The Altar of This Moment

Place everything you can perceive—

everything you can

see,

hear,

smell,

taste,

or touch,

upon the altar of this moment

and give thanks.

It is over so soon—

this expression,

this single moment of your precious life,

this one heart

pounding itself open

with fear or wild joy,

this one breath rising

in the cold winter air

smoothly and gently

or coughing and sputtering.

Bow, while you can, before

this one taste

of afternoon tea

warming its way to your belly,

or the fragrant orange

exploding its sweet juice

in your grateful mouth.

You have to love

the antics of your mind,

imagining life should only be sweet.

The bitter makes the sweet; and life is both.

It is whole, like you,

before you think yourself to pieces.

Place this moment’s pain and confusion on the altar, too,

and give special thanks for such grace

that wakes you up from sleeping through your life.

Pain is greatly under-rated as a pointer to Unknowing,

yet greatly over-rated when taken as identity.

In this one moment,

your eyes meet mine and there is

a single looking.

What is peering from behind our masks?

Can it touch itself across the room?

Place your palms together;

touch your holy skin.

In another moment it will shed itself.

What will you be then?

What were you before you had two hands?

What are you now?

You cannot capture That

and place It on the altar of this moment.

It is the altar,

and this moment’s infinite expressions,

and the Seeing,

and its own devotion to itself.

You are That.

 Dorothy Hunt

Photo:  Peter Bowers

With thanks: science and non-duality website

peace is

Do you think peace requires an end to war?

Or tigers eating only vegetables?

Does peace require an absence from

your boss, your spouse, yourself?...

Do you think peace will come some other place than here?

Some other time than Now?

In some other heart than yours?

Peace is this moment without judgment.

That is all.  This moment in the Heart-space

where everything that is is welcome.

Peace is this moment without thinking

that it should be some other way,

that you should feel some other thing,

that your life should unfold according to your plans.

Peace is this moment without judgement,

this moment in the heart-space where

everything that is is welcome. 

Dorothy Hunt 

Photo:  Peter Bowers

Listen to This Stillness Moving

Listen, Listen to this Stillness

moving as the Silent Wind through Mind - 

the Mind of all creation - 

blowing as the glistening brook,
the salamander struggling up a wet incline of leaves,
a tiny purple flower offered to the buddha,
joyful wind chimes jingling,
scampering squirrels and squawking jays,
preening peacocks and balls of furry cats,
this statue of dear Lama Yeshe
that came to life one day and spoke
these words inside my heart:
"Never read yesterday's news."

This Silent Wind blows as the innocence of minds
that fear a war that's neither here nor there
yet stirs the bubbling pot of God's vast
soup of energies that cast this world
into endless Dream creations.
Listen ! Listen to this Silence
moving as this moment's Being -
loving a thumb that rests on a book,
uncomplaining iris beaten down by a storm,
a tiny spider crawling on my face,
and white worms wiggling in the mud
beneath the blessed gaze of Tara.
Listen ! Listen to this Stillness moving !





Dorothy Hunt
Photo:  Peter Bowers

The Buddha Has Come, and So Has Death

The Buddha has come, 

and so has death.

I can no longer sleep.

I sit burning incense 

to the gods again,

Om Mani Padme Hum.

Candles flicker in the darkness

as fingers move along

the lotus seeds,

no longer wishing for a jewel.

Om Mani Padme Hum.

Nothing is known.

How have I come to 

sit alone again,

reading unread sutras I forgot

were even on the shelf?

The Perfection of Wisdom

in Eight Thousand Lines.

How have I come to 

sit alone again,

the pendulum winding down.

Sitting with a friend,

the pendulum completely stopped,

but the friend mistook it for rejection,

or so it seemed.

When energy wasn't moving 'toward,'

it was perceived as 'away,'

but there simply was no movement

of That which never comes or goes.

No emotions rising from separation

and the hope of sweet reunion.

I am alone.

As I sat reading in the night,

"How to stand in emptiness,'

a moth flew right into the light

above my book, 

then fell into my lap

seared and stunned

and fluttering for life.

It crawled into the folds

of my white nightgown

beneath a woolen prayer shawl

and grew still as death.

Like the moth,

I, too, will seem to die.

Will it be from cancer

or flying with abandon

straight into the Light?

Or is there any difference?

I do not know.

I only know I am content

to shelter this small moth

that seems so close to death

as it lies shrouded in my prayer shawl

next to my still warm and living body.

When the insect's breath has ceased,

I take its body to my alter

and place it on a smooth

black stone to Shiva - 

Om Namah Shivaya - 

encircled by a mala

made of lotus seeds, 

and then I simply weep

for the beauty of its life

and the beauty of its death.

It died by flying into Light. 

Dorothy Hunt 

Photo:  Peter Bowers

Body Revelations

Today I woke seeing

not with my eyes,

but seeing the world

through the heart.

The location of things

seemed to drop

from my brain

and was peering

out from my chest.

My forehead unwrinkled

its long years of worry;

my throat released

all of its grip;

and now there's a breath

that fills my whole being,

a breath so open and free

that instead of stopping

at the top of my lungs,

it pirouettes in the heavens above

and swirls inside middle earth.

