This poem is a part of my own exploration of my relationship to ancient traditions and their secular, scholarly, and natural histories.
Seeds of Dharma in the Western-seeming Zones
When we say “classical,” that is
violent and self-authorizing.
When we say “authentic,” we
are erasing brokenness and
our own not-knowing.
When we say “the origin,”
we have not considered
forgotten people and words.
Seeds of wisdom blow around,
native always
where we make guides
of earth, water, fire, air, and sky.
These seeds are never born,
and they never fully bloom
in the pages of books
no matter how old or wise.
Until we meet the
barefoot walkers
lighting fires and
offering water to the land,
drawing yantras from their hearts,
and chanting mantras
with the mouths of God,
until we see the Buddha fields,
aglow with the primordial light
only mimicked by our sun,
the real history
and destination of seeds
remains unknown.
Let’s just keep on,
barefoot ourselves,
heads down
in supplication, study,
offerings, and prayer
Let our honesty
be so strong,
it calls the seeds to grow,
emerging naturally from
the one pervasive ground.
~Shambhavi Sarasvati
