Really, That Simple?

Is it really

As simple

As remembering love,

Acknowledging

The love in being

And that being is love?

Is it as simple

As turning one’s head,

Looking inward

To the source

And seeing

That source is love?

Is it that simple

To notice the beautiful

Hidden before your eyes,

Hidden in plain sight,

Love at your centre

Brimming where it has always dwelt,

Love waiting with open arms

For you to see

And be one

With your heart,

Finally coming home

To the home you already are?

The Paradox Of Separate Worlds

In the this singular world,

This individual,

Personal reality

In which I am centre

And no other exists

But as myriad watching faces,

(Equally individual

And no less personal,

Yet experienced by me

As face, not world),

I see my thoughts

Only my thoughts,

And you see yours,

Only yours.

And we will never know each other,

For you,

As I

Are master artist,

Applying a veneer

To all

Upon which our thoughts alight.

And we’ll never really meet

Or experience

The truth

Of our separate realities,

For all I see is me

And all you see is yours,

Except in the richness

And depth of our being

Where we are undivided,

Sharing wholly

The abundance of love.

Love Fills

I am lifted upon a cloud

As light as love

As playful and transient

As love,

Making no mark upon the world

But indelible significance.

For what else lifts us

In the body?

What else

Conveys the clouds,

Makes the moon the delicious moon

And the sun magnificent?

Even when we are down,

Crowded by thoughts,

Living beaten

By the throng of our thinking,

Still we are lifted

And still we are born

In the world and of the world,

Love in everything

Despite our tenacious denial.

How long can we hold

To absence, and the idea

Of heartless universe?

A lifetime, perhaps?

Or perhaps,

There is instantaneous recognition

That loves fills

And always has.

In The Feeling

In the feeling

All that was future

And past

Is gathered

To the beautiful, unfolding now.

You,

Withdrawn from scattered self

With eyes only for the world

And the things in it,

Are returned inward

To yourself,

Finding that you are whole

As you have always been,

And full of love

For every wrong turn

That lead you to the truth.

Never were you parted

Never were you alone

Never were you distant

From wisdom’s place

And the heart song

Singing

Life’s simple authenticity.

You are the outpouring of self,

Fresh and new and crisp

To the world

And joyous

In the living of it.

Potential

Turn

From the tired old trudge

Into limitation,

Where the mind conjures

Ever decreasing lack

And multiplies of hardship.

Turn towards

The vortex of love

Spinning perfect

In the centre you forget

While straying in the dream

Of you as lonely entity,

You as lonely, separate fact.

This infinite you is limitless

And born anew,

Fresh and ever fruitful.

It calls the thoughts,

Enrobes them rich,

Colours them

In love’s ubiquitous energy,

And spins them

In upward spirals

Bringing more and more

And glorious more

In never ending

Expansion of being,

A potential

That cannot be reached

But can be

Reached into

And rode:

You,

Forever uplifted.

Being Beautiful Earth

I walk barefoot

Upon your back

Breathing the fresh, clean air

Cleansed by the trees,

Their breath in mine

As mine is in theirs.

And my eyes gaze upon all your wonder,

My eyes which are yours,

My seeing which is your sight.

To think I once walked separate,

High in thought

And fear

And confusion,

Yet still my bare feet

Touched the ground,

And what the soil bore

I ate, digested, made into myself,

Unyieldingly gripping

The fiction of separation,

Believing illusion

Despite the proof of my body.

The wind is in me

And I am the wind.

I am the earth

Momentarily raised into flesh,

Borrowed from eternity.

I am the being and the seeing.

How could I have maintained

The belief that in all the universe,

Only we, as humans,

Dwell outside all that is?

The Path

In the ever present now

We find ourselves

Expanding

In knowing –

That we are infinite being

At the crisp edge

Of happening:

Becoming ourselves

In the unfolding of the universe.

And sometimes we forget,

Dawdle lazy

On the road

Of our making:

Obstacles scattered

By our own hand

That make the journey

Seem tiresome and long

And effortful.

And sometimes we remember

The ever present now,

And step inside ourselves

And the universe,

And the being

That we always were,

And see

We too are always infinite,

And the road

And its obstacles

Are but illusions

On an illusionary path.