I was born old.
In the Garden of Knowing
I grow younger by the hour.
Vaulting through birth
I lunge my ancient wings
Eager to impart, to absorb, to reveal
To be part
I struggle to recover what once I knew
To penetrate the veils of mystery that enshroud us
To peel away the illusions that swaddle us.
Hungry for truth, I must face the futility
I stumble over
The ginormous Me's
The isms, the slogans, the verities.
Verily they freeze
Then melt into scabies, scurvies, palsies
Scars of the soul's disease.
Until I warm to the words of Kabir:
"Some worship the formless God
Some worship (her) various forms
In what way (She) is beyond these attributes
Only the Knower knows".
I would taste the breath of Know
Even for the blink of a fluttering eye
Is that hubris
I don't know.
Knowing eludes, escapes, evaporates.
I am bereft,
With a ravenous soul
Heart in hand,
Hand in mine,
Journey with me
Through the divine
Garden of Knowing.
c. Corinne Whitaker 2019
Note: Jannat al'-Arif or the gardens of Paradise came from the old Arabic and has been variously translated as "The Gardens of Knowing".
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