The pool near Slane where hazel brushes the gleam of water
and the just ripe nut touches and un-touches the still
cold darkness of a shaded stream, the wet
encircled shell a meniscus of light for the rising mouth
of a silvered salmon, scale and sleek. The moon,
the wait, the strike, the plash of dawn-lit water,
whoever ate this fish that fed on the tree of life,
whoever caught and cooked and then consumed
the flesh of the messenger god, would make no king,
would uncover no gold to hoard against the coming awe,
would become mortal-wise through words enfleshed
with the nut of truth, would become equal to the task
of living and dying, a man acknowledged,
as one who could now speak for others, who would now
speak for others, greatest of poets in a land of poets.
what questions linger in the heart? who can guide? how can we balance & feed the hunger? may we lead with the truth of humble, ancient intelligence……
When we are simply attentive to the raw data of sensory experience, we cultivate a quality of bare attention that is free of concepts, that doesn’t make more out of something than it actually is, that doesn’t build a story around the experience or analyze the experience or imagine a different or better scenario. It is a way of being that is free from attachment to our preferences, neither wanting nor avoiding a particular experience. This state is a key to freedom. By staying with our raw sensory experience, we cease to see the world through our concepts and subsequent fears. There is profound peace in this quality of presence……Mark Coleman
Sitting in the chaos
of my longing,
my striving to be someone … I sat still.
I sat still
and went through all these layers …
but sat still.
And I just became…
the silence behind it all.