What if your mind-body-spirit were a violin,
but only asking about the tension
from fingers to bow to strings.
How are emotions played beyond the pretense of mind?
Where does the savant of spirit intervene,
transcends the medium, yet almost as an imposition?
Where does square one then reappear?
Fingers to the bow to the strings
seems mentally concessionary as if safety
from the haunt of spirit going unchecked.
This process is so subtle as if mystical,
as if a recipe without ingredients
that transforms the use of the mind as garden to stove.
Sort of a wisdom without mental concepts,
a way for not wanting a mind-grab of relevance.
It is easy to mistake this as soft and humble traits
yet still worthy of efforts at musical presence.
What if the deep tragedy of this as one’s arrogance
was a dismissal of self-love as in celebration?
What if mindfulness was just a false notion of intimacy?
What if trust, self trust, had no glitches,
no recourse of self-dismissal, no pause to reconsider,
no re-contextualizing to suit the denials from within,
no measuring as mentoring,
no apprehension towards embarrassment,
no internal authority figure imposition,
no social construct to be met,
no socially constructed ideological icons,
no rash of impulsiveness held without defense,
no energetic truth without proper spiritual introduction?
So say if you were that violin,
and all this being said, still fingers to bow to string,
where in soul-residence are you
behind who you have as your think?
If you came to understand, would you have to disrobe
of knowledge in order to play your being?
Say, that inspiration has you by an incomprehensible means
and you still will die with it on your face,
maybe even coming out from your eyes
and surely nesting resoundedly in your everlasting heart
as vibrational intelligence that does not demand.
Could you ever entertain the cause-worthiness to play it?
Of course, as you, the instrument of self as your soul? . . .