They fade away.
Who in this world of Spring may continue forever? No-one!
Each flower that blooms, passes.
Each blossom of leaf, falls.
Seeds continue to sprout and grow.
We strike this world hard. Hard enough that our screams at entry echo through our lives. BAM! But only one strike. Just one. Then we drag foward in this life. The length is unknown but we hear the echo of our first sound behind us. Ahead of us. Next to us. Desperate to find that voice, we practice.
When the Buddha was born, he walked seven steps and pointed to the heaven with one hand and to the Earth with the other. He said, “Above heaven and below heaven, I alone am the world-honored one.”
In this vast emptiness, there is no sacred, no mundane. No “world-honored one.” Just the echoes of the screams of infant, scared shitless, blinded by the first light of the world. Our voice doesn’t change. That first scream says “There is only me.There is nothing in this existance but me!” Over time we build walls, personas and constructs but that scream still echoes. The truth of that first scream remains…
“There is only me.There is nothing in this existance but me!” A child cries in the morning, an old man yawns in the evening. In between the muffled sounds of clarity.
Far from selfish. There is nothing in this existance but me. Screaming in the light. Scared. Practice brings to realization that we are not alone in that scream. Our voice, seperated, are impermanent. Together, they continue to ring, impossible to grasp.
A nursery of Buddhas.
Each one, a world-honored one.
Each voice, the voice of Buddha.
Each voice, my voice.