Wandering and
wondering.
Empty belly, full heart.
Full days, empty schedule.
The flub-flub of flip-flops.
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chai.
The near-full Moon lay down lunar light all over the arid landscape. It gave everything a milky tone, sharply contrasting with the midnight blue shadows, which ran from the Moon’s gaze. Low shrubs and rolling rocky meadows dominated the plateau here, all bound tight under the Milky Way above—a convex strip seemingly securing the serene night sky. With the scene barely varying in its tone of sparse monotony, he decided to press on until dawn encroached on the horizon.
With the slender fingers of a new day beginning to filigree the morning sky, he acknowledged it was time to pause and set up camp. The hobbled camels made a fuss, as they always do. It was understandable, he empathised with their collective animosity. Several bellowed in contempt, then others signalled their approval of this disapproval with long low lamentations.
As the Moon sunk lower, he began to gather nearby scrub to start a fire. Once the orange flickers had warmed his fingers, he set a brass teapot right into the flames. Covered in dents and scratches—a knowing, a world-weary patina—he had carried it with him for at least a decade now. A small handful of leaves were retrieved from a tin tucked away in a pair of saddlebags slung across an unhappy camel. Boiling water ricocheted inside teapot, the steam announcing that tea was soon to follow. Easily he held the teacup in his hand, holding it up level with the horizon, and directed the spout towards the vessel’s waiting lip. Deliberately he sipped, savouring the smokey essence; a flavour that seemed to transcend time, as if tinged with the experiences of centuries past.
Using the sleeve of his flannel shirt, he wiped the last vestiges of tea from his beard. Kicking away a few of the larger rocks, he laid down a small, intricate yet well-loved rug—the oasis towns in the area were famed for their textiles and carpets—on a flat area of red earth. His tired legs effortlessly lowered him, and then crossed themselves in front of him. As if almost to steady himself—physically, yes; but more importantly, metaphysically—he anchored his palms squarely over his knees. He paused; then emptied his lungs of their last remnants of oxygen. Again he paused, before closing his eyes, and ever so slowly inhaling. As he gently opened his eyes, his vision was filled with the innumerable stars above, though bit-by-bit they were being consumed by dawn’s light. Like a silhouette burned into the eyes from too bright a light, the Milky Way was seared across the sky; though ghostly, two-dimensional. His thinking gradually faded—the cogs of thought, the constant clockwork of analysis, grinding to a halt under the immense presence of the cobalt half-dome overhead. A laminar flow of awareness spiralled upward—inward—into space, into nothingness.
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medusa.
A liquid desert. Oases of life here and there; upwellings of plankton, balls of baitfish, the corpse of a recently-passed whale offering up a feast to other ocean-dwellers. Above and beyond, mellow dunes of waves, blue as far as the eye of the albatross can see. However, there are itinerants, adventurers, those wandering beyond the enclaves and safe harbours of life. Seabirds, sharks, cetaceans, searchers, and scavengers looking for lunch.
Bobbing in an ocean gyre that initially generated strength on the other side of the planet, the gelatinous giant was amorphous under the water, suspended from gravity. Its bell pulsated rhythmically while flecks of blue, ruby, citrine, and indigo were visible amongst the tangle of its trailing tentacles—some many metres long—their ends unseen, beyond the visibility of the open ocean. Embodying surrender, its direction, diet, and desires at the whims of the ocean, accepting things as they come, and go. Apotheosis of ebb and flow. Unburdened by a thinking mind—beyond the grip of of thinking’s manufactured past and future—it experiences all at once; and yet is deathless—a moment-to-moment time traveller, free to roam, unshackled from temporality. Oblivious to an illusion of control, it wanders wherever the ocean sees fit. Sailing both time and space, unimpeded.
For aeons it meanders, having witnessed infinite dawns, each more beautiful, more alluring that the last. Clouds speed over head, while decades pass with equal abandon. Mountains form, impermanent things—all things—return to dust. Change; yet there is no measurement, no desired state, nothing not as it shouldn’t be. Nothing outside of now. Following the currents and winds, as it did yesterday and the day before and the centuries before than.
In the now, everything is as it is.
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incantation.
Yet-to-be thought,
mindfulness in nought.
Sit in the unknown,
before bliss has flown.
The moment we decide,
peace we deride.
Inside concepts and ideas,
we find egos and fears.
A breath, a pause,
delays thinking’s maws.
Vacuous fluctuation,
total deconstruction,
multidimensional incantation.
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tide.
Like a prize Persian rug, resplendent threads of azure and cobalt stretches the breadth of both the horizon and the imagination, twinkling like lapis lazuli and sapphire under the hot Summer sun. Every day, the ocean is here; yet every day, she reveals a different facet, different angle to her beauty, to those curious ones paying attention. Infinite, yet formless and forever changing, the sea serves as an enduring reminder to the constant churn of change. Swells form, only to collapse; tides rise, only to fall.
