Natural heart rock
“There’s just no accounting for happiness,
or the way it turns up like a prodigal
who comes back to the dust at your feet
having squandered a fortune far away.
And how can you not forgive?
You make a feast in honor of what
was lost, and take from its place the finest
garment, which you saved for an occasion
you could not imagine, and you weep night and day
to know that you were not abandoned,
that happiness saved its most extreme form
for you alone.
No, happiness is the uncle you never
knew about, who flies a single-engine plane
onto the grassy landing strip, hitchhikes
into town, and inquires at every door
until he finds you asleep midafternoon
as you so often are during the unmerciful
hours of your despair.
It comes to the monk in his cell. It comes to the woman sweeping the street
with a birch broom, to the child
whose mother has passed our from drink.
It comes to the lover, to the dog chewing
a sock, to the pusher, to the basket maker,
and to the clerk stacking cans of carrots
in the night.
It even comes to the boulder
in the perpetual shade of pine barrens,
to rain falling on the open sea,
to the wineglass, weary of holding wine.”
—–Jane Kenyon
‘
The Swan
Swan, I’d like you to tell me your whole story!
Where you first appeared, and what dark sand you are going
toward,
and where you sleep at night, and what you are looking for…
It’s morning, swan, wake up, clim in the air, follow me!
I know of a country that spiritual flatness does not control, nor
constant depression,
and those alive are not afraid to die.
There wildflowers come up through the leafy floor,
and the fragrance of “I am he” floats on the wind.
There the bee of the heart stays deep inside the flower,
and cares for no other thing.”
—–Kabir, translated by Robert Bly
Eye Blessings
