It is not about the extremes – so Buddha proclaims. Yet, where is that fullness of joy, that fulfilling of the full measure of my creation, that promise of my youth intoned by the lips of the robed ones?
At the extremes of fatigue, at the extremes of intimacy, at the extremes of persistence, I have had, as my companion, joy and pleasure, peace and solemnity. I have been content. I have never lingered there long, and when I did, pleasure, joy, and fulfillment turned to aspic, bile, and pain.
Having rested with mediocrity, having presided with nothing too hot nor too cold, nothing too soft nor too hard, having gazed up resting upon a bed of “just right,” when I rose up with the sun, when I was startled awake with fear or doubt or for nothing at all, all I felt was nothing, all I heard when I cried out was nothing, and all that remained behind to comfort my soul and stroke my unsteady hand was nothing.
So, where is this residence of that which is not an extreme? Wherein lies the companion that abides and is the fullness of joy, the fulfillment of the measure of my creation? Wherein lies the fulcrum between? Where is the composure to direct the staggered steps I measure from nothing and everything, from abandon to control, from the familiar to the unknown?
Loren M. Lambert © June 13, 2012
At the extremes of fatigue, at the extremes of intimacy, at the extremes of persistence, I have had, as my companion, joy and pleasure, peace and solemnity. I have been content. I have never lingered there long, and when I did, pleasure, joy, and fulfillment turned to aspic, bile, and pain.
Having rested with mediocrity, having presided with nothing too hot nor too cold, nothing too soft nor too hard, having gazed up resting upon a bed of “just right,” when I rose up with the sun, when I was startled awake with fear or doubt or for nothing at all, all I felt was nothing, all I heard when I cried out was nothing, and all that remained behind to comfort my soul and stroke my unsteady hand was nothing.
So, where is this residence of that which is not an extreme? Wherein lies the companion that abides and is the fullness of joy, the fulfillment of the measure of my creation? Wherein lies the fulcrum between? Where is the composure to direct the staggered steps I measure from nothing and everything, from abandon to control, from the familiar to the unknown?
Loren M. Lambert © June 13, 2012
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