FACING THE VOID

THE VOID by E. Strider

It looms before me like some amorphous monster

--that unknown non-place, non-thing, non-being

beyond the opaque familiar

So, I hide in my pain.

At least I know what that's all about--

Anything to avoid the might-not-be-anything state

that might not even be a state.

I clutch at my old car and furniture,

burn holes in my rug with the same old brand;

ask to be thrown a line from a waiting ship

before I leave this sinking one...

Prove to me clearly, if you can

that something exists on the other side of the fog.

Yeah, yeah, they said Jesus came back from the void,

but you can't be sure.

Hell, No!  I won't kill myself!

This is it.  This is what I've got.

I don't care if it is exploding,

Don't you dare unplug me!

 I've studied A Course in Miracles since 1977 and am very aware of the ploys and machinations of the ego--the part of the mind that defines itself by separation. But to actually encounter this fear-filled aspect of my being straight on, which I'm doing now, is unnerving and traumatic, to say the least.
And the irony is that, just by engaging it, I am feeding it with what it most likes to eat--attention.
It reminds me of this poem I wrote about the ego many years ago:

THE HOUR OF HUMILIATION

By Errol Strider

The ego,

standing up and preening

strutting around the stage...

in the mind,

waiting for laughs and applause,

like a comedian,,

the fool!

parading itself before spirited morticians,

not understanding the need to be humbled,

to be the fool,

with no applause,

just whips and scourging

and thorny wreaths around his head

smugly self-deceived,

basking in enfeebled acclaim

jaundiced reviews wending their way into oblivion--

an ignominious performance

attended only by critics

and jaded pedestrians

who stop long enough to gape and spit...

a defrocked, defunct comic

foolishly curled up

on the empty stage floor

with only the light of a rehearsal bulb

throwing his tears in shadows...

the ego,

a disrumpled has-been

sobbing on the splintered performance place

with echoes of canned laughter

scorching his brain

How's that for an image?

My practice right now is to not resist what shows up, to, in fact, embrace it, trusting that if there is any reality to it, it will persist and if none, it will disappear.

Let's Face It...yes, indeed, that is the practice--to face it and see what kind of face it wants to reveal to me..

Here's another poem in that regard.

A FACE

a face flows by me

       on the window sill

              against drops of dew

a good morning face,

       feeling its own pulse

              over the concrete

              ...cobbled

lying back into itself

       beginning to wrinkle

              but unwilling to make

              ...contact

say 'hello', face

       and know

              your

       ......self

So that  seems to be the ever present opportunity/challenge--to know my self--the true self,  which I understand is an un-ending self.  That means that any definition or boundary I wrap around this guy called, "me," must be released...in fact, unplugged.

 "'Tis a consummation
devoutly to be wished."--Shakespeare's "Hamlet"

Think on't
Andy Rumi