Metta for the Aspiring One

May i be patient with who I’ve always wanted to be
and love who i already am,
be gentle with raised shoulders and tense belly,
diaphragm a little stuck
so that perfect note in singing is never sustained,
the lap across the pool only halfway.
May I rise from early morning dreams of doubt
with tenderness, with pause,
Rumi’s fingers on the brow, inscriptions on the heart
for the breezes at dawn that have secrets to tell me
asking for what i really want,
making my way to the bathroom mirror
greeted by crooked windows,
right eye higher than the left,
forecasting a day with a best friend
or constant critic.
May I read the poetry of Billy Collins, Mary Oliver,
the Sufi poets with wonder,
and feel kinship over competition,
see life’s pages larger than a book
with room for only rave reviews.
May I respect the healer who holds space for others
and sometimes runs away,
the mother who is a safe harbor
and the tsunami that destroys it,
the lover who builds communication bridges
and clings to one side, assuming she is right.
May zafu and yoga mat hold this confused being
till all the tears have fallen,
and clenched fists open in surrender
to all I’ve ever wanted to be,
to the one sitting all these years,
the aspiring one who already is.


(May i rest before the next I says hello
Asking why i am not ready…)