As real as love

 you are as real as your lover

and as real as love
what more could you ask for?

hands appear to touch
hearts appear to open
love appears to sing...
like this like this like this
just this just this just this...
take my hand and it is yours
take my heart and it is yours...
take this love as it is yours

here is the love you longed for
she has been with you all along
she is you
there is no other
it is all love
nor you
nor love


it's really hard looking for this when there is no this
nor that
nor anyone to look


everyone knows life is magic, and they see people around them die, and assume they will die also. 
this makes life seem even more precious! ....so they spend their lives trying to gather and hold onto life... the magic... but the magic is life and cannot be grasped by itself

life's impossible beauty is that it seems to be aware of itself
through the imaginary separation of this and that, perception and awareness. 



as you reach for the magic...
colors slide off the rainbow and bleed into sky
sky falls through sky
light slides through light
all is transparent
and utterly unknowable
ungraspable..

this brilliant immediacy has no edges
nor center
this un-owned life
neither real
nor unreal
contains no things to be known
or unknown
it cannot even contain itself

life paints itself and self erases
there is no page nor canvas nor backdrop of space or time
there is no center looking out
nor edge looking in
no one reads the poem
or sings it

there are no pieces to put together nor wholeness to take apart
there is no understanding or grasping of this aliveness
as it is not an it
yet
this obvious aliveness seems to arise utterly spontaneously
magically
all by itself
there is no thought or thinker
no feelings nor one who feels
there is no experience nor experiencer
and there is no love nor lover nor beloved

yet love seems to be all there is
and is not...

the beauty the beauty the beauty...
wondrous beyond measure...
magical magnificent...
all pervasive all encompassing love


so many ask me who are the enlightened ones
and I always say there are no one who are enlightened.

this is an empty prize for no one

there is no test for enlightenment, and it seems there is no doubt and no place for it to arise.... no correct words will prove it, but after the shift there is no desire to prove. 
what is love? list those who love the most.


what is this urge to sing?
or does this longing sing me?

what is this dream of flying
this dream of sleeping
this dream of dreaming...


it seems you bend down to smell a flower, yet there is no you and there is no rose, it seems there is a liquid water color dreamscape and the inseparable recognition of it...
you and the rose arise in the thought stream
and your rose is your rose, not mine. 
what does red look like to you? you cannot explain this, can you?
what exactly is a rose?

you could tell me about its color and scent and how soft the petals, how sharp the thorns, how butterflies and bees hover....
you can describe the air and the soil and the nutrients.... you can describe the seasons and the long low winter sun....
you can sing of the high summer heat and the petals drying.... and falling... and gathering under the bushes waiting for the autumn winds....
you can sing of how the hauntingly beautiful moon sings of October skies....

and all this flowing description seems to paint a dream scape with roses and sun and and a you in the middle, painting it....
but it paints itself
self arising and self erasing....
no things can be caught
your hand is as real as the rose
neither real nor unreal

life seems to flowing
but you cannot go back and find before
and there is no where to which life flows
there is no solidity, is there?

you recognize that life is magical
and it appears to be rushing
pouring into its own demise
and you long to capture the magic,
hold it, merge with the magic, become it..
and you are this longing
and you are beautiful

you will hear me say over and over again that there is no you separate from life
it only seems that way because of the illusion of solidity...
and how can you escape that illusion, you may ask?
there is no escape
as you are the illusion

you say you want what I have
but I do not have this sublime emptiness
no one does
all I can do is sing of what it is like for me
we can never know what it is like for another as our world is our thought stream unique and wonderful... we and our universe are made of shared learned words.... all and everything arises in the languaging
look at how many symphonies can be created with only twelve notes.... 

go ahead, tell me, without words, what you truly are....



no one knows diddlysquat.
there is no one separate from what is going on to know or not know anything or nothing
however in the dream of things there is apparent knowing of them and how they work. can you see that all of this is description? 

no one knows what a flower truly is as there are no actual flowers, and no actual knowers.
so there is description of the biology and chemistry of the plant and soil and nutrients and sun etc. but all the words and apparent understanding are just a web of words where all words are defined by other words. 
note even meaning is a word, as well as enlightenment. you are this flowing thought stream as you and all apparent things arise in it including the idea that there is a thing called thought.

apparently for some the dream of things becomes less solid and utterly transparent, and there is the loss of the feeling of 'real' including thing like 'real' and 'unreal', truth and fiction, here and there, meaning and non meaning. but it is obvious that this recognition does not happen to the person as the person has also lost her imaginary solidity. 

no one seems to know how this happens but it apparently does, as enlightenment is also the dream of things, a magical story of light and dark and yellow daffodils blooming. 

the neighbor's cat broke a stem of an unopened flower yesterday but I cut it and put it in a glass of water. 

now as I make my morning tea, it blooms in the kitchen.

people will say that nothing is happening, or everything is happening, and what is the difference? that is like saying that everything is up, everything is real, everything is imaginary. everything is (fill in the blanks).... 

it is apparent always that there are no things, does that make a difference in this imaginary dancer's life? well, yes, indeed as the thought stream changes considerably when there is no belief in other better more or next. there is simply no hope or fear or need of that imaginary next. 

