Your assumptions are your windows on the world. Scrub them off every once in a while, or the light won’t come in.
~ Isaac Asimov
It must be
we are waiting
for the perfect moment.
It must be
we want to go on.
It must be,
that deep down
we are creatures
we are needed.
It must be that waiting
for the listening ear
or the appreciative word,
for the right
woman or the right man
or the right moment
just to ourselves,
we are getting ready
just to be ready
and nothing else.
Like this moment
the guests arrive
by the window
in the kitchen
sensing a deep
in every blessed thing.
to meet us too.
Just on the other
side of the door
is about to knock
and our life
about to change
after all these
to go on.
From ‘Waiting to Go On’: in ‘River Flow:
New and Selected Poems’
© David Whyte and Many Rivers Press
I know this lifetime is only a wooden structure
— struts and beams of longing and achieving.
I know beyond samsara and economics
there are colours I have never seen
that would send me into euphoria.
And over there, time is something we laugh at.
Like when my son said,
Remember when I thought if I
swallowed watermelon seeds they’d grow in my stomach?
And we laugh.
Ya, time, it never existed to begin with.
I know I’m living on multiple plains,
as a violet light ray, as a mechanic in Tibet,
and a stellar amoeba cleaning doubt from the atmosphere.
I am the Supreme God generating the original and eternal space.
I know that before there was The Word there was (and always will be) Space.
It is the canvas of reality and Light is the ink of our story.
I understand how Venus weaves Love into a generous geometry.
I worship her, so I know.
I get it.
But I’m holding on to here —
to music, and linen, and the white berries that grow by the lake.
I love how gravity holds me when I dance.
And when I decide to burn down this house and all the agreements in it,
I’m going to take rhythm, and the fruit seeds,
and the colour of your eyes with me everywhere I go.
I Know the Colour of Your Eyes by Danielle LaPorte
A long night I spent
thinking that reality was the story
of the human species
the vanquished search for the vanquished
Sounds come by, ruffling my soul
I sense space’s elasticity,
go on reading the books she wrote on the
wars she’s seen
Why do seasons who regularly follow
their appointed time, deny their kind of energy
why is winter followed by a few
more days of winter?
We came to transmit the shimmering
from which we came; to name it
we deal with a permanent voyage,
the becoming of that which itself had
from ‘Surge’ by Etel Adnan