This poem is a part of my own exploration of my relationship to ancient traditions and their secular, scholarly, and natural histories.

Seeds of Dharma in the Western-seeming Zones

When we say “classical,” that is

violent and self-authorizing.

When we say “authentic,” we

are erasing brokenness and

our own not-knowing.

When we say “the origin,”

we have not considered

forgotten people and words.

Seeds of wisdom blow around,

native always

where we make guides

of earth, water, fire, air, and sky.

These seeds are never born,

and they never fully bloom

in the pages of books

no matter how old or wise.

Until we meet the

barefoot walkers

lighting fires and

offering water to the land,

drawing yantras from their hearts,

and chanting mantras

with the mouths of God,

until we see the Buddha fields,

aglow with the primordial light

only mimicked by our sun,

the real history

and destination of seeds

remains unknown.

Let’s just keep on,

barefoot ourselves,

heads down

in supplication, study,

offerings, and prayer

Let our honesty

be so strong,

it calls the seeds to grow,

emerging naturally from

the one pervasive ground.

~Shambhavi Sarasvati