No one knows
the reason for any of this –
why even make it a question?
Death doesn’t.
The unleashed wonder
of that moment is sufficient
to still any speculation.
This is not a metaphor –
it will be the same door opening
inward that once opened out.
I am that swinging door,
not knowing in from out,
death from life, me from you.
What is surrender?
The surrender that can be done
is not true surrender.
Who surrenders to what?
Who surrenders what?
What do I possess –
what is there to call mine –
that I can actually let go of?
Where can I find any portion of myself
that is ever divisible from itself,
except in hallucinations
of self and other?
My desire to surrender is not mine,
my hopes and dreams are not even mine,
my living, loving, dying is not mine,
nor is any surrender mine.
Being nothing myself,
I am already everything.
To whom shall I surrender?
I do not rise in the morning
by my own will, nor do I
sleep by my own power.
What appears before me
as world and other is never
at any distance from myself.
On what altar then
shall I place this pretense
of relinquishment and submission?
Even the motive to surrender
at last must be seen as arising
from a subtle sense of separation.
What has been given, what
received, other than oneself?
The one who would surrender
is the very one who keeps surrender
at arm’s distance, safely out of reach.
In the midst of the stream, I, water,
bend to cup water, then offer it
back to the river.
The river itself flows on and on,
mindless of all concepts, all
gestures of surrender.

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