Desire for Desire

Morning moonlight meditations. Tree-crowns sway in silence, fanning cloud puffs into the moon. Dawn breaks on my left shoulder while the moon skims my right. Crickets – a lone barred owl – and the first birdsong. Acorns crack the neighbor's metal roof like a gunshot and it is never not startling. Even so, a sense of samadhi erases all things “this” or “that.”

A red bird on an old pine examines the link between attendance and attention. He is a priestly presence while I am the priestess of nothing, rightly happy with this poverty. We can go beyond paradox, for paradox exists only in the words and ideas which describe the truth. There is no parcel of information saving the day when we realize we cannot cut what is real into pieces.

I am not troubled or dismembered.

*

The last of summer's flowers grow heavy. Bees have entered crazy-mode, foraging for winter. They've taken up residence next to the dryer vent, spilling out in irritation whenever clothes are drying in the machine.

As life goes on, I have fewer questions and even fewer answers. There is freedom and peace in that.

I've relaxed the driving desire for comfort – and the driving desire for desire. I only want to embrace reality without illusion or fantasy. Even that wanting will eventually go.

Ready?