A family recipe, a childhood memory, a Depression-era handout
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Suppose everything we know
Our bodies are not our bodies. Rivers not
rivers. And air not really air —
But something else.
Imagine the world as a shadow
of another life.
Where there are no sweet smells of food cooking.
And no food. Where there are lovers
kissing. And no lips. And no lovers.
Where there is no such thing as darkness
or light. Only eyes. . . .
The dream we imagine to be our lives,
is just that: a dream.
Each of us is a drop of water. A part
of an endless sea.
When we are swimming in that ocean, we become that sea.
Only when we walk out of that sea
are we alone,
and are bound to the limits of this life.
The sound of waves reaches the ears of the unborn Child, asleep.
Yet, there is no sound. The ringing the shepherd hears
in the high meadow, from the bells
around the necks of each of his sheep, is a wonderful music!
Yet, there are no bells —
We are all working our way back to The Sea.
Where everything lives. Nothing exists.
And we’re free!
If I could wake completely,
I would say without speaking
why I’m ashamed of using words.
Darkness rolls into the mind like
Another army aiming to rule the Earth. And
Millions of years separate the first mother’s womb
And the sound of children being born now in glass.
Do any of us remember the sound where silence began
amidst the noise of these buildings crying out in pain.
A thousand songs or Christ arriving for the hundredth time
to our world cannot bring peace.
And those that are alone in the wood are trying to live
Love is the perfect work.
A music which rings all the bells in the temple.
A special wind in the trees —
Listen to the way the drummer hits
lovingly his drum.
The way the dancer moves
over the warm earth.
And watch as children
leave their bodies behind on the old logs
around the fire and sing!
The world is aglow in the shadows of the
children singing. Of the sticks against
wood. Of the heavy silent breathing of the old ones
who sit off to the sides of the circle and pray.
When I am at work in my garden
I take off my shoes. I let
my other hands embrace dirt.
I plant myself in this place.
And knowing what love is, I
awake. In this place in my body.
Full of dream music.
Full of light!
Thomas Rain Crowe