Wonder-filled View

So much of my experience here has been about "remembering" — remembering that we are all made of stardust, that we are porous entities, and that everything is in constant motion. Remembering what a miracle it is to touch the Earth, participating in the gentle dance with gravity alongside all other living beings. As I write this, I am looking outside a window, entirely captivated by the way the flies play with their own weight, tenderly swirling with the forces that ground us here.

When I first arrived at the monastery (and even now, eight months in, I still catch myself questioning the simplicity of the daily practice): sit, eat, work, walk. But do I truly know how to walk? How to sit? How to eat? The art of living requires presence and grace. There is so much complexity, depth, and divinity in simplicity, so much richness if we allow ourselves to touch and explore it. I’ve been experimenting with ways to expand my perceptions because our views so clearly dictate how we interact with and navigate the mystery of life. What would it feel like to bask in a clear perception of reality? How would that transform the way I dance through time and space?

I started by challenging how I perceive human beings. Might I see the person in front of me as "Joe," or can I see them as a walking galaxy waiting to be explored? What if I see them, and ourselves, as fields of sensations? While researching the senses, I learned that we have anywhere from 22 to 33 different senses, such as proprioception (our sense of balance) and chronoception (how we sense the passing of time). What about the age of a person? Do I see someone as 70 years old, or might I connect with the fact that our human eyes were created 555 million years ago? Our bodies are wonder museums of natural history. Or what if I see human beings as simply "love in form"? Life becomes fascinating when I begin to question everything with open curiosity. Might I try and identify all the patterns of the universe within the body? The branching of our veins, the way our eyes are shaped like nebulas? Sometimes I feel like I'm five years old, playing in my mind — but I revel in this. Children are deeply connected; they often see more clearly than adults. Not because of knowledge, but perhaps the opposite. Their minds are empty, open, present, and filled with wonder. It's not age that takes this away from us; it's the narrowing of beliefs and comfort in our ways, our "truths." But what if start to break-open this narrowing?

I have a lot of questions. But the real question is: which questions are worth asking? Which ones are going to contribute to well-being? In this realm of exploration, there are three that I feel are beautiful invitations to ponder:

- What does it mean to be alive?

- What way(s) of seeing would invite a joyful exploration of life?

- How may I connect to the poetry of life?

This last one might be my favorite - because, what if, life is poetry?

Deep truths hidden in plain sight. 

I began a practice of writing poetry daily last fall. Never before was it a form of writing I explored, but suddenly it seemed like the most truthful way to express what I was seeing.

The practice took form after I stumbled across a book in the library one day filled with beautiful poems by one of the elder nuns here. I complimented her on its beauty and asked if she’d like to share poetry. She smiled and said, "Kate, that was not poetry; those were my diary entries. I was on a three-month silent retreat, and every morning I took a walk and wrote down exactly what I saw: 'Two birds sitting on a branch.'" There it was — the effortless poetry of life. All that's asked of us is deep listening.

So I started doing just that. Every morning, I took a walk with nothing but a pencil and a little notebook and wrote down exactly what I saw when something caught my eye:

12-3-23

Footsteps, Footsteps, Footsteps

Cracks and crinkles of stones beneath

Watching time frozen

The tips of the clovers frosted

Touching chilly toes and fingers and nose

So fresh, so free

12-7-23

Far off castle windows reflect

The electric pink waking sun

Sleepy vineyards dusted purple

Cool, Gentle wind kisses the tops of Ash trees

Relaxed, Malleable

Oh Sun, what might you enliven today?

Farmers stand at row ends

Tending, to their own rhythm 

Clouds stratified

The backdrop burning rose gold wonder

Standing cool, enlightened

Soon, it was hard not to stop and write, as everything held meaning. The frosted forest I trekked through so gracefully mirrored the experiences that were unfolding within me.

12-21-24

Walking through mist, rain 

Tiny drops which drench every molecule of my being

Leaves fly, gracefully undressing the Oaks 

Their skeletons, histories, entirely exposed

Rainstorms, Drought, Heatwaves, 

All written in their branching, the thickness of their bark

For those who know how to read tree, nothing lies unknown

Can I allow myself to strip to nakedness?

To see my own skeleton?

To submit to death, to winter?

Would I even recognize myself?

Could I tell you the placement of my scars, my branching, my growth?

What might that feel like?

What might that allow for?

Is it fear – that I could not hold the truth of the sight of naked self?

Shame that I have not welcomed her sooner?

What if I just stop.

Allow the leaves to drop. 

Watch. 

Breathe.

And welcome the nakedness

The honesty, The rebirth.

One day, as I was singing and reveling in the ease of melody, I invited myself to create a melody from these little diary entries. What would they look like strung together? The result was a playful spoken-word titled “I Am No Poet”. 

I am no Poet 

Kate Talano

I am no poet

but if I were, 

I’d go sit in the field of Cosmos

and contemplate the fact that

here, 

I am 

looking at Cosmos

pinks, purples, blues

within The Cosmos, 

as The Cosmos

well aren’t I just the most beautiful thing.

what else gets to look at itself, touch itself, love itself, be itself?

I am no poet

but if I were, 

I’d take myself on a walk

not to search for Truth, but listen to truths

they’d pled:

Please! Let us out!

uncover us from the blanketed night sky, 

littered with lights – so visibly empty

wake us from the sleepy vineyards dusted purple,

beneath rose gold wonder 

catch us as we release back into gravity’s loving hold 

we just want to be heard.

play with us, and our friend, Form”

I am no poet

but if I were, 

I’d offer them Words,... though they are not mine. 

I’d find them pinned to walls, in soup bowls, 

under my shoes, nestled in the heart-shaped poplar leaves

I’d string these Words together, only to make a place 

in the space in-between

as only spaceless, placeless, formless,...all the “estless” ness

can hold truths

such beautiful, weightily little things

I’d join them in this space

working through humanness, cosmology

playing in puddles of clarity

liberating more truths

dancing, 

to the rhythm of heartbeats of all living beings, 

an amassed hum that envelops the earth in a honey-nectar glow -- 

so thick. so sweet.

I am no poet.

but if I were, 

I’d watch as my senses, like children, stumble over themselves

enthralled by freshness

the undiscovered, made and remade

worthy of that which is beyond time; true presence. 

I am no poet, 

but if I were, 

it’d be right here that truths and I would rest

in the restlessness of stillness

so much noise, 

so much moving

what does it feel like, 

  To be?

just as it is. 

like seven billion, 

billion, 

billion 

atoms of light 

streaming through channels and gullies of love

Awaiting...for the moment of radiance 

as combustion and creation are non-separate

this radiant energy, not to blind

But offer color,

  life, to Life.  

I am no poet

because, you see,

I am not looking for love, I am love. 

I am not turning on the light, I am light. 

I am no poet, I am poetry. 

Not speaking, listening. 

Not running around, moving with. 

Within. 

As. 

I am no poet. 

But if I were, 

I’d find a quiet place in the Cosmos,

In this particular Supercluster, 

Galaxy, 

Solar System, 

Planet,

a womb of truths

a small space, to sit, light a fire, listen to the rain, and write all this down

Not because it’s not already known

But to make sure it’s not forgotten.

But then again, I am no Poet.

Life, this mystery, is of such beauty if we choose to see it, to be it.

My writing practice is a bit sporadic at the moment. I’ll awaken from dreams or be staring at a slice of orange, and suddenly words will come streaming in and a little poem will appear. I do have aspirations to hop back onto the ‘morning poem’ routine.. but for now I’ll revel in the wonder as it is arising.