Sunlight reflects off the surface of a long river, and yet the river never claims to be the sun.
Clouds drift across the face of a calm lake, and yet the lake never claims to be the sky.
Gusts rattle the leaves of autumn trees, and yet the forest never claims to be the wind.
The Tao shines on a spiritual path, and yet the path never claims to be divine.
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Dear Rumi
The real paradox is that we are still alive. The fires of California are still burning. The firebird rises from its own ashes, but we do not. We are not myths. Our ashes are final, bottled in a jar beside some cat pictures on a farm in Blanchester, Ohio. It’s too easy to adapt the mantle of cosmic indifference but the body reminds us of our painful link to life on earth. Out of that fire another forest may grow, but each of those redwoods will be new to the planet. It is an illusion to speak of rebirth. Leave all that to wishful thinking or organized religion.
Now while we’re still alive, let’s take an interest in other people. They may look alike, but they really are not. Each is being, becoming a being, in a state of becoming that changes day by day, second to second. Nothing is as solid as a body out walking through the neighborhood, nor as generous as a greeting like “Hello.” That’s why giving someone a hug, a real comfy hug, spreads shock and awe better than bombs. Nobody should forbid the warmth of touch. That’s what fingers are for, whether waving goodbye or hello. There is always a halo inside each “Hello!”
See what your generalizations lead to? You are dead, Rumi, but your thoughts are not. Because you are dead, you cannot appreciate this physical tenderness, or feel the cold drizzle or the humid warmth. You have left the body. Only your words, sloughed off like discarded skin, remain behind. And aren’t generalizations great fun? They can mean anything, even their opposite. But there is less immortality in words than in everyday touching. We have what you do not, and as long as we have this, whether for joy or for pain, however transitory all this really is, we intend to enjoy it and celebrate, like Chinese firecrackers at a wedding.
Yours,
Dr. Mike
[Disposable Prose Poem September 14, 2009]
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