He left his dream lying on the floor.
He kicked it once—it moaned.
When it finally expired, instead of being
devastated, he actually felt relieved.
People, in all their ordinariness,
seemed more like his brothers and sisters,
once he wasn’t trying to scrabble up above the crowd.
The wind whipped at his back,
pushing him in its own direction.
Walking without much of an aim anyway,
this was not of great concern
until he found himself at the edge of a cliff,
the bones of previous travelers far below.
Hungry for more, he ends up precariously
perched on the end of a limb, inside himself.
No recourse but to clamber down,
take a deep breath, brush off, and start over.
Simply feeling his need, he stands chastened—
hands empty, arms open, heart ablaze.
Clearly unable to live up to its advertised ability
to be able to figure everything out, sooner or later,
the mind decides to fire itself—to no ill effect
that we can tell.
Early one morning—his consciousness unobstructed,
buoyant, receptive to instruction—a realization
suddenly dawned that he didn’t need anything else
from the world; that his life was (and always had been)
more than sufficient. Concerns about any
possible shortages simply irrelevant.
Like a blind sculptor exploring every contour of a
face with delicate fingertips, he feels each tension,
each emotion, the mass of himself inside—
all creating a three-dimensional portrait,
ever-shifting, deepening over time.
At any point, he realized, he could either pursue happiness
or—by genuine acceptance—see down into each moment.
But he could not do both at the same time.
Pondering the implications, internal shifts began.