Questioning the Illusion of Certainty

 

They say this world is an illusion,

a false reality,

a ruse within God’s plan,

separate from the powerful innocence of the Creator.

Perhaps this is true…except, I think, for the separate part.

Many say that only the expert or ancient text can point the way home.

What do I really know?

Not much outside of presence and love.

An aspect of me says “So what if it is an illusion!”

Is a dream unreal?

How would one Know?

And just what does certainty do for us?

I have mostly questions.

Reading the big books handed down from someone’s god

no longer brings a swoon of the absolute.

I wonder if certainty is the real illusion.

Does God require a book?

Do I?

Do we?

Is Mystery so inadequate for being an underpinning for love?

I am:

Being here even if this is maya.

Praying here even if this if the answers are ineffable.

Loving here with the power of the God who dwells in the present,

even if the sacred is undefinable,

even if the great being is unnameable,

even if the laws cannot be transcribed by our little synapses and our fancy words.

Are we really meant to buy into a book, a system, an ism?

We’ve seen these come and go for 10,000 and more years.

What, who is the presence that remains?

Can anyone, anything really separate us from the unity of all being?

The answer for me is mercurial.

It rises from this flashing of electrons on this screen.

It comforts me with simplicity:

Go out,

be in the wind and the sun,

be in the glorious sorrow of the world,

be within the wonder of the ordinary,

be loving within the best ways you can love,

be kind,

be a listener,

Be.

Love,

Rick

(c) Richard Sievers, July 2018

Humility in the Grandeur

After an encounter with someone I had once considered vastly different than me.

He told me that Adam and Eve saw the exact same stars and sky as we do now.
He told me that God "spread forth the heavens" in one grand gesture of joy.
He told me that the creator dilated time, made space fluidic, that the world is actually young.
He told me that the stars are meant only as objects of God's beauty.
He told me that in heaven we would be given a proper history lesson.
He told me that the basis of science was mostly an illusion.
He told me that what scientists said was too literal and even fundamentalist.
He told me that God is beyond all the facts that we were lead to know.

My impulse was to argue, at least at first. The earth only thousands of years old? Really? The stars made as ornaments? The material world not old, not real? "Science says...." I wanted to say as I lead into a defense. I wanted to be as sure as him.

But his face was lit like the sun with something beyond his certainty. Yes, he presented himself as absolutely knowing the truth. It was not quite smugness, but surety. It was not compassion but a type of bliss. It was not his understanding but a direct transmission. I admit, I was caught up in his reverie, in the idea of God majestically spreading forth the heavens.

It was no longer his fear or my own insecurity. 
It was no longer about my anger at having been instructed with the confidence of an opinion. It was not about disputing facts that neither of us were truly understanding.

My arguments fell away as I thought:
"What if he's right about something I do not understand?"  
"What would happen in our world if we just were present with each other?"

Then I fell into a deeper thought: "It's not even about right or wrong anymore." I was free to hear the glory and grace in his story of the great unfolding. I made a choice to drop my scientific armor and listen. I dropped my certainty and literalism for moments and was more present than before.

I made contact with all beings, not just with his heart or with my heart. Perhaps both of our views were illusions. And just why did it matter if we did breathe in illusion? What did I really get with being right? Why did I armor myself against his knowing the truth? Truly, the Great Mystery is enough for me now.

I do not have certain words about what occurred as I listened to my evangelical-mystical-fundamentalist brother. But instead of building a wall I decided to make a bridge. And then even the bridge between us fell. And wings, like those of the Bible's Holy Spirit, spread forth across my mind. My heart glowed for a moment like the ornaments of God's stars.

This man's story is as beautiful and rich as the miracle of my science. I've only been here six score years.
What is that compared to the miracles held within billions or even thousands of years?
What is that compared with the glory the stars reflect, whether that be plasma or creation?
Who am I in the story that I have woven about truth?
Who am I compared with the Mystery of Great an Abiding Love?


Rick

Shores of Avalon

A simple poem sequence from a dream after falling asleep to a song by Tina Malia, called Shores of Avalon*. And then my response when awakening to a clearing sky after the rain. Finally a whisper of the Still Small Voice.

Today I am awed by the deep ocean of love within the misty song stream air of longing.

What is it, Who is it that you most desire? 

And where is home for you? 

 

Avalon

A moment to be still, beloved.

Just a moment and

you will be changed

into what you always are.

A breath now. 

The sea-song whispers

your true name.

Don't look back.

You are safe here.

You are home.

~~~

Is it raining upon your shores too?

Is the morning air soft and quiet?

Do silken songs stream seaward?

Is your sun lighting up the apple blossoms

from within the tree,

heart alight with such joy,

such joy.