And here in this body,

this small human body,

that's always and only 

belonged to God,

the secret of deep

abidance in peace seems

to be to live from the heart;

for the mind of the brain

seems to want some gain,

but the mind of the heart stays clear.

Who would ever believe 

that this very body,

the one I spent years to transcend,

would turn out to be

Truth's continual key

to abide as the One I am?

And who could imagine

it's possible to see,

not through eyes,

but the heart's pure intimacy?

Dorothy Hunt

Photo:  Peter Bowers

Journey of Return

When the Beloved wants to take you Home, 

extend your hand to His welcoming

even though your body may be trembling

and your mind may want to flee;

even though those around you grieve,

and you yourself have mourned, even before they,

the changing form of your body.

Tears are not the final truth

though they will come and go

like stars that need a dark sky to be seen.

Death is not a failure of a mind

that is not strong enough,

or positive enough, or pure enough.

Those who hold such views are simply

masking fear with ideas of being in control

We are being lived by the Creator of this life.

Do you really think a finite mind can change

the mind of God?  Jesus tried and failed.

"Please take this cup from me!" he begged,

as we all do in the midst of anguish.

But anguish, fear, or deepest grief

cannot alter Who you really are.

The beautiful Spirit that extended Itself

in space and time, and called Itself by your name,

is simply ready to return, unencumbered by a body,

to Its vast and spacious Unborn Self,

that kisses you at birth,

and holds your hand in death,

and never for a moment

forgets you are Itself.

The mind imagines you are leaving,

but where could you truly go?

You are Life Itself!  Unceasingly flowing,

moment to moment unfolding Yourself.

A body is born; a body dies; but you do not. 

Deep within your heart, you know this Truth.

Rest there.  Rest in the knowing that

opens your heart to all that IS,

that loves Itself in all that comes,

and returns to Itself in all that goes. 

Dorothy Hunt

Photo:  Peter Bowers

Mother, Silence

Sometimes when life is difficult,

I curl up in my Mother's lap 

and drink her ever-present love

that never has required

a single thing to change.

And when my life requires courage,

or I don't know what to say

or how to be, 

I go to her and

listen with my heart.

My Mother birthed the world

and everything that's in it.

Her wisdom excludes nothing; 

and yet she rushes to my side

if I but beckon her.

What a pure, abiding presence

is my Mother, Silence.  

Dorothy Hunt

photo:  Peter Bowers

Resting

Resting happens when you do not look for rest.

Coming home means to be homeless.

The myriad places I may try to hang my hat

disappear in deepest wisdom -

No place at all!

Dorothy Hunt

Photo:  Peter Bowers

When Seeking Ends

I can no longer read the Teachings

or visit those awakened on the path

who sit amidst flowers and incense

and eager seekers waiting for morsels

of Enlightenment food.

I can no longer sit on my black cushion 

waiting for the moment to appear

when the big bang will occur

and blow this world of work and life

into the heavens of bliss.

I can no longer search for what is missing

nor can I say that I have found it.

I listen to the furnace blowing at dawn

and watch a feather dance before its music.

I work and eat and sleep and simply live my life.

I no longer wonder if I should dye my hair

or give up eating meat

or lose ten pounds before summer.

If I do, I do, and if I don't, I don't,

and who is there to care?

The sound of the garbage truck

chewing up the remains of my week

offers just as much stimulation to my soul

as a church bell or the song bird's melody

lilting from the distant hill.

My candles of devotion sit unlit

upon the alter to the gods, 

the bell of mindfulness unrung

upon its hand-sewn cushion, 

the incense resting in a drawer.

What has become of the one

who searched and chanted and read and prayed

and hoped for enlightenment?

She still laughs with her family,

sips champagne with friends, and sings in the shower.

What is life when the seeking ends?

Just what it is, nothing more or less - 

an ordinary person doing ordinary things,

not wishing to be more or less,

content to simply be herself.

Dorothy Hunt

Photo:  Peter Bowers

No More Longing

Yesterday I sat beside

a pristine mountain lake

where sky and pines and water

lost their names in Seeing,

where Listening became

a single bird-song, wind song,

water-lapping song of joy.

Today, there's no more longing,

no more pain inside the heart;

the devotee has disappeared

into the scent of Now,

and space has blown desire

from its latest hiding place

into the peace of being where I am.

Dorothy Hunt

Photo:  Peter Bowers

Word Tumbling

Every word is wordless

in its Source;

and no word can ever

speak the Truth.

But the poet's words

keep tumbling out of Silence

like snowflakes falling

unbidden from the sky,

landing for one brief instant

before melting.

Dorothy Hunt 

Photo:  Peter Bowers

A Vast Wardrobe

Look how this nakedness shows its vast wardrobe!
Here it dresses as a rose;
there it dresses as a car;
here the suit is Mother;
there the suit is Daughter.
Spirit does not inhabit these things.
Nothingness does not climb in and out.
The rose grows thorns
and does not bloom in winter;
the mother will one day sleep without waking
and her daughter will weep.

Dorothy Hunt

Photo:  Peter Bowers