However you
came to this point,
however you made contact
with your inner geometry,
whatever brought you
to the point of
finally
placing all your stock
into who you are,
into that infinitesimal
droplet of radiance
lurking in your chest
of which you’ve but caught
fleeting glimpses,
not yet even knowing
what they might be,
it doesn’t really matter.
You’re here.
Let’s leave it at that.
However you
came to this point,
all we can really say
is that it was a gift.
This must be true,
because no other type of way exists.
Whatever you saw,
whatever webs
of shame and violence
you spun, whatever
narratives of hatred
and contempt
you wrote,
whatever whiskey
of loathing and
self-doubt
you drank-
these matter not.
They were merely vapors
rising from the dung
you were once convinced was bread.
No one remembers
how they crossed
the night river
from not knowing
to Knowing, or
what boat they rowed,
or Who piloted it.
No one remembers
what door they knocked upon,
what backstage wandering
in which they lost themselves,
what costumes they donned
in an effort to look the part,
or Who found them,
lovingly weaving their disguises
into a story about something True.
We only know that once
we staggered through
the desert, and then
one morning at dawn
we found bread.
On a plate.
With a Love note.
That kind of
Remembering
is the truest
form of amnesia.
Now that you’re here,
by the way,
we can begin…
Like this…
(This poem is an excerpt from a half-time talk
given by Hafiz to
a drove of traveling merchants,
and their camels,
whom he chanced upon playing
ultimate frisbee in the desert.
Though the second half was played
with astonishing vigor,
there is no one to this day
who can recall
it ever happening.)
