Where We Began

Though we are often driven by sorrow,
To seek the end of sorrows,
It is the desire for Love and Love Itself,
That in the end brings us to Freedom.

For when all  hope is lost,
And only Despair remains.
When all paths have failed,
And all efforts proven vain.

Then we sit alone, defeated, with nothing left.
Nothing, that is...
Except what moved us at the onset.
Our Own Shining Heart, our Own Inherent Love.

We wander for countless ages.
In the heartbreak of giving and receiving,
Until, when grasping is exhausted,
We simply rest as the Love we Are.

The Kingdom of Heaven is Within.
Not in perfection or attainment,
Not in doing thusly, or understanding profoundly.
Simply Here, where we began.

As we are.
Here.
Now.
Right where we began.






Chuck Surface
Photo:  Peter Bowers

Expressing the Inexpressible

We struggle, through Love,

To express in words, concepts, and metaphor,

That which cannot be expressed.

For this Grace can only be communicated

Through wordless Benediction,

Heart to Heart,

If you can fall, for just one moment,

From head to Heart,

From concept to Experience…

And allow yourself to be “Meditated”.

Chuck Surface

Photo:  Peter Bowers

The Friend

In the old days, my Baba said,
True teachers, gurus, murshids,
Did not sit “in front of” groups, elevated above,
But were simple people… simple…
Always sitting “across from” a simple friend.

They were fellow Lovers of The Beloved,
In whose Hearts Her Flame was alight,
And in relationship with whom,
The ember in one's own Heart would ignite,
And one would become, in time… “like them”.

This is, after all, the point, is it not?

This was an intimate spiritual relationship,
Not seeing from a distance, seldom,
Over the heads of a crowd,
Not being “taught” in words and concepts,
But a Mystical Illumining of Grace…

Heart to Heart.

The guru, the murshid, the teacher,
Took tea with a friend, and chatted,
And together they bathed in the Presence,
That Illumined both their Hearts,
One aflame, the other igniting.

Things were said, questions asked, in this simplicity,
That would not be uttered in a crowd of strangers,
Revelations of the Heart's deepest Longing,
Questions utterable only in the Intimacy of Friendship,
And answers…

Born of a Heart Fulfilled.

It did not matter, my Baba said,
Whether the teacher, the guru, the murshid,
Was brilliant, of diamond-like mind,
Eloquent, and inspiring of speech,
Beautiful for the eyes to behold…

Or a drooling idiot.

All that was required, he said,
Was their Presence,
Which had become, over time,
Through Love, Longing, and inward turning,
Indistinguishable, inseparable from…

Her Timeless Presence.

Two simple Friends,
Two simple ones,
Two Lovers of The Beautiful Mystery,
Taking Tea, chatting, as only Friends can do;
Sipping… Sipping…

Vanishing in The Tea.
In this way, this Ancient Way, my Baba said,
The Flame in one, ignited the ember in the other,
And in time, when that ember burst into Flame,
Another teacher, guru, murshid was born,
A Simple friend, a Fellow Lover…

Of That for which “Love“ is a wholly inadequate word.

Two things he oft' repeated:
“Slowly, slowly; She is doing everything.”
And, more often even than that,
“Remain always, a simple man.”

For the old days are now.





Chuck Surface
Photo:  Peter Bowers

Always Touching

Always,

Enjoying,

The Perfume of the Beloved.

Even with eyes open,

Here,

In the world of form.

Even with Attention moving,

Here and there,

In “mundane” activity.

The Extraordinary… Ordinary.

The Ordinary… Extraordinary.

Always, ever,

Intoxicated,

By the Ecstasy that She is.

When Attention rests,

She is there,

Pulling at my Heart.

Always whispering,

Always touching,

Turning my face to Hers.

She exists in me,

As me,

And I in Her…

And… neither.

For “we” do not exist

At all.

There is only…

This!

Chuck Surface

Garden of the Beloved

Photo:  Peter Bowers

All This Nonsense

Gautama experienced a profound shift,

In the nature of his Experience of Being,

And, responding to questions about it…

Gave birth to Buddhism.

But when Gautama died, in no time at all,

There arose debate and disagreement,

About this, that, and the other…

About “true” Buddhism…

And there arose, from one View, many.

So it seems, with all great teachings,

The Master's passing, and in no time at all,

Disagreement and debate…

And the arising, from one View, of many.

How vast and varied, expressions of “truth”,

Each indicative of the utter futility,

Of describing the Indescribable…

Of capturing The Great Mystery in a jar.

All in the nature of things, it appears,

But oh, so very wearying,

Wearying enough to drive one…

Within.

Within… where long ago in distant lands,

In the experiences of those long dead,

All of this nonsense began…

Within.

Perhaps we, too, should venture There,

And enjoining both Heart and Mind,

In that Inward Journey…

Find out what all this nonsense is about.

Chuck Surface

Photo:  Peter Bowers

Cream, Two Sugars, Please

Within… Fullness, Completion, and Bliss,

Without… She prefers milk chocolate to dark.

Within… nothing can be added, nothing taken away,

Without… everything comes to Her, and goes.

Within… Unmoving, Ineffable Sublimity,

Without… She experiences ever changing manifestation.

Within… joy and sorrow have never been,

Without… She Shines, even in the midst of tears.

