Don’t drink the Kombucha? But what if I’m really thirsty?
I noticed Erica Mather’s post the other day, and thought, “Ooh, what’s this? I like Kombucha! What’s going on? What’s the controversy?” And I read it. And felt annoyed. And chastened. And thoughtful.
Guilty as charged. I am a serial quote sharer. I am one of those folks who love to fill up your Twitter and Facebook feed with secondhand quotes and links to “wisdom.” Rumi. Throreau. Antoine de Saint-Exupery. Whitman. Pema Chödrön. CTR. Albee. Even that Buddhist cowboy guy from Boulder sometimes…
I loved parts of “Do Not Drink the Kombucha,” because when I feel something that tweaks my ego, and makes me say, “Heyyyy! That’s not fair! I do that!!! I couldn’t possibly be wrong!” I’m glad. I’m glad for the lesson. I’m glad to grow. It’s good to see where we need more time on the cushion and less time on the laptop. It’s good reminder that we have two ears and one mouth, and maybe could use a little more time in shut-the-f-up-asana. I will take it to heart, and spend more time with these truths on my own instead of immediately hitting retweet. I will also continue to light my way (and hopefully others’) any way I can.
I am kindling:
Dry sticks and leaves.
I am a candle, unlit.
A leaf on the breeze,
A child’s smile,
Words of wisdom
Are the secondhand Zippo lighter
I steal to make a light,
To gather warmth to myself.
I am the shell
That catches ocean echoes
No sounds of my own creation.
Rumi and Rilke and Roshi:
Resound through my halls.
They sound my gong,
Otherwise left silent.
Should I sit in the silent cold dark?
Should I pretend I cannot hear them?
That they do not move me?
When Trungpa and Thoreau and Whitman
Call out to me:
Should I not answer?
Should I not carry them forward?
There is one light that goes by infinite names.
It is carried by warriors wiser than I could hope to be
(This time around.)
I lean in to it,
That all the dry kindling of my heart
Might burst aflame.
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