I complain that paying attention to the thoughts is excruciating and exhausting.
Nothing to do but wait for death, the teacher says.
Living or dead, either way, the ego goes.
It’s not going happily.
Keep noticing the thoughts, he says.
No hope, no fear, Pema Chodron says.

The sensations of heat in the body remind me
She is here. Where would She not be?
The cat appears as though condensed out of the air.
The brain scans of cats are equivalent to humans on acid.
Staring at things no one else can see.
Like the black blob near the ceiling right now.
The cat looks too.
As real as anything else.
All an illusion of Shakti, I’m told,
Or strings of vibrating energy.
Take your pick.

It’s not so gloomy all the time, the dying of the ego.
Eating soup. The eyes grow warm.
She is here, seeing Brussels sprouts,
The rosebush outside the window, the disorderly bookshelves.
I surrender, for a moment
To more love than I had ever imagined.