#18: Skillful Means

(poem)

Return to the Lake

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I’m reposting this for a few reasons. First, I had forgotten to include an audio version. Also, there have been—ahem—some edits (it never ends). And I’ve added this picture of the Nepalese singing bowl I bought that day.

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Skillful Means 


Near close of business, 
after a day spent walking 
in Asheville, North Carolina,
I’m drawn to a shop window, 
a bright display of prayer flags,
statues of Buddhas and Bodhisattvas,
a Kali mask, cushions and mats.
Yellow, red, lavender. A brass singing bowl
askew on a satinet base reminds me
of three bells at the start, twice at the end, 
and how my feet would go numb from wanting 
nothing so much as not wanting. 

Once I tried too soon 
to stand, began to fall 
and was caught by a quick arm,
the older man whose quiet tears 
throughout the second sitting
had distracted me at first,
but then came to feel like an invitation 
to set aside my numbered breathing,
if only for a morning, and recast 
my practice to his. Grief, regret, joy: 
from my grey station I could only imagine 
what living had brought him 
to that straight-backed chair. 

So imagine I did, running
through scenarios, down paths
for years, until imagining became living
and living brought me here, exactly,
older than he was then, slightly 
winded, pushing open a door, 
tripping a shopkeeper’s bell.

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