurtured, but remained absent or denied, when it was needed most.
The soil, life, and hope below, then, suffocated or died, yes, But this is about attention, Past, present and post.
What you see, you continue to become, And so memories/hatred become parasite to a naiive but innocent host, numb,
When the real cure to the dark clouds, was is in recognizing the ghost.
Let it haunt another house,
Yours has been shaken enough to the bone.
It is time to let hate fall, and let love reclaim the thrown.
Even the darkest hours,
Allow the inner witness to atone.
And in that gesture, perhaps echoed a 1000 night and days, without glory,
Like the PTSD suffering soldier who carries war through the haze,
You like them, will learn to tell your story.
And then carry on with life’s ways,
And learn to honour, the love that seeks, only
Your inner gaze.
For you have always been that inner blaze,
Just thrown of course by barbaric plays.
Let your true-light, glow through,
Let the ice in your heart,
that refuses to welt,
By convincing you falsely that somehow
hate and hurt are valued treasure, like cards waiting to be dealt,
Through witness,
Have no choice but to melt.
Through to the real you;
but don’t blame yourself,
or chase pain down with cheap pleasure,
You have just been coping
the only way you knew how,
uptill now,
with the pressure.
But your worth,
as your loved ones,
and deepest wisdom, will tell you,
Is beyond any earthly measure.
Far far more, than any false treasure.
So wipe those tears away,
And when they come let them pour.
They will give you protection,
like no castle of numbness,
or hatred moor;
could ever give.
Let yourself,
Truly live.
You are the secret.
You are the hidden truth.
You are the great glue,
That will mend together,
Even the most broken youth.
In your heart, already exists,
The golden breakthrough.
That melts off untrue, Ice glue,
That makes air of false mountains,
And, leaves behind,
Lush gardens,
Timeless hours counted-in,
Butterflies,
Encircling flowers,
Watered,
By crystal clear,
Fountains.