Tracking

Photo by Devin Berko on Unsplash

I have been in many rooms with many different teachers who all wanted to be listened to and trusted. The ones who stood up to out-of-classroom scrutiny are the ones I went back to.

I was the first one to cry at the workshop.

And, though you opened your palms,

smiled with your bodhisattva face,

you forgot that I was there in the evening

when, wrapped in desert darkness,

you uncaged the sneer, let it roam the forests of your voice.

The footprints were still there in the morning.

So when you told me I could trust you,

I had the fresh cut tracks of the night before

to hold me to the truth.