MEDITATION | Meditation, Poetry

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The Sit

When I am asked how to meditate
There are no words the color of presence
No shapes that look like attention

I can only tell you what my senses tell me
Or how I dread and then savor it
And how little I attend to such reaction

Most of all I love the earned silence
The way it drapes over my shoulders and
Fills the hungry belly of my soul.

The deep delight lives,
not in sweeping thought away,
But in having no attachment to mental litter.

The sit asks little, really. Just to
Do it, please, and be with what arises.
Just to be it, please, and not do what arises.

-Melinda Coppola

ON SILENCE | Meditation, Poetry

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Absence of noise

It’s not that I enter into this thing called silence.
I don’t let it in or go out to find it.
Silence is my natural state.
It’s the vast patience of the sky
that clouds take so for granted,
where birds of feather and birds of steel
come and go not noticing!
It’s the space between heartbeats,
between breath, between objects
and objections.
And so I disrobe, peel off layers:
Ego and fears and the marled texture
of judgment that leaves patterns
in the skin of everyone it touches,
And the labels my layers wear—motherdaughter,
sisterwifepoet, teacherartistex-wife.
Even seeker, even that I’ll shed and go on shedding
Until being an I isn’t an option, nor a me or a her.
Until there is just the absence of noise.
There is just the absence of
Just the absence
Just the
.

-Melinda Coppola