~~~

Just a moment now, and

you will be home.

Love,
Rick

(c) Copyright Words and Image, Richard Sievers, July 2015

* The Song Shores of Avalon, is the creation of Tina Malia and is sung on Sound Cloud at Tina Malia: Shores of Avalon.

Singing Your Version of the Moment

Today I want to tell you
about my life, this life,
our life here and now.
I want to tell you
about the storm last night,
how the friction of rain on the roof
sang in a throaty steady moan.
I want to tell you
about the tinkling of rivulets
coursing in the downspouts.
I want to tell you how the sky
succumbs to the gurgle of gravity.
I want to sing the back beat of cool clear
water coursing in the gutters.

Today I want to tell you
about the tree frog
with his song like a
bamboo ratchet.
He sits beneath the eve
watching what I watch,
dressed in his jacket
of fluorescing meadow green.
May I point out the ocher-brown
wedge around his eyes?
He's like a prince
at a masquerade ball.

But he's not like anything,
not really,
he is
just himself, sufficient.

Have you ever felt the pin
prickles of spitting rain upon your face?
What about the fresh waft of clay
and field grass after a storm?
Or the song of wind chimes
dancing like twirling dervishes,
the fairy tinkle,
the clack of wire against the house,
the rise and fall of so many bells
that even the frog must sing along?
That was this morning.

And if the frog must sing, so must I.
If the sky must share her bounty, then so must I.
If the morning reveals secrets, then I will revel with you in the mystery.

The magic of writing is that it can transport one to the image of what another experiences. But it rarely really totally takes you into the place of another. Words are reflections and reverberations of the suchness of things. Still, a writer, or an artist or anyone alive must sing along with the chorus of life, even if just to get the hint, the flavor of beauty or truth.

If you don't sing your song you lose somethings precious: like being present with what is and sharing that with your own particular voice. Perhaps you could lose even your hope and trust in this one precious life.

All the words we say and colors we paint are attempts to recreate what is. Imperfect attempts perhaps, but worth the effort. Worth the sharing. Whatever your day is like, take this moment and be present. Take a snapshot of the moment into your body. Transmute it. Share it. We all need more reality of beauty in this world.

Will you join me in the mystery of what is, now, here?

I live my life in widening circles
that reach out across the world.
I may not complete this last one
but I give myself to it.

I circle around God, around the primordial tower.
I've been circling for thousands of years
and I still don't know: am I a falcon,
a storm, or a great song?

Rainer Maria Rilke

Book of Hours, I2

Rick

(c) Copyright January 2015, Words and Images, Rick Sievers

Clarity on the Way to the Wide Open Sea

Forgive me if I'm thrilled with the idea, but just now I thought that every poem I write ought to be called: "Happiness" 
By the late Raymond Carver, Found on a scrap of paper beside his typewriter.*

~~~~~

An excerpt from my journal while at Starbucks. These are moments of a sadness-happiness-wonder-loss all spun together, which was also bliss to me:

Just reading Raymond Carver (R.C.). Then writing whatever rises to my finger tips. An hour of not doing anything in particular, not paying much ado to the goings and comings of the cafe.  At a table in the middle of the swirl and swagger of so many people. I am an island. The people are the tides sliding past the shore.

I keep my head down, an odd bearded man, not really alone. Happy. Lonely for no one and no thing. Allowing the poems to read me. The words become sea songs. Right here, living a whole life as an Avalon for myself. A refugee called God (by some) lives on these shores, in these misty headlands. We sit together, praying to each other, heads bent, while the pearly storms make cloud faces that will disappear in the slanted rain.

I muse inwardly, wondering what my flying pen must signify to any that would care to notice. So much for a conscripted life. So much for normalcy in a reckless age of shattered reflections.

I hear you, island voice. My head tilted slightly. You whisper into my ear, a single word over and over again: "Home, Home...."

And I am, home.

You and me and R.C. Swirls of tide and storm buffet our sacred place. Across the straits, the peopled shore is so close and yet so far away.

~~~~~

This is my reflection to you. Forgive me if I'm being presumptuous or trite. But here is my unsolicited advice. Just be yourself. Don't allow anyone to tell you that one feeling is good and another is bad. Feel all that you can feel. Then discern what to do with it all. To me this is freedom.


What you resist, persists. If you stuff an experience down in your body, a sadness, a joy, a trauma, a revelation, it will get stuck there and fester and create all sorts of sideways havoc in life. Acknowledge what's true for you now, maybe just in a private space like a journal or on a dance floor, with a counselor or in a wood shop. Acknowledge the truth as it appears now, before it slips away and becomes something else.