the thought stream does not go away but it does seem to change. 
along with the palpable physical and psychological relaxation, there is the absence of the constant self judgement and self correction thoughts, the constant shoulda woulda coulda.  

and it feels like all encompassing love, living beautifully between love and nothing at al, between the fullness and emptiness. somehow I seem to fall in love with everyone I see. I weep a lot at the utter beauty of all and everything. 

this is always obvious, the beauty
the beauty
the beauty


shooting arrows at the sun 
you are burned as they return your desire
asking why the universe
why me
why love
all answers are your own echo
there is no outside or inside to the storm expanding and contracting from no where
from everywhere

to no where
to everywhere
infinitly intimately immeasurable
ungraspable
your hands
your questions
dissolve

your universe collapses
not a single point remains
there never was a singularity
to burst into bloom

this is a collision between the known
and the unknown
and neither win

ebb and drift of thought
moonlight hovers in-between the words
soft hush of distant voices reverberate in your heart
the words cannot be heard, and the melody.... almost
glimpsed
and lost again

as a child you slept
and dreamed of fireflies
memory lights the darkness
spills light into the garden
painting all and everything
there are the daffodiles I planted long long ago
tender delicate yellows pouring into gold
and the doves cry
and this wetness
sliding down my cheeks



no one can know what is going on, no one can step outside of life and grasp it or manipulate it... can you find an edge to all this? there is no sense nor non sense to this all, it is all what ever it seems to be...

if it seems to make sense then it seems to make sense, if it feels confusing then it feels confusing, if it feels right,,, or wrong... then it feels right or wrong.... we can never know what life or love or the color red feels like for another.... and therein lies our great aloneness that can never be crossed....
it is only with these shared learned words that we seem to communicate, but my trees and apples are different from yours as all things are colored in by this liquid memory, including us....

what is red?
what is enlightenment
what is beauty
what is love?
these questions may plague us or not....
perhaps there may be a taste of a delicious unknowing....
or a race to find an answer

or maybe you will wander into the kitchen for a cup of tea

light is streaming in the garden through the cloudy sky and the finches and sparrows are gathering at the feeders...
I can hear the growling of the garbage truck as it approaches
it must be Thursday

thought paints this universe of things
it weaves a web of seeming solidity
but how weighty is thought?
thought echo locates a you somewhere in the middle of this flowing liquid web
and it may feel like there is a you who needs to figure out what this web is
or escape it
or not


this cannot be known intellectually
the razor of thought cannot grasp this, as there is not even nothing to grasp


you have heard that there is no self and that sounds good....
so you are seeking that recgonition
but how would you recognize your own non existence
you are imaginary but you cannot know it


do I miss our cat? hmmmm.... yes I am the missing of him.... but actually I am the missing of you and well, everyone.... including myself.... 

this is a haunting beauty.... a song that resonates everywhere and no where... the words are unintelligible but wondrous for that.... no separate notes can be found nor rhythm can be held, yet the reverberations are my heart song, everyone's heart song, a chorus of love that lights the universe and showers gently through its own shimmering....

it is felt, deeply, and yet there are no depths nor heights to be found, no inside nor outside where feeling is not... is it hurting? is it sadness? is it joy? I know not, but it is wondrous to feel so deeply and no longer care or know what feeling it is, and no longer wonder what feeling is....
no longer wonder what love is

all I have loved are love songs that seemed to dance into this swirling wind ballet, they are as real as I am, a soundless ocean current leaving whirlpools in its wake, merging again into stillness, there is an ununtterable beauty of beauty missed... like the first car on the early morning road with its windows open, and the radio blaring.... tail lights trailing rivers of red in the darkness....


I am an imaginary ego. I never was I cannot disappear, in this shift what dissolves is the belief and feeling of solidity of selves and others and all things, and ideas like truth and love.... there is no belief in other, better, more or next. there is no more searching for ideas like perfection or certain feelings. gone is all hope and fear and need of a never arising next, yet this is the dream, still. it feels like love has super saturated the dream, feels like floating... in love as love.

spinning with the galaxy 
afraid to fly off your world 
you can feel the curve of the universe pushing you down
and other stars
beckoning

out there
is a beyond
beyond beyond
you wish to reach
but you are thrown off course every time you think you have seen the goal
and you begin to wonder if there is an endpoint to all this longing
other than death

you have heard all the teachers and sages say there is no self
but the words are meaningless
it sounds good... maybe you are not this puny little self
with all these messy thoughts and feelings
maybe you are a true self...
but they knock that idea down too....

you say, 'enough!',  I will no longer seek this elusive thing
but you are the seeking
you cannot stop

you are inseparabe from thought and emotion
you could never really have the thoughts and feelings you wanted
could you
or chosen to have wanted other ones
the river flows
life seems to be pouring
into itself
through your delicate eyes it sees itself
through your tongue it tastes itself
through your reaching fingertips
it feels its own aliveness
you are this longing, as am I
and it is beautiful

