Someone in a book struck out:
--That reams are written about Love,
But no poetry around and about,
Extolling Patience, Lord Above!
Is it not Patience,
that allows Love to stand;
that lends Love cadence;
through Time, Change and stranger land?--
I am caught.
Looking at this, trying to understand...
Without it, Love is naught?
How is Patience playing its hand?
Then like a burst of fragrance
From freshly picked Jasmine
Pervading the air with its essence,
I hear Patience's violin.
This is not just,
Accepting petulant demands--
Or learning to adjust
with mercurials and quicksands.
Patience is not just about,
being a survival acrobat
Although without a doubt
There is something to all of that.
Because, there is something beyond
and something underneath,
That moves a soul to respond
In those ways; a force under-sheath.
The same someone1 from the same book2,
quotes Buddha, The Infallible:
"When you are walking, walk.
When you are sitting, sit. Dont wobble."
A Patience then, that is larger,
Is love's force, within.
Resting in even, steady temper-
Even as life decides to get into a tailspin.
A patience that lives deep,
Gushing an eternal, holy spring
Allowing love that is asleep
To walk, sit, breathe; without wobbling.
The very breath and heart of Love,
The mountain lake's tranquil depth,
A sheath of staying power and resolve -
And velvet strength,
Covering Vivekananda's3 nerves of steel
Even taking forms of obstinacy or indulgence
Wait, this is necessity's veil
To what we call Patience, a visceral intelligence.
That which is in rhythm,
with Nature's forces,
with the Universe's algorithm;
so made stronger than Arjuna's4 horses;
Passion also its aspect,
directed by untainted endurance.
Inexplicable to the intellect,
Is this formative Patience.
Absorbing into itself, everything.
Life's ripples subside,
Like there were no ripples, nothing.
Humour then is implied,
For staying with suffering
without struggle or escape --
Just an attention that is unwavering,
That transforms life's landscape.
Who then can remain still and steady,
Resting effortless, with ease.
And yet ripe and ready,
flowing along with life's whimsies.
(S)he then is the true 'patient',
Diving into the spring's sacred source.
A civilisation ancient;
Giving birth to Love, being life-force.
Love then breathes,
a deep, fine, smooth breath --
that regenerates, creates, soothes;
Reviving a shibboleth.
All creation being its category,
Giving life, giving vibrancy, romance.
Yet another story,
Thus my ode to patience.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Dedicated to all those in my world who live this ode by example. These are after all, words. They are dull in the face of the actual.
1, 2 The Book is "Take Your Time". And the Someone is Eknath Easwaran
3 Swami Vivekananda
4 Arjuna, one of the Pandavas in the epic, Mahabharata
--That reams are written about Love,
But no poetry around and about,
Extolling Patience, Lord Above!
Is it not Patience,
that allows Love to stand;
that lends Love cadence;
through Time, Change and stranger land?--
I am caught.
Looking at this, trying to understand...
Without it, Love is naught?
How is Patience playing its hand?
Then like a burst of fragrance
From freshly picked Jasmine
Pervading the air with its essence,
I hear Patience's violin.
This is not just,
Accepting petulant demands--
Or learning to adjust
with mercurials and quicksands.
Patience is not just about,
being a survival acrobat
Although without a doubt
There is something to all of that.
Because, there is something beyond
and something underneath,
That moves a soul to respond
In those ways; a force under-sheath.
The same someone1 from the same book2,
quotes Buddha, The Infallible:
"When you are walking, walk.
When you are sitting, sit. Dont wobble."
A Patience then, that is larger,
Is love's force, within.
Resting in even, steady temper-
Even as life decides to get into a tailspin.
A patience that lives deep,
Gushing an eternal, holy spring
Allowing love that is asleep
To walk, sit, breathe; without wobbling.
The very breath and heart of Love,
The mountain lake's tranquil depth,
A sheath of staying power and resolve -
And velvet strength,
Covering Vivekananda's3 nerves of steel
Even taking forms of obstinacy or indulgence
Wait, this is necessity's veil
To what we call Patience, a visceral intelligence.
That which is in rhythm,
with Nature's forces,
with the Universe's algorithm;
so made stronger than Arjuna's4 horses;
Passion also its aspect,
directed by untainted endurance.
Inexplicable to the intellect,
Is this formative Patience.
Absorbing into itself, everything.
Life's ripples subside,
Like there were no ripples, nothing.
Humour then is implied,
For staying with suffering
without struggle or escape --
Just an attention that is unwavering,
That transforms life's landscape.
Who then can remain still and steady,
Resting effortless, with ease.
And yet ripe and ready,
flowing along with life's whimsies.
(S)he then is the true 'patient',
Diving into the spring's sacred source.
A civilisation ancient;
Giving birth to Love, being life-force.
Love then breathes,
a deep, fine, smooth breath --
that regenerates, creates, soothes;
Reviving a shibboleth.
All creation being its category,
Giving life, giving vibrancy, romance.
Yet another story,
Thus my ode to patience.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Dedicated to all those in my world who live this ode by example. These are after all, words. They are dull in the face of the actual.
1, 2 The Book is "Take Your Time". And the Someone is Eknath Easwaran
3 Swami Vivekananda
4 Arjuna, one of the Pandavas in the epic, Mahabharata
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