A place to consider practice of all sorts, which springs always from our experience in this body, in this moment.
The Shifting Ground
The Exiled
A tattered veil is all that keeps/The exile of the heart.
Why not tear that thin curtain/And rush to freedom?/Yet the jailer and the jailed are kin, of one blood./ This jailer, Judgement by name, /Is he that you know best./He is like a brother now./ Once he asked always to come along,/As brothers do./And you indulged him./Later his shirts hung on your/Side of the closet. You did not object./And now he is always with you/Pouring poisons into your waiting uncertainty./His suspicious face in the mirror/You believe to be your own,/No longer can you tell/Your hand from the forger's!/
But there is time yet.../He is most obvious in the mornings, /And the cock has crowed/But once,/And the sun, bringer of second chances/Crests the ridge as you stand/On the edge of that tin dream/You pray will/Once and for all/save you.
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