One of my best teachers said that the meaning of life is just to experience stuff. Experience life events (internal and external) as fully as possible and then move on to the next experience. There's only one you in your one life. So be open to your own special experience and then let it pass through on the way to the wide open sea.

Love,
Rick

(c) Copyright Richard Sievers, November 2013, All Rights Reserved.

* From Appendix 2 in All of Us: Collected Poems by Raymond Carver and Edited by Tess Gallagher

How to Live Simply

A dialogue that came to me while writing in my journal this morning:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Please note: When I address the Beloved, I use the word God. I hope this is not distracting or triggering for some people. For me, this word is meant as the most inclusive, welcoming to EVERY person and beyond any particular religious persuasion.  And my personal agenda is to take the word back from those that have used it in a hateful or closed hearted manner. I address the one that I experience shining as pure love everywhere and in everyone. It is the still and quiet voice within.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 How do I live simply, God?

"Take a year to fill the pages of this book.
Then lift out a single sentence.
Give those words away, with no name attached.
Burn the book.
Begin the book again, as if for the first time."

That's a tall order, God.

"You will do all these things anyway.
(If you do it willingly you are truly free.)*
The meaning you seek is the space
between the words.
That space is sufficient.
That space is everything.
That space is me, within you."

Then, how do we live This day together, God?

"The Compassionate Spirits are here.
They know the winding ways of time
lead always to the place that is no place at all.
So, tend your garden.
Give all (that you seek and have)* away,
even in the exchange of wants and desire.
Love your friends and enemies,
especially those inside of you...
the ones you call yourself. 

Tell me one thing more about this living simply.

"Be free, write, say, sow, reap what wills itself 
out of the bardo called LOVE."



Love,
Rick

*(Parentheses) Are my interpretation.


Copyright Rick Sievers, July 2013, All Rights Reserved 

Eternity of Moments

My Brother and I in August 1972, three months before he passed away. These are happy moments that still live in my body.

Moments
of silence like song.

My brother in Idaho 1972.

Moments.
That's what I have,
moments in a circle
that once looked like
a straight line.   

 From my new book Simple Life

If you had just one moment to begin eternity in, if there was a moment from which you could launch into forever, what would it be?

Pause and sit with this.

Is it hard to choose just one moment from your life?

Or is it  hard to choose any moments?

What does the answer say about your life or your presence in your life?

Let's narrow down And expand the scope of the question.

Choose a person that you currently consider a close friend. What moment in your life with them would you choose to carry with you into eternity? Any? Many? Are there regrets that need to be released or healed?

And expand even more: 

Think of a past person, animal or place you've loved. Is there a moment you had with them that you would want to carry with you, or even live in? 

Now go deeper and refine the question again. 

What about experiences that were mixxy, perturbed and challenging.  Was there an instance of clarity or healing that you would choose to recall in eternity? What about someone who has vexed you. Did that person touch you and bring joy nonetheless?

Looking at the question in another way:

Today... What if this day were The Day you'd live forever? What if you could move through this very day without regard to linear reckoning? What would you choose to believe, to do or inhabit? Which senses, sights and bodily sensations would you want to foster?

If this very moment was the launching point for eternity what would you pray or think or do in your life right now?

This is my glimmering on life:

The Moment of Eternity IS NOW.

I wonder if our heavens and hells and purgatories are not out there somewhere, someday. I wonder if the supposed afterlife is more akin with how we choose to inhabit and really experience this life.

Lately I've felt this existential challenge about what is all this work and experience for? What's the point? Is this all there is? How much do I really inhabit my everyday experiences? And does it matter that I do? I've wonder if hell is really just a way of regret. Perhaps hell is when you realize that you've lived disconnected and separate throughout life. Like there was no real joy and now it's too late. Well it's never too late to re inhabit your life, or re-enliven memories of your particular experiences.

I have a theory that a life purpose is simply to share all my experiences with Creation, Creator and Community when it comes time for this particular body to dissolve. At that time no experience will be either good or bad. But I think that the quality of how we inhabited experiences, the Vital essence of our bodily life, will be like manna to our spirits.

So I ask the questions again. 

If this were the launching point of eternity how would I be present in my body and life, how would I connect with people and love them in a way beyond sentimentality and yearning? How can we really be with each other in this gift of life and living? As William Stafford said: "Someday is now."

 Rick

PS. The series Two Weeks in an American Ashram, will continue later in March.

(c) Copyright Richard Sievers, March 2013, All Rights Reserved.