The Dao is my sun
moving through space.
My now-gone teacher,
threw off her human robe
and is over there now,
meditating inside the Big Dipper.
Back on Earth,
I practice her way
within The Way
and slowly make it my way.
I walk, and swim,
and dream, and spin
round and round
the sun-like Dao.
Solar flares and echoes of ghost stars
pass right through this dreaming body.
I catch them in my midnight nets,
wash them in moonshine,
and let them dry for a season in the sun.
After they have dried and cured,
I offer them up to travelers
in their various forms.
I don’t know what to call them,
but passerby after passerby
refer to them as “poems.”
My lineage stream is circuitous.
It flows from ancient times to the present,
down from cloud-cloaked mountains
through moss-covered forests
out onto flatlands, into the city,
behind the courtyard wall.
My teachers were awake human beings
ever-oriented to the subtle teachings
of the unfurling seasons.
They fostered a sacred dialogue
between ego and soul
heart-mind and unconscious
with the natural world.
The consciousness of poetics
was the flowing stream
between them all.
Weaving the silent illumination of meditation
with the insight and inspiration of dreamscapes
and the ongoing sacred conversation with the
natural world through “landscape practice,”
the result was something of a curriculum.
I have come to think upon it as
“the school of soft-attention. “
— Frank LaRue Owen —