I’ve begun to depict my lover as an embodiment of one of Kannons thousand arms. My lover, a unknowing Bodhisattva swirling in her womanhood, becomes a saint to newborn future mothers and their children. Meditating on breast milk and menstrual cycles, carries her on a white oxen, delivers her on a white oxen, redeems her on a white oxen. Bent down, dips her toe into the sea of warm milk and produces honey and the sweetest of sour nectar for the oppressed milieu. If they gulped it down, innumerable satisfied cravings. The rains of paradise feel like nothing similar, but how would she know? Unbeknownst to her, tales of her trottings in between the millions of different purelands, welcomed and invited everywhere. Giving stones instead of jewels to young maidens that she meets, how many don’t know how to skip them and then sink themselves? Standing on the shoreline, ignoring love for some faithless image one can possess, the tide rises and falls and In the waves I hear a story of an old assassin who was in need of a fitting sheath for his sword. How one goes about separating art from life, becomes a farmer chopping wood outside a homely cottage. All separated, life becomes art, with compassion as youthful as a child laughing when the hoe breaks apart on buried rocks. Dusting off the stone, an offering to the cottages collection, and at that moment he forgot the sword existed, admiring the remarkable fines of the sheath, and the craftsman ship that went into it, the art. I watch the iris blooming to perfection in the rain, and adorn my love the name of Bodhisattva of Sweet Hemp as for her many uses. Binding all sentient beings into universal knots the size of bracelets, links them all into enlightenment and I watch samsara evaporate like smoke exhaled from my mouth on nights such as this. She who taught me how to love both the smallest of creatures and roadkill, would cry for kalpas if she could for the animals all lined up in front of the butchers block, lost of their names, and just a timid series of numbers in their ear. Her prayers sounding more like some kind of computer encryption sequence to the ignorant, go unlistened to by everyone who chose not to skip the rock. The dinner table already set with white table placements and stabbing forks and knives. Her message rings through the cutlery binge, extending farther then the pleasure of a meal to the four corners and the ten directions, then past them. As we horribly watch together as uncompromising taste leads to lives as hungry ghosts, I can be assured that my practice with her still leaves much to be fulfilled.
Namu Amida Butsu