Taking Flight
If we were doomed to live forever,
we would scarcely be aware of the
beauty around us. Impending
departures are medicine for the
present, for showing up as something
more than a cajoled story, somewhere
that is more than place.
When the feet are relaxed upon
the earth, when the glint in the
hawk’s eye is a glint in your own,
when your breath is the intake
and outtake of the forest,
timeless may begin.
Bless its yearning spirit.
But of form, be warry, for there
is much hidden behind, beneath,
and within what you presuppose
to be of rendered merit.
We are not who you think we are.
In abandoning the self to creation,
there is delirium and a strange joy,
always this world asks us to change,
begs us to change—knowledge,
perception, identity—it cannot
go on unless life continually
surrenders itself to the undoing
forces bent on feeding everything
to the wind.
What is the difference between
a word and a mountain,
between a strand of New York
and Himalayan sangha,
between a shorebird
and a man who rides a horse?
Only the extent of innocence.
In seeking your own true nature,
you discover the universe
is scripture, to praise is to
practice devotion, and that
gratitude is what delivers
you to the doorstep of your
being. This is what is.
But, it requires a breaking
away.
Forgive me then, for taking
flight, for discarding what never
was with not a bit of sorrow.
I know something about
the lift of wings
upon invisible currents,
about the inspiration
that may come when there
is realization that what
is gone can never be
seen again.
Mind you, that list grows long.
So, what now am I, but you,
here dreaming your way back
to animal. Please, accept the
pleading that resides within
the texts:
Listen to the fearless essence of humanity,
Witness the dark days as womb space,
Rise above the cacophony of the mundane,
Then,
let go,
so that we might all
fall to Earth
once more.
— Jamie K. Reaser
First line is Peter’s from the Paris Review.
Written for a Peter Matthiessen Center event in honor and memory of Peter’s love of birds.