Edison’s glowing filament,
The ancients spoke of uncreated light.
In my younger, literal years,
My either/or, all-or-nothing left brain wanted
Easy, obvious steps.
A favorite cliché was,
That’s a “no brainer.”
As a protective defense,
Imaginative voice was in hiding
In fear of being heard and my essence scorned.
I was repulsed by the gibberish language of mystery,
Inexplicable Metaphors, and
Fresh images which pained my ordered mind,
My reptilian, unconscious mind
that walked the same path out and back,
Day by day,
Believed that getting back without being noticed was
a successful day.
Then this rigid manner of living collapsed,
And my voice,
Hidden so deeply for decades
Began a long journey,
One with no map.
Finding myself in a cul-de-sac
I didn’t know I had wanted to find all along,
Turned me toward a Light, Uncreated by me or any other,
Inviting me to make a new path to a distant Aura
That Uncreated Light
That shown evenly through icons onto the one
Standing there, gazing back,
Sensed in the forest when alone,
Or at the water’s edge of a Great Lake,
From my wet feet to the other side of that horizon of white mist.
The Ancient Japanese painters knew this white, Uncreated Light,
Separating and Connecting the images of village life on those long scrolls,
Hiding and revealing the odd shaped, narrow mountains
Thrusting into the clouds beyond sight.
Revealed so dependably here and there by morning’s mist,
The midwife to a new way of pondering.
Revealing surprising, captivating visions,
An unspoken word
That says everything.
Uncreated Light comes
From I know not where.
John Holliger ©2019