Mindfulness Haiku

For the first time
Warm breath against upper lip
Feeling the sweetness.

Such awesome delight
Never to be missed again
What was I thinking?

The Mind Curator

Dwelling in one's mind and heart,
one gets to be a curator of the space within.

Sifting through the constant influx of thoughts,
checking for quality. This, yes. That, no.
And so on . . . constantly watching.

Swiftly discarding that which might blemish 

the otherwise pristine blank walls.

Taking the time to appreciate the occasional treasure,
and giving it the space it justly deserves.

Same with probing the heart, acknowledging
each visitor. Then deciding whom to welcome,
and whom to usher out the door. And how to go about it.
Wide open love, compassion, rejoicing, and peace
are equally welcome to stay. Not so anger, craving,
and their cohort of other disruptive accomplices.
Even so, being patient, and understanding.

The mind curator never gets to rest.

Why Limit Love?

Today, I visited a very old woman.
I thought she was a man at first.
Age does that, obliterates all traces
of vanity and feminine glory.
A big, oozing wart on her cheek
kept drawing my gaze, hypnotic,
and in my heart, disgust surged.
She reached out for my hand.
Right next to my not liking, love arose,
awakened by hers. She smiled.
"Have you had lunch?"
In her mind, I was her daughter.
I flashed back on my own mother
who died two months ago.
And decided right there, why limit love?
I could become a daughter again,
if only for that moment.

In Her Wake

In her wake,
tears welling up
as soon as I sit for a while
and hidden joy
of the enduring love
that binds me to her still.

In her wake,
regrets about times
when I did not love her well,
one, two, three, four and more;
wishing for a rewind button
that does not exist.

In her wake,
a renewed inspiration
to open the heart
when the mind thinks otherwise
and to not let my own wounded-ness
blind me to the possibility of love

In her wake,
many thoughts coming and going,
and the reminder to guard
from misguided sentimentality
and the easy temptation
to idealize the deceased.

In her wake,
recognizing as my own,
hindrances I used to see in her mostly:
attachment to material things,
chronic worrying about imaginary future
and love tainted with much clinginess.

In her wake,
awareness of impermanence
sinking more deeply;
even her whose life I took as a given
had to disappear, first in mind, slowly,
then in body, with the final exhale.

In her wake,
the reassurance that death can be sweet,
nothing to fear, only the mind's ideas
and our unwillingness to let go;
holding tight the comforting vision
of her surrender - much peace, much ease.

In her wake,
the determination to not let her terminated life,
every bit of it, go to waste.
Using all I learned from her, all she gave me,
to live each new moment more wisely, more kindly.
I used to call her Maman.

The Mother Who Used to Know Me

The mother who used to know me
has gone
and in her stead, sits a woman who stares at me
the same way she does with strangers.

The mother who used to know me
has gone
and shows irritation whenever I touch her
who are you to dare, she wants to say.

The mother who used to know me
has gone
and no longer tries to respond
whenever I look at her and tell her my love.

The mother who used to know me
has gone
and tries to understand why it is
that I of course smile at her so sweetly

The mother who used to know me
has gone
and my heart revolts against such cruel parting
that leaves me wanting so much.

The mother who used to know me
has gone
and I cry tears of sorrow
for her who still seems to exist, yet no longer is.

The mother who used to know me
has gone
and all the wisdom I thought I knew
no longer seems so relevant. 

A Short Poem

Heart broken
equals heart open
wide.

Clinging urge
threatens
until the mind sees.

The possibility
of love, purified
lies near.

The Body Can't Abide, Not Yet

I have been walking
on the edge of possibility.
To continue to grab,
as I have
Or to let go
of the painful grip?
The mind sees,
but the body can't abide,
or at least not yet.
Right now, it is just breath
and the evidence
of the power of mind's habits.
Nothing to do,
but watch with loving patience
and trust in mindfulness.

Letting Go of the Broken Mirror

Small, broken mirror,

denies the possibility 

of wholeness.

How to rid oneself

of the faulty mirror,

that is the question?

In the frustration

of stuck-ness,

the possibility arises.

This poem, inspired by a dream I had during the retreat, and also Ayya Khema's talk on Metta:

Our surroundings, our environment, is like a mirror. We wouldn't know what the other person has unless we know it ourselves already. [...] As long as those traits in another person are very bothersome to us, we can be quite sure we've got them ourselves. We can be very grateful that we are given this learning opportunity to see ourselves as others see us. It's terribly difficult to see ourselves clearly, because the mirror image is only in other people. But it's very useful to see that, and then use that understanding about the other person, or the things we don't like about the other person, to check out ourselves. "Do I do that too? Do I talk like that? Do I act like that?" We should try to find these same things within. There's no blame involved. If we start blaming ourselves or others for all the things we do wrong, we'll never stop blaming. It's a totally useless activity, because for any negativity that we have an heap blame on top of it, it means we've then got two negativities. What we would like is to get rid of negativity. So intstead of blaming, we look at it, accept it, and change it. [...] Our work of the purification of our heart lies in our daily encounters with anyone, particularly human beings. 

