The bond

The bond of ambient presence

is like a blog of the inner mind.

I wake up to it as whispers,

almost dream like

yet involuntary and incessant

as breathless commentary.

For myself,

I had never thought

to think of it as me!

No not my life-projection me.

But upon further reflection,

maybe a deep down,

counter-balancing core of me.

A 'me' that took to language

to give me an ongoing shot

at understanding.

A 'me' that receives my burden

and the riddle of body

as my metaphor

of action and means.

A 'me' that senses

without the restraint

of my identity against consensus.

A 'me' that feels

the presence of my spirit

but does not gossip,

rumor, or signify.

I am this internal journey

of angst against alignment,

saying my own

carnival bumper-car ride.

For I come to myself

ill equipped to commune.

I have been preoccupied

with self-representation,

heavily interactive

with the outer world around,

more like a 24/7 addict

in attention and response.

And now . . . here with this presence

I am . . . as a tourist

in a faintly familiar foreign land.

It is a de ja vu

without recall certainty

where different acoustics

impose and demand.

There is a depth of field

unlike any other.

It is filled

with a somewhat emptiness

or at least recognition

is now not a quick study.

What is known

becomes that way

by sheer unfocused attention

as everything that comes

is by tide or by fog subsiding.

When I try to directly remember,

everything is aloof

but when I let it come to me

in undemanding readiness,

it fully forms and appears

as I settle down

to the subtle beyond startled-ness,

to the gradual embrace

of refining familiarity.

I admit to becoming

now a student of my senses

but this is not enough admission

of intent or kind.

I have little to offer

in dialogue exchange.

It is a wonderment

without highs and lows.

It is not that kind of depiction

as experience.

This ‘it’ requires my surrender.

I am the 'it' without audience

if I would let myself be,

for ‘it’ becomes me

without narrative

or time/plot binds,

as there are no compelling motives,

off screen or out of frame

but there is movement

and a sense

of readied expansiveness.

I am drawn

into a presence within myself.

I do not know of it first hand

for it to represent me.

It comes through as me

of me to me.

I cannot say much directly about this.

It would be . . .

only in disjointed translation.

Have this for yourself

as directions from within

and then imagine for yourself

as if this were the same as you

but not!

For there is an ambient presence

exuding from whatever claims itself

as this within.

It is a bond unlike any other

and I, for myself,

only awake to it to realize

that it is like this every time

as if it is every first time.

I have a memory of reverence

as a natural involuntary response.

When I go within

that is all I know for sure

the bond addresses itself

through parts of me

that I did not previously know.

Now by reentry

a small amount

of recognition stands.

I have a long road

of surrender before me.

I must lay down my life

to open the book as blank,

for it is not written

but to write of itself.

It is a rudder-ship in the flow

of current as my life all around.

I have my life

in this ocean of living

and it more deeply has me.

Such is this bond

as the presence is within

and becomes the more of me . . .