after enlightenment, the dishes

I call out to the nameless plurality of the Divine and I say, “Who among you is calling me? Who is reaching outward? To whom do I open my hands?”

Silence answers me back, but it is not the silence of absence. It is the silence of presence. Someone is waiting for me to come to my senses.

I call out again and I say, “What am I working toward? What will be my great work, and how will I accomplish it? Who will I become when I have undertaken this work?”

Silence again. There is, perhaps, a smile.

I call out a third time, irritated, and I say, “Why is my work delayed? I am ready to begin it! Why am I waiting? For what purpose am I being held still?”

Silence, in which my plaintive questions echo deeper and deeper, until the questions fold over on themselves and become an answer:

To learn to listen, to wait, and to be still.

And now I feel foolish. Like I’d gone up to a Zen monk in meditation and demanded he tell me about the monastery. Or to a museum and loudly asked what all those paintings were for. Or to a library and said, “Damn, there’s a lot of books here!”

Stillness and patience have never been my strong suits. Apparently it’s time for me to learn them.