There is what it is. Just one.
And those who choose to stay near it, rest near what it is.
And those who wander away can only come to more of what is not.
And, because it is what is not, it is more and more fraught with less than what it is.
What it is is not wonderful – it just is what it is – with all of its mortality, aging, meaninglessness and death.
Things cannot get better than what it is. Beyond what it is lies only dreams, illusions, hopes and fears.
Death is inevitable, and it isn’t so sad,
except that we cared.
Raised children, loved others,
and loved our lives.
I don’t think of my death, it doesn’t matter much
because I won’t be here.
But when I think of the richness of others,
it hurts.
All the years of caring, building, and loving,
swept away by the inevitability of mortality.
But I am just feeling what their loss means to me.
They won’t be here anymore.
Why should we care and persist
in a place of such implacable swinging doors?
But, we have no choice, mortal or not.
We love and feel and care, and we spend the time we have.
How then, to encourage the child who loves
and knows nothing of all of this?
How then, to love the people you love,
even as you feel time moving behind every moment?
Blessed and doomed, trusting and dead,
we are momentary bursts of awareness,
bits of lightning in an implacable darkness.
Is it any wonder that I both love and cry?
gallagher
14Dec23
Christchurch
I awake in the morning from dreams;
with the sound of rain
slowly filling the space
around me.
And my awareness arises,
quietly regarding the mysteries
before
my thoughts begin.
This mind, with all of its small interests,
just wants to understand enough
to survive, procreate and
to spite the ever creeping
entropic darkness.
We are both the lightness of being
and the darkness of conclusions drawn.
And all the while
the animal, within us,
still growls.
And we so automatically form
those beliefs
that prevent us from seeing
the naked truth
that lies all around us, endlessly.
And that naked truth
is utterly indifferent
as to whether we see it
or not.
The rain murmurs outside
and I turn and burrow deeper
into the covers of a bed
in a house where I am loved.
I am, in this one moment then, mind.
And in the next, just simple presence.
And I am all of this …
while the rain
murmurs and sings
and the mysteries enfold me.
gallagher
29Dec2023
Christchurch