The Holding
I remember once, in the damp woods,
finding a flower so beauitful, I pretended
it had been made for my eyes alone.
In attempt to take it home, I pulled it.
But its roots were a stubborn logic;
I had to tug with a slow, holy patience
until the earth finally loosened.
Suddenly, its tuber shot up through
the dark soil, still attached to something else 〰
so I followed its slender frond,
the delicate taproot slipping
through my palm like a living fuse.
It was wound around the bloodwood,
then envoloped the granite stone.
It was embedded inside the mountain's spine,
and then dove down with the Tern.
It bubbled inside the river’s open throat,
and then slid into the unseen body of water
moving beneath my feet.
And there 〰
at the very end of that line,
that root, that
simple, sullied thing 〰
was my own hand,
mud-streaked, shaking slightly.
The whole world seemed to unspool
at my boots, while I stood there, stunned,
still holding the small flower.
You cannot lift a single thing in this world
without lifting the rest of it.
We give it a name 〰
something small enough to manage 〰
and call it separate.
But nothing here stands alone.
Once you stop trying to name it,
what remains
is simply the holding.
I am cautious not to speak of nonduality as a “thing.” It isn’t something we learn. It is what we arrive at when we begin to see how much we’ve learned that’s been burdensome.