Shear stoic cliffs of ancient rock stand as sentinels at each end of the beach, shepherding the swells around the headlands. While not in frequent flux as the ocean far below, the old faces still show the scars of an endless battle with the elements. Deep crevices are torturously, methodically, carved into the rock over millennia—death by a thousand cuts of the wind and waves, lingchi by weathering. Stories of old recall old rock formations and old fishing spots and old blowholes, though now lost to the current inhabitants—new ones have emerged, though no doubt only to be a memory again in a generation or three.
Beyond the blue rug and above the worn faces, the night sky moves in timescales beyond the human mind. Machinations and geometries shuffling and jostling over lifetimes, aeons. Fathers to sons, mothers to daughters, can only reflect knowledge of stagnant stars; it is curious grandchildren, enthralled by parchment and papyrus, scrolls and zij, that peer far back enough in time, that glimpse the changes. Yet change they do. Slowly. Surely. Galaxies grow before growing apart, stars shine and are then snuffed out, gravity wears and warps; but only to observant gods.
Tonight, a full moon—an opal hoisted in the deep black—casts a pale glow, bathing all beneath in chalky shades. The frigid ocean water stings a little as the waves wash up the beach, engulfing her feet before retreating again, as it always does. She knew her feet would warm up—or at least become accustomed to the temperature—in a few minutes, as they always do. Thoughts appeared to her, only to wash away like the tide, as they always do.
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thread.
With a seasoned snap of her wrist, more yarn slackened from the ball, and by loop and by hook, the thread was pulled; incorporated into a larger whole. Slowly the bear took shape—a head with cute little ears, then arms, followed by a torso. Yarn was becoming bear.
Don’t pull on the thread.
Over the space of several days, the crocheted bear—golden yellow like the sun—became more and more ursine-like. She was sure the young recipient would be thrilled with it. Over and over again the same motion—wrist snap, thread pull, loop, hook. She didn’t feel the repetition though; she was focused on the outcome.
Don’t pull on the thread.
With one bear sole remaining, the stuffing was added, and then the last loop and hook to seal the paw. One button, two buttons; one eye, two eyes. The bear was complete. She held it up to the light, admiring her creation, being particularly enamored with his cheerful expression. A name immediately popped into her head, though she determined that honour should belong to the new owner.
Don’t pull on the thread.
Pulling on a ball of yarn, and then through repetition and reinforcement of movement, created a crochet bear. The same is true of thoughts. Thoughts are mere loose threads appearing from the vacuum beyond our consciousness; and nothing becomes of them if we don’t pull on them. However, yanking on the yarn of our thinking brain creates concepts, ideas, separation of self from other; and over time, repeated, these take shape, solidifying into perspectives, prejudices, unshakeable beliefs, formed from essentially a loose thread. Instead of using the thread to craft something, we can let it be—allow it to hang loose, remaining ensnared in the ball.
Don’t pull on the thread.
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welcome.
He paused briefly at the door, the sight of a banana sapling to his left bringing a smile to his old wizened face. Originally a gift from a recently deceased loved one, the plant was relishing the rains and thick humidity—with this new growth, his loved one continued to live on, even if in another form. After soaking up a vision of her face in his mind’s eye, he pushed on the heavy wooden door, the loud creaking signalling his arrival to the no-one inside.
The cabin was Spartan, the utmost utilitarian—more of a hut than a home. He himself had felled the trees that formed the shiplap walls, now pale and silvered after decades of exposure to the elements. Save a well-worn rug of faded teals and turquoises, its tassels hoping against hope in the battle against decay, and a black circular meditation cushion sitting squarely in the centre of said rug, the single room was empty. To each of the three large windows we shuffled and pushed them open—though initially they resisted his efforts; the swollen window frames gripped more firmly in the damper months.
Slowly he lowered himself down onto the cushion, assuming the lotus pose—a shape his body knew intimately, one his knees, hips, and spine knew by rote.
A single thought: “Welcome.”
Every thought, every feeling, every visitor was welcome. After all, it was not he who summoned them nor was it his place to banish them. Arising unannounced from the void, from the pristine pre-thought vacuum, he would accept them as they came, for they are nothing more than wind blowing through the trees.
A thunderclap announced itself as a harbinger of a distant storm ruminating in the humidity. Another smile appeared on his face.
*(The above is inspired by an Ajahn Chah quote.)
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freedom.
Staring out of the window, she watched the backyard orchards of tropical fruit—bananas, guavas, lemons—speed by in a blur. She entertained herself by trying to focus on not focusing on the trees whizzing by, as the train climbed higher and higher into the volcanic moonscape of the mountains. While the out-of-focus landscape was a strain on the eyes, the open carriage windows delighted the nose as tropical scents were sucked aboard the rattling train; a sweetness of fragrance that left no doubt as to the lushness of the surroundings. As it zig-zagged rather indirectly up the mountain, the train made it slowly but surely up the igneous incline, click-clacking repetitively. To the outside observer, the train was dedicated to the tracks, destined to go wherever the line dictated. The higher they climbed, the signs of human habitation—and the fruit trees—thinned out, giving way to large, denser vegetation; the kind that thirsts for the higher rainfall found up in the cloud forests. On its journey, the train had few decisions to make; follow the tracks, and occasionally, just occasionally, decide left or right at a junction.
