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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=477037" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Who Looks For The Sea By Following Its Waves?</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=477037" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Who looks for the sea by following its waves? <br>Or the sky by following the flights of birds? <br>Or their mind with their mind? <br>Who looks for seeing with their eyes? <br>Dogen Zenji: The place is here. The path leads everywhere. <br>And that should be the inexhaustible end of it. Freedom. <br>And all along the river that means <br>whatever I want it to, my unfinished solitude.<br>This discrete spiritual protocol between myself and the stars <br>that don't know how many times they've saved my life <br>by simply being there to gaze upon, as if in some way <br>they were so much more cleansing than water <br>and I could bathe in them to wash off the dust of the world <br>on any clear night, or, sometimes when you cry <br>it's the light that pours out, not your tears.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=477037" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Some memories enter a coma and stay there, <br>giving you the impression that the past is fixed, <br>but I know the past is as creatively ongoing as now<br>and what was isn't the fossilized substance of what is, <br>by the way it can still sting, bite, caress and grow <br>into the available dimension of the future, <br>by how few times I've come here in joy<br>that wasn't mentored by some diffuse sorrow <br>that lingered over the lake like a wraith of the drifting mist <br>that had drowned in it barely an afterlife or two ago. </a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=477037" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Always in the background of my heart I feel <br>this compassionate sadness like the cosmic hiss of creation, <br>and o how the watersheds of understanding long to be fountains<br>and exfoliate into flowing diamonds that simply<br>celebrate the scintillance, without embracing everything <br>in the mournful tenderness of this space it shares with them <br>as if in everything I'm aware of, I were always <br>mourning the passage of flowers. And if not that, <br>the heretical indignation born of what it appears <br>we must suffer to be here, without knowing why, <br>though I struggle most times to suppress that<br>to make sure the door stays open to any strays <br>that might wander in like wayward oversights of creative clarity. </a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=477037" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">There's a sophomoric debate still going on <br>about whether I'm getting older or not, but alone, <br>I can feel the weight of this seasoned bell within me <br>and I ask myself is this the heaviness of the ripening pear <br>as it bends the branch as well as the light toward earth? <br>Is that why time approaches me like the night coming on <br>sweetened with stars, in this second innocence of wonder <br>before I fall again? Is pain the only intermediary <br>between our death and our birth and detachment and separation <br>the only kind of truce or bridge or oxymoron<br>that could reconcile them even remotely? </a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=477037" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">So often when I can't see the radiance of the world <br>I think it's because my eyes are unclean, <br>that it's my error of perception if the arrow misses the mark, <br>not any inherent injustice in the way things are, <br>because who am I to say how it should all be experienced <br>when I could talk forever without ever knowing <br>what a thought, an emotion, or a word truly is, <br>let alone life with all its conditioned chaos <br>and dissonant harmonies? All these travelling companions <br>on the same road I am, trying to figure out <br>whether they're refugees on the run, <br>or pilgrims without a shrine. And I'm modestly <br>exalted by my humility when I think like this<br>until I remember how easy it is to go blind <br>looking into any source of illumination <br>watching two serpents copulating like wavelengths <br>and helical chromosomes. And I turn away <br>to stay true to the face in the mirror that isn't mine. <br>I plunge into a black hole, a rite of passage, <br>and when I come out the other end, even my shadows shine.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Patrick+White">Patrick White</a></strong></div>