Kopan Monastery

Homage to Ani Karin, Laughing Geshe

And the venerable Wong Mo.

By their subtle wisdom and compassion

May all beings break free from samsaric woe.

I walked through Kopan’s gates ten days ago

A bright-eyed traveller and his pack

Seeking answers to riddles of the void

Swapping the mundane for the sages’ ancient track.

With each new dawn I awake

To hilltops swathed in clouds.

I look to the temple and breathe the air

Listening to Himalayan sacred sounds.

At the door of the gompa

Where the walls depict samsara

I bow my head to Shakyamuni

And to Avalokitesvara.

Dharma is a pair of jeans

You can wear in any walk of life.

Learn to see things as they are

Free your mind from strife.

Dharma is the art of living

The canvass of the world is blank

Meditation is a sword for all

A weapon of wisdom, peace, and thanks.

The mind is as clear as the bluest of skies.

Thoughts are clouds just floating through.

The past has passed beyond the pale.

You are here, now. Choose wisely what to do.

Cross-legged, I breathe in the suffering of all beings

And a wave dissolves my self-cherishing.

The out-breath is a ripple on the ocean of time

A reminder that all things are perishing.

In my heart I see a future world

Where the bombs and bullets fly no more,

Where the hate-filled put down their weapons

So that youth can be ignorant of war.

I think of my mother and my father

Afflicted by hardship, wrought low by pain.

I know their suffering and their imprints

And with tears of forgiveness, renounce all blame.

For all those who suffer in every dimension,

I extend a bodhisattva vow.

May all beings follow the path of Dharma,

The way of wisdom, the way of Now.

Each moment exists in relativity;

It has been so since beginingless time.

We are each a grain of sand migrating between shores

In forever rolling currents of the sublime.

Each lifetime is a fleeting dance with Yama,

The briefest fluttering of a butterfly’s wings.

There is no time for anger, the true enemy;

No one can know when the last bowl rings.

But what is a bowl, a tree, or a Buddha?

I, me, myself, or mine?

They are our projections onto emptiness, sunyata;

Delusions of the dualistic mind.

Ignorance is the root of all illusions,

Attachment puts suffering into motion.

But know that we are all lotus flowers blooming

On a boundless Dharmakaya ocean.

I thought that I was someone:

A seeker, a Buddhist, a dreamer;

I am not a self, but a mosaic of moments

Drawn to the supreme jewel, bodhicitta.

May that which has arisen not diminish

hereafter be better than before.

May all sentient beings be free and peaceful

And reach Nirvana’s open door.