Meditatio

kaposvarim

you are the eye
around which your storms
gyrate
and revolve

the eye
that is silently watching
from the
very beginning

the eye that
sees you
through it all

i Meditates


there is clean air and green

undergrowth

the sound of birds here and

there

a fly buzzing by—a

couple of cars in the distance

a tractor roaring

the sun dancing in blobby patches

on my upper bod


light breeze whispering

through leaves in the

trees

the shadow of leaves

on my yellow T

minuscule green bugs

on my arm



bugs a-whirl under

the leafage

dog’s barking

insects in the grass

pigeon cooing

a plane droning over

head in the sky


the texture feels embalming

and silky

like silk shirt

rippling on the fine dough of

my bod

in the buzzing summer oven

alright



I am the son of the sun


when you sit down to meditate: ask yourself what you are

expecting from doing it. where do you expect to arrive at.

what psychological state are you in fact chasing. what are

you actually after?

for me: it’s basically a sense of feeling OK. a sense of being

right there where I belong. a sense of being grounded in the

given moment and place. among the people who matter to

me and the people to whom I matter. where I feel satisfied

with where and what and how I am. where everything’s in

its place. and I feel integral to a growing whole.

or a sense of having a clear conscience. a sense of being

responsible for myself and for my life. that I am not a

burden on anyone. that my presence is not an imposition.

on the contrary: that my presence adds something of value

to the people and the world around me. that indeed I am

conducive to the well-being of the world around me. that

my contribution matters. that my talents are relevant. yes.

I expect to be relieved of the pressure of feeling guilty for

who I am. I expect to be guilt- and shame-free. I expect to

feel that my existence is of use and of value and that I am a

PLUS rather than a MINUS (i.e. a useless hunk of mushy

flesh—a waste of precious resources). that’s basically what I

expect to feel. . . and then I allow myself the feeling.



nowadays the attitude of relishing quietude is a rather

neglected aptitude.



each moment you can choose between opening up—or

contracting around a trickle of yet another distraction.


the more you choose the latter: the less you will feel alive

and well.



the only real progress we ever make is in moments of total

stillness—paradoxically.


heavy flaps of pigeon wings wrinkle up the smooth fabric of

quietude


the whimper of a lawn mower

a mile away

a car’s door slamming shut the

engine revving up

a neighbor sweeping their backyard

a couple houses down the street

a black ant reconnoitering

on my left knee


green apple snug on the wet sand

in front of me

cockchafer riding the air like a

chopper

the train at the edge of the town

passing by

in the direction of our capital



when a sliver of a childhood feeling pierces me

the richness of it overwhelms me

to such an extent that it feels too much to take

without breaking down into sobbing

how simple it was—and how free of the mind

of the demands of the ego

it was so pure and so simple. . . so natural. . .


as the clouds morph into sky

the apple rots on the ground

there is a coming and a going

and a restless madness in be

tween



and what a cruel joke is this—

we learn how to properly live

only in retrospect

we realize what matters only

after it’s gone

we find true joy in the finality

of our sadness


being honest with yourself is difficult precisely to the extent

that you refrain from being bored—or sitting in silence

contemplating things by putting questions to yourself and

inquiring—on a regular or at least semi-regular basis.


the less you work your honesty-muscle the more atrophied

it gets.



the sun’s sons we are


there’s a church bell tolling and a

pig groaning

in a sty nearby (must be big from

the sound of it)

and the sound of the pen: on the

paper I am holding

a mosquito fixing to start drilling

near my ankle on my left leg



there is constant

stirring—

stillness indeed

is a

shifty business. . .

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