Vocation to truth (Written after morning zazen)

For years I chased the idea of vocation,

as if it were something to get,

something to wear; a robe, a cassock,

a merit badge to show my worth to the world,

to myself.

 

I joined Aleister Crowley's A.'.A.'. in search of it, 

and was led along the road of truth,

up the garden path.

 

I considered joining a monastery;

Trappist, perhaps even Carthusian,

to spend my days singing psalms,

hoeing beans,

and other menial work.

 

For a time, I toyed with Buddhism, 

should I shave my head,

wear the robe,

carry the bowl?

 

Did I, do I, have a vocation? 

The question asked itself of me,

day and night.

“Yes”, came the reply,

again and again, 

and still I sought,

as if I hadn't heard.

 

Not to the cloister,

nor the robe and bowl, 

least of all to the costume

and the knowing, beatific smile of one who's got

what he thinks he always wanted.

Only a vocation to truth (small t).

Not the Truth:

(You can't handle the Truth!),

hidden from the profane

behind a robe and a wall,

which only invitation to ‘the club’ would reveal.

 

But the 'truth' of small things: 

Getting up, sitting down,

a cup of coffee.

Knee that aches on wet days,

A walk in the park. 

The quiet return to what is, 

as it is in itself,

when robes, orders, 

things to admire in a mirror, are put away, 

like my son's scattered toys

that I put away each morning.