July Aubade
the room has taken on mingled colors of morning light
a prism or water vapor would make rainbows of
cloudless, sunny, promising more of the same
not imagined or dreamed, not like pale thin artificial light.
A pause seems longer afterwards than from inside.
July has so far been amazing, a whole year’s mornings
rare in soggy Seattle whose weathers
are hard on newcomers. Wakings are interruptions
in ordinary flow like punctuation in run-on sentences
their new light a challenge, a burden, an irritation,
wanting more of us than we would give
yet is already us. We meet ourselves
on the other side of Then; not a turn exactly
as those are expected, more like a miracle
we don’t believe. What we expect seems continuous
but isn’t. Whatever happens is a flow of interruptions
mostly ignored or revised to resemble familiars
might otherwise be received as such
in a radical waking. Later, still in a pause
without borders we settle into a wild joy
already waiting for us
silent, outside time and expectation.
2 Responses to “July Aubade”
“Wakings are interruptions
in ordinary flow like punctuation in run-on sentences
…We meet ourselves
…a flow of interruptions mostly ignored or revised to resemble familiars might otherwise be received as such
in a radical waking. Later, still in a pause
without borders we settle into a wild joy.”
Marvelous. Buddha nature embedded yet always available. The insight “a flow of interruptions mostly ignored or revised to resemble familiars might otherwise be received as such
in a radical waking” is fascinating.
Thanks, Craig. We all start out in a single culture, thinking it is all there is. If we mature, soon we live in many, then wherever there is life.