Thanking the difficult people in our life for holding up the mirror that shows us our whole self.

All for the sake of pure love.

Noble Silence

Silence gives one the space 

to notice one's own thoughts. 

Silence puts one in touch 

with the reality of the heart, 

whatever it might be. 

Silence makes it easier 

to watch one's actions. 

Silence protects one 

from oneself. 

Silence of the human kind 

allows other living things 

to have a voice again 

- the birds, the air, the insects . . . 

even silence itself.

In the Middle of the Desert

Out of nowhere,
a stallion came charging
that threw itself
on top of my back.

Woman body
no match for the beast,
it was clear
resisting was not the way.

A voice whispered
relax, relax,
relax and breathe
oh, so softly.

Let go of all,
including even
the wish for existence.
This is your only chance.

In a Cup of Tea

Drinking from cup of tea this morning

I found gratitude welling within.

Words of thanks plentiful

came, just like that.

How lucky to have a home

that's mine.

The old folks at the nursing home

aren't so fortunate.

How wonderful that the body

is feeling pretty good.

No major aches and pains.

the time has not yet come.

How sweet the kindness of Him

who prepared the delicious brew

with a twinge of ginger

for even more delight.

How precious the luxury of time

not to be rushed through

No demands on Sunday morning,

only sitting at the kitchen table.

So much packed in every sip,

that too shall pass

making room for new moments,

who knows?

Drinking the Bitter Brew

Sitting still,
no other choice
but to endure the truth
and drink the bitter brew.

Sitting still,
turning over the poison
in the mouth,
a thousand times.

Sitting still,
tasting the dark substance
all of it,
and watching its full effect.

Sitting still,
surrendering to the evidence
of a million thoughts
deposited before mind knew.

Sitting still,
comes the determination
of making peace
with the old witch.

More Good Stuff

Many seeds, planted over the year,
and diligently fertilized with lots of work.
Have brought many fruit, ripe for the picking,
and much pleasure to be had.
Something else being born also,
that's not so pleasant.
The pain of grasping, for more good stuff.
Sitting, walking, driving, lying down,  I can feel
the burning from holding too tight.
Mind is on a roll and cannot easily let go.
Hardly a part of the body left untouched
by the gluttony of the hungry ghost.
Feet and hands offer a bit of rest
Breath too close to fire in the belly,
for comfort. There is only one thing to do,
to convince the mind, and the flesh.
Sensing, seeing the misery up close,
and slowly, relaxing the tight grip.

Living on the Edge

Every moment,
living on the edge
between the misplaced hope
for a pleasing life always,
and the very real possibility of hell,
just like that.

Techtonic shifts,
the earth's does not care
about 'me'.
One day, old age and death
shall come and do their job
When, how, there is
no knowing.

As much as 'I' recoil
at the idea of pain,
there is no protection
to be had.
Each day, plenty of reminders
that fate's got no feelings.

Many brothers and sisters
bleeding, everywhere I turn
I see the anguish in their eyes
and I hear their silent screams
Gone over the edge,
they have, with not a chance
of returning.

I am learning my lesson:
no point in getting carried away
thank you very much
for every sweet moment,
with a grain of salt
'cause that's life.

Nothing To Be Clung To

Sitting, the words come:
'nothing to be clung to'

Not getting into stories,
and from many times before,
the almost certainty of this:
'nothing to be clung to'

Breathing in, breathing out,
relaxing around the edges
of the habitual tightness:
'nothing to be clung to'

Years of tensing, grasping,
cannot be undone that quickly
It is only a matter of time:
'nothing to be clung to'

There is no need
to find out the object even,
for none is worth the desire:
'nothing to be clung to'

Sitting, the words come:
Nothing to be clung to.

Pay Yourself a Visit, and Sit

Tonight, a sadness came over me. 

From having abandoned myself

for most of this very long day.

Entire chunks of time, lived but not really,

spent away lost in one task after the next.

Many good excuses for working away

still did not add up to much, 

as far as the real truth is concerned.

Something that cannot be named

yearned to be attended to, 

and now that I stop, grief in the heart.

Violence was done in the name of great aims.

A monk comes by my side

and looks at me with great gentleness.

Slow down, dear one, and take the time

to dwell outside of your office.

Unplug the computer, put away the iPhone,

and pay yourself a visit and sit long enough

to notice the steady flow of breath, 

and the whole experience of this time, this place.

Do you ever feel that way, too?

Sitting 'Til the End

It's a physical and a mind thing

Sitting, feeling the full effect of Mara's attack

Cold blood coursing through whole body

Throat tightening, and the usual knots in the stomach

The Buddha, too, felt the same way, minutes 

before the light dawned on him

It helps to name the poisons of fear, and aversion

and to trace their source, back to the mind's doings

Thoughts about a perceived enemy, real close by,

and what might happen if, if I do this,

what might he do? and quick the wisdom to not linger

and choose a different place upon which to dwell

Loving kindness, yes, that he may be well, and at peace,

that I too, may be at peace, and at ease . . .

Not expecting too much too quickly, and feeling 

the full effect from the poison, unwillingly taken

Sitting 'til the end, sitting still 'til the bell ring.