Within… time and space have never existed,

Without… She is born, grows old, and dies.

Within… within and without never were,

Without… within and without ever are.

Within… no preferences, propensities, proclivities,

Without… cream, two sugars, please.

Within… The Sun Shines,

Without… All is Illumined.

Chuck Surface

Intimacy

There's no intimacy in talking “about” The Beloved,

Moving away from Her into words and concepts,

As if She is not Present.

How rude.

She exists in the Quiet Stillness of our Heart,

When Attention returns from outward wandering,

And falls into Her awaiting arms.

How Inexpressibly Beautiful.

Some have turned Her into a science,

And argue Her existence, lawyerly.

They know nothing of Her.

Arid minds.

She cannot be “proven” through argument,

Or anyone “convinced” of Her reality,

Short of direct Experience.

Direct... Experience.

Only Longing entices the Beloved,

From Her Secret Garden…

In the Cave of your Heart.

How Ineffably… Sublime.

Chuck Surface

Photo:  Peter Bowers

If You Love

If you Love being Alive,

Being Alive will Love you back.

This, at least, is my Experience,

And all that I may speak of

Not Loving, necessarily,

The ever-changing content of Life,

But Loving the unchanging Essential,

The fact of Being Alive.

Such Love will not put an end,

To the ebb and flow of sorrow and joy,

But will touch the experience of each,

Will touch the experience of Life.

Untouched by all that arises,

But Touching all that arises,

Love born of Loving…

And being Loved by…

The Mystery of Life that we are.

Chuck Surface

Photo:  Peter Bowers

Love's Inward Turning

Turn Attention inward, my friend,

Not with the mind...

But with the Heart.

The mind may bestow "knowledge",

Of what you are not. 

But the Heart will bring you to the "Experience"...

Of what you Are.  

For the Heart's Unbearable Longing,

Is "of" that which is Longed for. 

Resting there, in the Heart's Desire, 

The Beloved will inhabit you so fully,

That where She ends and you begin...

Will no longer be discernible.  

And Lover and Beloved will Vanish,

in the Fathomless Ecstasy of their Embrace.

Chuck Surface

Photo:  Peter Bowers

Myself

I do not feel myself expanded as all that is, 

A part of everything, and everything a part of me. 

Nor do I feel myself as "That" within which all appears,

The Absolute, everything arising within me.

I do not feel "myself" at all.

Unless, by "I" you mean...

This. 

Not a thing alive,

But... Aliveness Itself.

Formless Aliveness in samadhi,

Or Aliveness in form...

Show me that place, where one ends, 

And the other begins?

Show me that place,

Where "This" begins and ends?

One thought of "I"...
and Heaven and Earth are divided!

Chuck Surface

Where we began

Though we are often driven by sorrow,

To seek the end of sorrows,

It is the desire for Love and Love Itself,

That in the end brings us to Freedom.

For when all  hope is lost,

And only Despair remains.

When all paths have failed,

And all efforts proven vain.

Then we sit alone, defeated, with nothing left.

Nothing, that is...

Except what moved us at the onset.

Our Own Shining Heart, our Own Inherent Love.  

We wander for countless ages.

In the heartbreak of giving and receiving,

Until, when grasping is exhausted,

We simply rest as the Love we Are.

The Kingdom of Heaven is Within.

Not in perfection or attainment, 

Not in doing thusly, or understanding profoundly.

Simply Here, where we began.

As we are.

Here.

Now.

Right where we began.

Chuck Surface

Photo:  Peter Bowers

This World

I could never choose,

Even if it were possible, 

A moment in which to leave this world. 

For there will forever be, 

Wonder upon wonder,

Beauty upon beauty.

And yes... trial upon trial,

Sorrow upon sorrow, 

And an ocean of those in need.

Unfathomable Beauty

Immeasurable Suffering, 

And the movement of Loving Kindness.

This stew of all possibilities.

Flowing like a river into form,

From the Ocean of...

Chuck Surface

Photo:  Peter Bowers

Two Loves

I have two Loves.

Sisters.

One is Immanence,

The other, Transcendence.

Loving each more than words can say,

I fear I cannot Live

Without either of them,

Even as one slowly...slips...away.

Growing older, I'm as someone on a train,

My Love on the platform, gazing wistfully.

Our certain parting,

Making Her more Beautiful than I can bear.

For some time now, I've seen Her everywhere,

Breathed Her, Heard Her voice in every sound,

Felt Her beneath my feet as I walk,

And Her warmth as sunlight upon my face.

This Knowing, that I'll not long be with Her,

A Poignancy, near unbearable,

Rather than diminishing our time, Enriches

Every...precious...moment.

As Life lurches forward, I hold Her closely.

But Vanishing Time, ever more so,

Allows only our Hearts to touch.

All that has ever...really...mattered.

I see Her still, our touch endures,

For how long, I do not know.

Her Perfume still surrounds me,

For how long, I do not know.

And yet...even as I leave one Love,

Arriving at another, in a time not known,

There is no place, within or without,

Where one ends...and the other begins.

No place where She ends,

and She begins.

No place where I end,

And I begin.

I leave, without moving,

From my Love,

To my Love,

As my Love.

Beloved Immanence,

Appearing within, 

And as,

My Beloved Transcendence. 

Chuck Surface

Photo:  Peter Bowers