The two-year-old
Crashes
Against the rocks
Of reality,
The tide of his wants a
Vicious
Relentless
Flow.
Stumbling,
Drunk on expectation,
He rages.
Not knowing yet,
That he is actually raging
At life.
In my snide
Loving-kindness,
I quip,
“Today we repeat our lesson
Of the First Noble Truth
Of Suffering.”
Not allowed
By his overlords
To ride his tricycle
Naked in the snow,
He puddles
Sobbing facedown
Into the bosom
Of the earth.
Pachamama receives him
Resentful tears stain
Her skin.
I again
Let him in
On our most human secret
“It doesn't get much different
Than this, my friend.
It pretty much stays the same
From here on out.
Welcome.”
This may seem,
On the surface perhaps,
Only mildly helpful.
But it is the fiercest truth I know.
As I watch
The tragic miracle
Of the growth of an ego—
“Mine! More!”
The epitomical “No!”—
I think to ways
In which I, We,
Are exactly the same.
The nights I screech
At god—
My own tantrums,
Swaddled and witnessed.
Every human problem,
Every flavor of pain,
Coming down to thinking:
It is, you are, I am—
Mine.
Or the grave spiritual offense
Of assuming:
That this is, you are, I am—
Not enough.
Or if one prefers,
The Cliff Notes
Of adult, childish arrogance—
Meet the circumstances of your life,
Meet the truth,
With a no.
Meanwhile,
The puddle
Collects himself,
The violence of his demands ebbing,
Recessing temporarily.
Just like yours.
