An old Buddhist text predicted all of this.
A world on fire.
The stretching and strained fighting over coins in the street.
People suffering from hot embers of grasping in their eyes, their guts.
Birthed from fire, uttered from fire,
The Teacher spoke of greed, delusion, hateful speech.
The Teacher encouraged listeners
to take up the ancient discipline of discernment —
sidestepping those allurements in the world that eat up the soul
and the soul of the world;
that turn human hearts stone-cold-dark,
that set fires of suffering in motion in the first place.
Routing all of this — inner, outer — is the work at hand.
Congratulations!, my teacher said.
You were born in the right time
for testing your previous training.
What have you learned from the road you walked with her?, someone asked me.
That it’s very good to be aware
that a disenchantment can set in
when you see through illusion;
when one turns eyes and ears away
from the distractions of one’s own Time-Spiral.
A sadness may also arise from such waking up.
I will walk and weep with you any time you’d like, but hear this:
In this Dust in the Wind School of Wayward Travelers and Dreaming Caballeros,
we adopt the gentle telepathy of “knights” in the desert.
It’s how we’re guided to place our dedications elsewhere.
It’s how we’re guided back into the infinite embrace.
On the other side of disenchantment is re-enchantment.
The joy of simple, wakeful living.
Bathing in the damp spring air.
Apprenticing to the way the deep night reveals the light.
Leaning toward those places inhabited by mindful creatures at the water’s edge.
Feeling for the first time
the body’s intended purpose
and “intelligent design”.
Friends, travelers, let us gather around a table.
Let us bask in the sweet, smoky perfume of invisible helpers
that stoke kinship and the original bravery of direct revelation.
Let us take solace that there are still at least a few of us;
a few who wake up and make a study of the tiger’s meekness.
(c) 2019 / Frank LaRue Owen / purelandpoetry
sound: El Morro / Calexico