Pondering Impermanence...

The Eternal Being that inhabits the body is not aging -
but I am surprisingly surprised by the reality of the body's 
increasing decline: loss of memory, lack of stamina
and muscle functioning, etc...

I am on the off ramp and the inevitable dropping of the

body transition is surely coming...

Although grateful that the end of the body's struggles
is closer - (how close "she" doesn't know)
but wonders what that will be like;
to witness the death of her body
and the possibility of a 
"cosmic birthing" into a new "form"
of the Formless; or maybe dissolve back
into cosmic dust, or be absorbed by the
Vastness of the Eternal.
Sentience dissolving into the Eternal...

Who really knows...

All is transient here.
We're just passing through.
I shouldn't be surprised by this,
feeling the body's decline as I do -
but still -
every so often,
it gives me pause...

Mystic Meandering
2024

~

Photo - Mystic Meandering

 

Births - Pablo Neruda

We will never have any memory of dying.

We were so patient
about our being,
noting down
numbers, days,
years and months,
hair, and the mouths we kiss,
and that moment of dying
we let pass without a note -
we leave it to others as memory,
or we leave it simply to water,
to water, to air, to time.
Nor do we even keep
the memory of being born,
although to come into being was tumultuous and new;
and now you don't remember a single detail
and haven't kept even a trace
of your first light.

It's well known that we are born.

It's well known that in the room
or in the wood
or in the shelter in the fisherman's quarter
or in the rustling cane fields
there is quite unusual silence,
a grave and wooden moment as
 a woman prepares to give birth.

It's well known that we were all born.

But of that abrupt translation
from not being to existing, to having hands,
to seeing, to having eyes,
to eating and weeping and overflowing
and loving and loving and suffering and suffering,
of that transition, that quivering
of an electric presence, raising up
one body more, like a living cup,
and of that woman left empty,
the mother who is left there in her blood
and her lacerated fullness,
and its end and its beginning, and disorder
tumbling the pulse, the floor, the covers
till everything comes together and adds
one knot more to the thread of life,
nothing, nothing remains in your memory
of the savage sea which summoned up a wave
and plucked a shrouded apple from the tree.

The only thing you remember is your life.

Pablo Neruda
from Plenos Poderes (Fully Empowered)

Art by Jackie Traverse

With thanks to The Beauty We Love
and photo too...

 

A Time of "Dying"...

 Photo - David Peters

A time of "dying",

dying to the entanglements of this world;
to the demands of this world;
dis-mantling the attachments;
untangling the knots...

A time of "dying".
to self-image;
the loss of the structure of identity;
of expectations of how I hoped life would be,
how I would be -
Yet grateful for the way it is...

A metaphorical "death",
an internal "death";
the death of perceptions,
perspectives, beliefs and preoccupations -
only shadowy characters in the play.

Feeling the loss of my own "death" already,
my self-made identity - loosening its grip;
the decline in faculties of mind and body -
losing their functions...

Something in us knows
when we hear the haunting echo of birds
singing at dawn - "waking" you up -
that something inside is "dying"...

Yet, I welcome this "death",
this "release";
the release of physical tension,
the mind's mentations,
and the ache of the heart.

And possibly an opening
into a Great Transition;
a Rebirth into
the Rhythm of
the Grand Mystery
of the Universe...

Mystic Meandering
April 23, 2021