I write this
While just sitting, just listening
To Adyashanti’s discourse
On just sitting
He asks
What does it mean
To do nothing at all; of course
I don’t do nothing, I write
And what do I write of
What do I question for myself
It is: can I find shelter in nothing at all
Can the nothing at all embrace me
I had felt, or rather I had seen
That almost nothing, that almost nowhere
I was driving on recovered land
I was on marshes and fens
It was a quiet time
Nothing was being asked of me
Shelter was my pencil and paper
My shelter was what I might think of
It was a gentle, generous place
Though my mind took me off elsewhere
I would, through time, use my memory
To distil what might or might not be
I cast myself into the openness
Into Adyashanti’s waking-dream
Where no outside activity
Would care to, or try to interfere
I was being, the rain was pouring
I was taken by the ease
Of which it was suggested
That I make a telephone call to the old shelter
