Feb 2013
You're not your body.
You're not your mind.
You're not your own,
and you are not mine
I'm not my heart,
my fleeting mirth,
my hidden tears,
my death, my birth.
We're not the world's
and it's not ours.
We can not own
the earth and flowers.
We can't sell the groves of trees,
we can't buy the land and seas.
Yet our hands build cities,
and our hands spill blood.
Our greed yields envy
while our hearts seek love.
Let us hope
that someday, we
can let it go
and simply be.
You're not your mind.
You're not your own,
and you are not mine
I'm not my heart,
my fleeting mirth,
my hidden tears,
my death, my birth.
We're not the world's
and it's not ours.
We can not own
the earth and flowers.
We can't sell the groves of trees,
we can't buy the land and seas.
Yet our hands build cities,
and our hands spill blood.
Our greed yields envy
while our hearts seek love.
Let us hope
that someday, we
can let it go
and simply be.
I've found myself in a place of supreme peace recently, and it came from the realization that nothing is really ours. Even our bodies, minds and thoughts are simply tools we can sharpen and use to some purpose, but they aren't ours. They're just close to home. Then it becomes clear that this box of tools is calling the shots, drawing the blueprints of our lives, my tricking us into thinking we are the tools themselves, and we get caught up in this cycle of endless wants, this attachment to possessions because we somehow think that identifying with property will make us happy. None of that's true.
What's left when all those things disappear, and we've nothing left to own? Love and compassion. Everything else is just an instrument to spread that love.
What's left when all those things disappear, and we've nothing left to own? Love and compassion. Everything else is just an instrument to spread that love.
