The following (somewhat rough) poem was written today. It’s one particular reflection on the journey of consciousness. I’m very privileged because many of the people in my life have chosen this journey, for which ultimately there is no map. It’s what Joseph Campbell described as “the hero’s adventure”, and it has been mythologised in myriad ways in many cultures.
At the edge
There’s no rest for those at the edge
no smooth path
no clear terrain
no planned schedule that meets approval
not even harsh words – blank looks
for those at the edge.
At every turning
wheels scrape ruts in the road
At every moment the new must be made
out of nothing
The body is an experiment in mutability
it absorbs all, suffers all.
Ahead the land
falls away to air
and so I take a step
over
kindly gravity catches me in song.
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