Morning Conversations II

Have you ever seen a Mandalla process?
The monks drop grains of coloured sands
instead of a crayon or marker,
filling in lines of an intricate design.
They literally tap, with small sticks,
metal straws, tapered on one end,
to let the sand out.
There are four or five or more working on it
at one time.
Bent over, tapping, tapping…
It takes days – at least.

When it’s finished, it is a magnificent piece of art
created by so many
using only the sand and the old tools
it’s a design as sharp and vibrant as a picture
perhaps it took weeks and hundreds of hours.

And then they wipe it clean.
Destroy it
All the beautiful colors and precision lines
all the time, and the beauty of the creation
gone.
And there is nothing.

We are here…I am here…
to make meaning of life
not for me, not at all for me
my purpose is to create the meaning
But not in a way that holds any self
or any ego…
This is so foreign for me – I am of the self, I am of the ego
and both fight (because it’s their purpose) to hold onto
the surety of control – the avoidance of purpose
beyond and outside of them.

I can barely see it…
but I see it.
I can barely feel it…
but I know it’s there.
This concept of purpose,
Of making meaning of life.
I want it
Like I want air
but more
more in a way that is indescribable
but only overcoming
of the smallness of myself.

The thing that helps me the most,
is to imagine – imagine this bamboo
wind chime hanging above my head –
It is a gentle morning
grey and cool
The type of colouring that makes
the fall trees extravagant
in their proclamations of death.
This wind chime – it’s a hollow sound
like drops of wooden water might sound
I imagine if no human ever heard that sound
The wind would still breath through
The bamboo would touch
But no human ears…
ever.

And then I can be struck
by the fact that I hear it.
And that it would exist without me hearing it.
As would the same wind
through the extravagant trees
Bursting proclamations of death
painting everything.
All would exist without me.
And none would be perceived
And none would be meaningful
And I can just barely grasp it
but it’s there…The canvas and movie of life
I struggle to grasp it
I am…
I can only hope to allow for more
it’s best to stop here
and not assume I am capable.