Friday, January 4, 2013


THE VOID by E. Strider
It looms before me like some amorphous monster
--that unknown non-place, non-thing, non-being
beyond the opaque familiar

So, I hide in my pain.
At least I know what that's all about--
Anything to avoid the might-not-be-anything state
that might not even be a state.

I clutch at my old car and furniture,
burn holes in my rug with the same old brand;
ask to be thrown a line from a waiting ship
before I leave this sinking one...

Prove to me clearly, if you can
that something exists on the other side of the fog.

Yeah, yeah, they said Jesus came back from the void,
but you can't be sure.

Hell, No!  I won't kill myself!
This is it.  This is what I've got.
I don't care if it is exploding,
Don't you dare unplug me!

 I've studied A Course in Miracles since 1977 and am very aware of the ploys and machinations of the ego--the part of the mind that defines itself by separation. But to actually encounter this fear-filled aspect of my being straight on, which I'm doing now, is unnerving and traumatic, to say the least.
And the irony is that, just by engaging it, I am feeding it with what it most likes to eat--attention.
It reminds me of this poem I wrote about the ego many years ago:

By Errol Strider

The ego,
standing up and preening
strutting around the stage...
in the mind,
waiting for laughs and applause,
like a comedian,,
the fool!

parading itself before spirited morticians,
not understanding the need to be humbled,
to be the fool,
with no applause,
just whips and scourging
and thorny wreaths around his head

smugly self-deceived,
basking in enfeebled acclaim
jaundiced reviews wending their way into oblivion--
an ignominious performance
attended only by critics
and jaded pedestrians
who stop long enough to gape and spit...

a defrocked, defunct comic
foolishly curled up
on the empty stage floor
with only the light of a rehearsal bulb
throwing his tears in shadows...

the ego,
a disrumpled has-been
sobbing on the splintered performance place
with echoes of canned laughter
scorching his brain

How's that for an image?
My practice right now is to not resist what shows up, to, in fact, embrace it, trusting that if there is any reality to it, it will persist and if none, it will disappear.
Let's Face It...yes, indeed, that is the practice--to face it and see what kind of face it wants to reveal to me..
Here's another poem in that regard.


a face flows by me
       on the window sill
              against drops of dew

a good morning face,
       feeling its own pulse
              over the concrete

lying back into itself
       beginning to wrinkle
              but unwilling to make

say 'hello', face
       and know

So that  seems to be the ever present opportunity/challenge--to know my self--the true self,  which I understand is an un-ending self.  That means that any definition or boundary I wrap around this guy called, "me," must be fact, unplugged.

 "'Tis a consummation
devoutly to be wished."--Shakespeare's "Hamlet"

Think on't
Andy Rumi 

No comments:

Post a Comment