Our inner body is alive, invisible, indivisible!
It sings, doesn’t it, a song of thanksgiving, of joy?
We cover up its singing with yak-yak-yak.
We write play after play
describing our personalities, our days, the way the sun rises
Our inner body can’t contain itself.
It spills over into blossoms and chickadees.
It spills over into stern-faced preachers and
Red Hat ladies.
It spills over into everything you’ve seen since yesterday
and the day before.
Heck, it spills over to everything you’ve smelled and heard
since the day you first breathed Earth’s air.
When we quiet our mind, sometimes, if we’re lucky,
if we’re not half-way between here and where we think we want to be,
still ourselves completely
and suddenly we’re sitting in our living room,
not doing much of anything,
and suddenly we’re there,
where we began
and where we’ll end,
and maybe some joy if our inner body ignites.
Friend, we’re almost there.
Let go of everything
The yak-yak-yak can’t survive the beauty of
this cresting moment.
Now, now, evermore now.