I am the longing to share this wonder
knowing I never can

knowing and feeling that there are no things
no selves
no others
no love
there is an inescapable wonderment that this watercolor dream show seems to appear

desire the movement of life
and you are desire
longing to touch
knowing you never really can
as there is no you
nor anything to grasp

liquidity of life pours through itself
...and we walk along the beaches of a shoreless ocean
and marvel at the sunset
alone
together


I am an imaginary ego. I never was I cannot disappear, in this shift what dissolves is the belief and feeling of solidity of selves and others and all things, and ideas like truth and love.... there is no belief in other, better, more or next. there is no more searching for ideas like perfection or certain feelings. gone is all hope and fear and need of a never arising next, yet this is the dream, still. it feels like love has super saturated the dream, feels like floating... in love as love.

you and all things are ideas inside yer head
including the idea of heads
and inside


echoes
surfing
infinite echoes
singing through rainbow tongues
colors flow through sound
there is no finding the beginning of waves
no end to this song

flowers bloom in these words
that peel apart into letters 
and lines and sqiggles dancing across the page
images form and dissolve
a lullaby of madness lures you into this dance
whirling tossing turning wildly
a ship without a rudder
and sails
and wind
and sky...
and there is no other
nor center to this wind ballet
no time in which to rest
or be active
no place where you can breathe
as breathing happens
or not
this precious dance
dances you
swirls you through space and time and in between the madness
a light appears
and grows
and consumes the dance
burns itself

ashes of wonderment fall into long lacy patterns on the beach
and you lean to read them
it is your love letter to you...

welcome home
I've missed you
I love you



you are all these learned ideas about enlightenment and you seek more to fill the feeling off incompleteness.
what would you be without all these ideas?

you are the seeking, I am sure you have heard that one...
there is nothing to get, you've heard that one again and again!
but, surely, these ones who claim enlightenment seem to have something you do not.... they have flowery words or stark ones and somehow you believe them, that they have achieved a state that you once tasted...
maybe they have
maybe not...

for you can never know what life feels like to another...
you can never know what the color red looks like to another
you can never know what love feels like to another
you are utterly alone
you can never actually touch another

you can hear people say there is no self, there is no you
there are no separate things nor oneness
over and over again
why do you listen?
maybe it resonates... hauntingly
what does that mean?
that you are imaginary
and all you have loved
are mental fabrications
what would that recogntion change?
what do you want it to change?
do you want to be free from those pesky thoughts and feelings you don't like?

if there were no you there would be no one to be free of them!
what about all the 'good' feelings like joy and happiness and bliss
and love...

what would it mean to not be here?
certainly this is unimaginable...
what if there was no here?
where would you be
where would you go
what would you do
if you were not

what if you already are not
how in the hell are you going to get this?
how are you going to reach the other side
when there are no sides

memory opens the tight green bud
the red of velvet petals
and a hand reaching out
bleed into the dream

space has no dimension without you
time has no substance other than thought
red is a color floating in time
falling through space
from this page
to your mind stream

roses no one can see
but you
they are uniquely yours
as you are ultimately alone
walking this dusty road
searching for footprints
that blew away
long long ago

you might find you have been following yourself
chasing your own tale
a story of roses and blood
and rainbows dissolving
and love twirling her gypsy skirts of mirrors
exploding all ideas of here and there
and some one to find
that pot of gold

that magic
you long for
is the longing

gone are the rainbows of yesteryear
did they ever slide through your mindstream
are they pouring color into this flowing movie where we seem to meet....
what knows the colors of love
or does love recognize herself
whose eyes
whose tears
whose love


no one is lost or found in garden glow
spiderwebs shimmering
watching my hands pick up the yarn
and the crochet begins again
hard steel hook
starkly bright against the lush soft colors
and my fingers
delicate and strong
and a sweater for my husband appears

it may feel that you are suspended as nothingness
neither bad nor good
but the fullness also seems to appear
in spirts or all at once
so that there is both
simultaneously
inseparably
living and loving between this rich and lush and utterly wondrous worded world
and not even nothing at all




bathing in and as an infinite ocean of description
your heart is written with love letters 
your skin your eyes your lips are kissed with words
flowers and stars and these very songs bloom in this universe of echoes
that seem to float within echoes
of echoes
super saturated with a sourceless light
that has no darkness
or light
and is both full
and empty
and yet neither full
nor empty

currents of words slide through other words
whirlpools seem to hover
and merge back into the flowing
stories of light separate from light
are told
but no stories are outside of the story
as outside is a most marvelous story
that there are stories
is a story

there appears to be a dance of words and ideas
twirling in this word ballet
but there is no dancer
no one spins the dream
there is no water or wetness separate from ocean
there is no water
nor wetness
nor ocean

there is nothing that can be said about the dream
that is not the dream
as there is no dream
nor teller of this tale

yet I am here, as real as you
as real as tomorrow
and love
real, another idea that seems to provide an illusion of solidity
when there is no solidity
nor liquidity

we are this watercolor dream land ballet
shimmering in the mind stream
which cannot be grasped or understood
as no things can be found outside of these words

I know how frustrating it can be to try to find out what this is
when there is no this to find