Pulling out from port, the young skipper eyed the horizon—heavy dark clouds weighed ominously over the ocean. The old salty sea dogs gathering around the dock had been whispering behind her back, mumbles about how she would be unable to handle the stress and strain of the incoming storm. She, however, trusted herself and her tīpuna—her ancestors—and her (and their) time upon the ocean from which the wisdom was hard-earned. As she deftly dodged the sandbar, she tacked south—this way she could skirt the storm; plus, she had heard from friends that the whales had begun their migration and she wished to bear witness to such a special cetacean tradition. Her choice turned out to be the right one—the storm continued east and made landfall; she had successfully dodged the worst of the winds; and her radio was abuzz with chatter from other skippers who had spotted the whales over the last couple of hours. For the boat, infinite decisions are made upon the sea—straight or tack; port or starboard, each with infinite degrees of directionality. Any harbour is open to be a safe haven.
The train and boat can act as analogies for the mind states of ‘thought’ and ‘awareness,’ respectively. A thought has no degrees of freedom—it is what it is until another thought arrives (or not); a train trundling along until a junction in the tracks. By contrast, awareness has uncountable degrees of freedom, a superposition of potentials afloat in deep; it is unencumbered by past or future, has no allegiance to perspective or preference. Everything is permissible.
Freedom is found in the infinite possibilities of the (metaphorical) boat, a course as-yet uncharted.
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deathless.
The desert sun was unrelenting. Though he didn’t find it oppressive or unbearable—this was his home after all—each successive footfall felt more leaden that the last, the hunger and thirst sapping what was left of his strength. As if to spite his chapped lips, his mouth salivated as he conjured up his last meal from his memory; succulent meat with some dried fruits, all washed down with some local firewater, followed by a palette cleanse of crisp clear water plucked from the nearby stream.
The meal was a deliberate choice—a favourite, just one last time—and though tears were shed for his upcoming departure, there were also many bouts of laughter, brought on by fond memories and the exaggerations of elaborate storytelling. Before dawn the following morning, he slipped out the door. He had no need for any possessions other than the clothes on his back where he was going. These last couple of years, old age had seemed to weigh heavier on him—his eyesight had worsened, his body more frail, climbing hills he had previously strode up easily now sucked the breath from his lungs. His time was near, and he knew it was time to go.
Despite now three days of non-stop walking, if there was one thing he still had in abundance, it was endurance. The scorching sands warmed his soles. At this time of the year, he would usually travel at night to avoid the worst of the heat, though now he so desired to experience the sun, witness the azure sky, the wisps of clouds languid overhead. Hour after hour he kept a steady pace, pausing only every now and then to admire the pristine desert landscape—its crimson and ochre otherworldly rock formations, coarse beige sand, clusters of straggly and spiky bushes, blue sky so vast it resembled an inverted ocean. With moonrise, he lay down to rest; he was in awe at both the beauty and the boundlessness of the night sky.
Several days later, he crested the ridge. It was much like he remembered, though with maybe a few more straggly and spiky bushes, and as he slowly raised his gaze, he saw it—the infinite ocean. Stretching all the way to where it meets the setting sun. This was the perfect spot; he longed to hear the waves rush up on the beach, washing away his thoughts, drowning him in mindfulness. Just him, and the waves, and the moment. Or perhaps, just the moment.
Navigating a narrow track, he wound his way down from the ridge to the shore. The sun was slung low in the late afternoon, casting long shadows on the arid hills. Folding his legs up he sat quietly on the sand, just out of reach of the waves that crashed in, propelled by energies harnessed far out to sea. He let his mind wander. It invariably turned to what dim memories still remained. He pondered how moments of his life—both the profound and the mundane—might have been different if he went left instead of right, said yes instead of no. He concluded it didn’t matter anyway; these ‘what ifs’ were like sea mist on the hills, no more solid that the memories triggering the thoughts in the first place. And besides, there were many threads of these potential lives of his—all the ‘maybes’—that were cut short much before the age he was now. He was in no position—no one was—to evaluate what is better or worse over the length of a lifetime, the infinite strands of cause and effect much too interwoven for the human mind to unravel.
It was in this moment he realised that time can only exist through change—without change, there is no time. Without thought, there is no cognitive compulsion to measure; without measurement, there is no change to mark time. Mindfulness is timelessness, a deathless death itself. It seemed to him that a sliver of awareness between thoughts could live the lifetimes of the stars above.
His eyes grew heavy, both with physical exhaustion and hunger-induced fatigue. As his eyelids flickered—reminiscent of the flickering stars above—he smiled in a moment of contentment, suspended in the deathless death. And then his eyes closed for the last time.
The sound of waves charging up on the steep beach echoed in the evening air.
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solution.
“Have you tried…ahhh…exhaling about it?”
