Tuesday, July 13, 2010

The Old Poets of China

Wherever I am, the world comes after me.

It offers me its busyness. It does not believe

that I do not want it. Now I understand

why the old poets of China went so far and high

into the mountains, then crept into the pale mist.

As the morning heat's tentative fingers probe deeper into our house with the sun not even risen yet, I imagine myself wrapped in saffron robes atop a cool mountain. Above the heat, above the fray, and beyond the internet my only goal for the day would to be present to the sun's first and last rays and know they were me. I wonder now how this noble goal is not doable in the heat, in the fray, and held by the internet. To gain this peak experience of interconnection, I suppose I must believe that I do not want busyness, but be-ness. Indeed, I long for it.

What do you long for?

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