Tag: being

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Before the Sun Ever Rose, Britannia Beach, Howe Sound, Sea to Sky Highway, British Columbia, Canada

Out of the Nothingness

Before the sun ever rose
In the time before time
Or consciousness
Or biology

In the infinity of moments passing
Before a moment could be noticed
What choice was there but to be
Though such was not a choice

In the next infinity of moments passing
Before a moment could be valued
What choice was there to be good
What choice was there to be evil

So I wonder if
Somehow
The more we choose to value
The less we choose to be
The more good and evil we create

Out of the nothingness of being
Which preceded time

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Shootin' the Shit, Bar Mendizábal, Gothic Quarter, Barcelona, Catalonia, Spain

Presence ~ Pic and a Word Challenge #234

We didn’t come here
For the beer
Or the snacks
Or to share a cigarette
Once we’d finished those

It wasn’t for the words we’d speak
Or to look into each other’s eyes
(You never took off your sunglasses)
To see or be seen
Or for a breath of fresh city air
In the chill afternoon

Yes, we spoke, shot the shit, as you say
You think, I’m sure, because voices fill the silence
But I can see the tendrils of sound
As they weave a caress
Coaxing our essence to expand
Occupy the same space

A moment not just of friendship
Or intimacy
Or even love

Something deeper
A moment in which our beings

Touch

Intertwine

A flirtation with the insight
That two can be one

In your presence
Woven into your essence
I sense the greater truth
Of the connection
Which makes us all
The One

Beneath all the other reasons
Our conscious and unconscious tell us
The latent awareness deep within knows
This is why we gather
This is why we linger
Long after all the other reasons have passed

That awareness is The One

To live as this awareness
Is to awaken

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Mosaic, The Alhambra, Granada, Spain

Mosaic

I marvel at the mosaic
Its intricate tile work
Follow the lines around
On their dizzying journey

Then notice the shapes
How each tile had to be cut
Individually
By hand
Just so
Or it would not fit

The precision
It’s astonishing

I draw back a little
And see the larger forms
Shaped by the small tiles
The lines weaving their way
Through the forms
Linking one to another
Delineating them

Then notice the star
In the lower left corner
Or is it a sphere?
How do you create the sense
Of a soft round orb
With nothing but straight lines
And hard edges?

But neither my eye
Nor my mind
Can linger there long

Follow the trail
Walk the maze
A lazy, meandering drive
Through rolling country

Up to the chains
All interlocked
Each link with its own form
Peanuts and hearts
Circles and infinity

Then the letters
Is there any written language
So beautiful as Arabic
In the hands of an artisan
Filigree relief in plaster
Harmonious
With the sweeping strokes

I understand the grace of Rumi
With such elegant script
As a medium
And wonder at what beauty
The translated words
Might speak to me

I step back
Take in the wider view
Such conscious beauty here

But I cannot hold all of it
Not in my mind
Not all at once

The lines and shapes
The forms and individual tiles
The curling words
All of it intertwined
In space and history and culture
A tapestry of ceramic and plaster and time

A small rectangle of wall
Is all so much larger
And beautiful
Than my ability to hold it all
In consciousness

So I open my heart
Let my spirit become my senses
Let experience touch my being

And there it is
All of it
Not contained by me
By my mind
Or my heart
Or my spirit
But I contained in it

It is not the mosaic
Through which the white lines flow
But myself
And so become I
Part of the mosaic
And the mosaic is me

As suddenly as it came
The awareness passes
Though my memory of it
Remains

All such epiphanies
Great or small
Prove to be
Both ephemeral
And eternal

I stand there
Manifest again
Looking upon a mosaic
On a wall
In a fabulous structure
Built centuries ago
Occupied by many empires since
A mosaic of existence itself

And I wonder
If all along
That was the message intended
By artists and artisans
Who designed and created
One small mosaic on a wall
In the Alhambra

Life
Existence itself
Is a mosaic