"Even when you think you are "lost",
you are never not on the path."
Let us speak of phases.
We will get to the matter of 'faces'
but first, we must start with phases.
There will be phases
when you lose track of the number of days
you have wandered in the land of dark clouds.
Don't hold it against yourself.
Your heart-mind is a wise dragon uncoiling in space-time;
in 'the phases', once again, you are casting-off your old skin.
The hiss and weight of the passing hours may even numb your senses.
Weather-worn signposts will all seem to say the same thing
but because you can't make out the markings used
the signs will be no good to you.
Stay with the body and your breathing.
The saltwater song in your spine will start singing
and your feet will inform you of the direction you must go.
If you must lie down
for one of your famous "death sleeps" I've heard about,
make sure to keep something
to revive you.
there's almost nothing better than 'ancient' music
boiled and simmered-up
that has flowed through the cells and bones of one of your relatives.
In these phases,
even the gleaming mirror of morning may fail you.
Though you may attempt to gather up the loose threads of lost clarity,
until your spirit has come home
you are a ghost to yourself.
I speak from experience, friend.
I have been a ghost many times.
Once, it was the sound of an explosion that sent my spirit out -- the day The Towers fell.
I wandered along the streets of D.C.
gazing at thousands of people
becoming ghosts to themselves
right alongside me.
Another was a betrayal
from a lover
whom I thought was a friend.
Another, a death,
followed by another, then another, followed by another.
That was a tough year.
All of that to say,
are part of The Way.
Why do you think they call us "wayfarers" after all?
It's like that time
when I was lost to myself
and then I heard you,
as if through a thick fog bank,
and the shimmering love in your voice
reminded me of home.
In the blink of an eye, I remembered who I am.
you moved along a nightingale floor, in indigo.
Branches swayed in the warm Spring breeze.
Blossoms fell like snow.
A sunbeam cut through the husk I took to be a 'self'
and I've been bleeding ink ever since.
What was your Original Face
before your parents were born?
--traditional Zen koan