Being Lazy

We could be lazy, throwing to the wind any aspiration or ambition. We could lie on the beach, close our eyes, and listen to the surf. We could smile at the cactus sprouting new growth and a single blossom. We could watch our disabled squirrel land on the ground so awkwardly. We could watch the sun play hide and go seek with the clouds. We could hold our loved ones, steadily, lazily, without moving, where our breathing becomes one with theirs. We could just sit on a cushion like Buddha and do nothing. We could be lazy and who would notice? Others might be so busy that they wouldn't even see one doing nothing-one simply enjoying the fruits of their simple presence on the Earth. 

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Q: I wonder if the Buddha would say he was doing nothing when he sat on the cushion. 

A: I think busy and lazy are states of mind. Maybe there is something like “simply present” that would be a middle way. You wouldn't be laid back, but you also wouldn't be up tight. Where are we on that continuum? The cactus exemplifies that, waiting so patiently through winter and bursting forth in the spring when no one is looking.

— Kim Mosley

I’m Home

 

Like an old friend,

I welcomed myself home today…

as I drove at top speed on the toll road,

with music blasting,

windows down.

Suddenly,

out of nowhere,

I heard myself chortle with glee.

I barely recognized the sound.

Too long you’ve been in exile, child.

Too long you’ve been at the mercy

of your bottomless need.

Too long you chased acceptance

  from misers and thieves.

I've stayed in my lane;

Handed over my power;

Sat in rooms behind curtains,

hidden away from their delicate egos,

leaving their entitlement unchallenged.

They said:

Not your place.

Not your time.

Not your people.

They asked me to shut up.

And as usual,

I obliged.

(Accommodation is my middle name, after all.)

So, for a while,

I wandered alone in the wilderness of my frustration.

Who,

What can I become

That will make them understand

I am here to be loved?

Finally,

at 90 miles per hour,

on a hot and sunny Friday afternoon,

I woke from that awful dream.

I checked the review mirror just to make sure.

Later that evening, I showed up at my own doorstep,

with a crooked grin

and a terrible attitude.

“Where ya been?” I asked.

“I’ve been around. Just waiting,” I replied.

“Waiting for what?”

“For you. To love me.”

— Amanda Quraishi

My Shadow Meets Buddha

— Kim Mosley

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Glimpse

There is a man


Whose shadow asks a question.
 


There is a shadow


Whose song is the echo of a bloom.
 


Water pools in a stone bowl,


Unperturbed, without aspiration.
 


A black, three-legged palm of white powder


Has a story to tell.
 


Before it,


Sits a luminous being, his robes
 


Rivulets of light, flowing


In consoling arcs
 


Across his form, and


Down, into river,
 


Cloud,
 


Ocean…
 


Singing what is
 


And will always, never
 


Be again.

— Geneve Gil

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Shadows…  

Shadows just impose their view.

They don’t explain themselves.

I am left to figure out who what

where why each crosses my field

of vision.

These transient tracings may be read

literally, often. Object receiving light 

projects shadow. That’s quite straight

forward. But like walking into an ongoing 

conversation, the source and meaning

may appear oblique, when the light

shifts, the shadow must too.

Or it shifts when someone steps into 

the light, and cast a shadow of their

former self, without needing to be seen, 

except for their shape shifting shadow. 

What I know about shadows is there is nothing

there to know. Anyone who is curious can

flip on a light, and out the shadow goes. 

Goes where? It retreats into figures &

fabrics waiting for its next opportunity to 

impose. 

—Martha Ward

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Buddha’s Shrine

I see you sitting there,

peaceful, serene, knowing,

not knowing.

The flowers, symbols of your faith sitting around your feet.

The candle at your side is silent,

it sheds no light, yet it shines

from the memory of you.

It speaks on your behalf

and stands as a beacon for others to see

the path you are no longer able to walk.

There is a presence around you.

A shadow standing over you,

dark and insubstantial,

but not inconsequential.

It too is silent.

I think I prefer the candle

with its potential to shed light

upon the world

than the shadow who stands in darkness,

devoid of its own potential, its own light.

Perhaps when the candle is lit,

it will dispel all doubt

casting the shadow aside to melt away into the lite,

to become the light

as I’m sure it was meant to be.

Perhaps, when the candle is lit

and illuminates the shadow,

I’ll discover that the face in the darkness

was only mine.

— Paul Causey