A Zen Poem of Compassion

I posted this on my Mother’s Day blog. 

I’m posting it again in honor of my dismal readings on my blood and lab tests this week. A Magazine for Failure seems to apply to every area of our lives at one time or another.  As pure as we try to eat, as much as I faithfully exercise and meditate; as much equipment as we have, too many things are way out of kilter.  Seventy-five years of wear and tear.  What do I expect?  Who knows how I would feel if I hadn’t tried.

     Perfect Bound

            By Richard Wehrman

When I Read Shambhala Sun

or Tricycle, I wonder

who these people are.

They admit to an occasional

random thought,

but it’s clear they’re all becoming enlightened

or at least able to dwell constantly

in clear and empty space.

Or those Yoga Journal people –

Where everyone is thin, composed

and bends in all directions.

Or Fortune

where everyone’s a millionaire

a captain of success.

So where, I ask, is the

magazine for Failure?

For 30 years of falling and

recalling, “Be Here Now”?

For the continual recovering

from the storming –

from the endless repairing of the ship

and broken sails?

For the sick and heavy body

barely bending?

For the immense gratitude

in meeting once again

next months payroll,

next months rent.