by Shanda Kruse

A phrase that jumped out at me from the murky depths of my mind

As I rolled a burrito in a two-bit job, blocking the jabber of beans and rice

It wouldn’t go away like a pushy salesman, then it flashed on me that it couldn’t

It was a part of me: a process ongoing.

Fueled first by despair then religion

When I was young I listened to my dad yell and wished I wasn’t there

Maybe if I was quiet and created no ripples nothing would touch me

Causing no karma, making few friends, living in my mind

If I don’t recognize you, you won’t see me.

Invisible rabbit.

As a teen I discovered the “I” and tried to define desperately

The 4.0 perfection, cat landing on his feet, only the moon watched over me at night

Running, straining during that last mile, only to be beat by someone two inches taller

’Til I got sick of my own potential that sat on my shoulders like a stone

Took a wrecking ball to the self with steely determination, sick of my own pride

Whips, dull thud of wood bouncing off the flesh, eroding the self in each wave

’Til all there is pain and pleasure, the blankness of reaction

But the self still existed in a fetal ball agreeing with each strike

Turned to the holy man full of logic, Buddha who dared to live

Fully in each moment, no hiding from pleasure or pain subjecting delusions, expanding the self to include all

dependent co-arising:

nothing exists without each other

Now I look in the mirror but I still see a being of clay cracked and flawed:

should’ve forgave,

should’ve not been mad

should’ve tried harder,

should’ve loved more,

should’ve died

Wait.

There is no enlightenment without compassion.

No nirvana without joy.

The self is not killed by stoning but through love:

filling the hole left

After self absorption leaves and anger dies.

Love for everything, everywhere and everybody. Including the being that is writing this.