A Motley Crew of Poets, Indeed

A motley group of students take a field trip with their teacher to an old, run down monastery, built of great substance but in much need of restoration, set in a series of beautifully maintained gardens. Through dirty windows one glimpses the extraordinary greenery of the inner and outer sculpted and natural landscapes--inner courtyards and surrounding gardens with cypress trees growing along the grassy banks of a flowing stream. It speaks of enlightenment and the likes of William Blake. The assignment is to compose a traditional sonnet following a prescribed rhyme scheme. Afterwards, students are called out by name to read their compositions to the group. With great dramatic flair, one student pretends to conduct an orchestra as a prelude to the reading of his literary masterpiece. Another student greatly surprises the group by reading an exquisite poem written masterfully with perfect rhyme and image provoking metaphor. Yet another student reads her poem which ends abruptly mid-stanza and leaves the group puzzled over the lack of apparent meaning and the total departure from the specific assignment. I am called upon to read my poem, which I have completed following the given instructions, and I'm initially very pleased with my creative output until I begin comparing my poem to the exquisite compositions of others. Suddenly mine seems lame, and worthless, and I don't want to read it so I pretend to have lost it. I am not let off the hook, and the class waits while I search. In the meanwhile yet another student recites her poem of near perfection. Now my poem appears to be lost and I am glad I cannot find it. The teacher asks for all my materials--my books and various papers, and he begins a personal search for my lost poem. He finds other poems I've written, and drawings, and doodles and scribbles and underlined passages and marvels at it all. He points out the beauty of my personal inventory. Suddenly I am aglow with a renewed faith in myself and I too begin searching for the poem I have written. I find it and am pleased with it, I love it for what it is--my poem. Maybe not as sophisticated or erudite as some of the others, maybe not so rich in metaphor, not so colorful, but still, it is mine (and it is part of the whole). And all is well as I've listened to my teacher and stopped comparing and contrasting my work with that of others, stopped separating mine out.

We can always find people whose poetry of being is more beautiful than ours, just as we can easily find those whose poetry seems nonsensical, or lacking in rhyme and rhythm and substance. It's good to be aware of this great diversity and to observe it and soak it all in lovingly. But when we begin to compare ourselves in a judgmental way to those whose poetry we find more beautiful than ours we begin to doubt ourselves and lose touch with our inner teacher. The same is true when we compare ourselves with those whose poetry appears shallow and without meaning, for if we use it for comparative purposes to give rise to our own sense of well being, we have failed to truly embrace the beauty of diversity, we have turned off the dialog with our inner teacher. And so as we look out on to the poetic landscape of our lives, we seek to find learning and growth and beauty in all this, and focus our attention on exactly what we have before us in our own gardens--one day it may be lush and tropical, other days it may be a frightening barren landscape. Our outer bones and structure may begin to face decay, but it is what it is and we are who we are and so we begin to cultivate the poetry of our inner lives, listening to others, sharing, accepting, exercising non-envy and stepping forth into the circle and community of self-acceptance. By tending to our own gardens, we show others how to tend to theirs, and we all reap the bounty.

Om Hrim Om