Gurus: A Poem

I set out on a day-hike, and somehow
wound up in the Valley of Suffering.
Guess who I met there? You.
The Ganges and Amazon have
nothing on this river of grief;
it wraps the world, overflows up into the sky,
spirals beyond planets.
Gurus tell you to keep dipping your cup into it
and eventually you’ll bring up clear water,
even wine,
but they should all be
sent back to kindergarten, with a note saying,
“He forgot the basics.”
We all want God’s power, discover
it’s out of reach, and then
here come the gamesters
who tell us we don’t really exist,
it’s all a play of mirrors with no shoot-out at the end,
and we give them our money, aching with gratitude.
My oldest brother, himself a guru, explained to me—
while treating us to dinner at a Michelin-starred restaurant:
filets de veau, chocolate tulips, Moët & Chandon—
that the world is just a veil of illusion, that
the atrocities we watch on the news every night
the horrors saturating history,
the evils being inflicted on innocents right this minute,
are nothing but maya.
I replied: “‘I have long dreamt of such a world,
but being awaked, do despise my dream.’”
He smiled.
“You despise wisdom? And besides, what’s
Shakespeare got to do with it?”
I smiled back, and put my hand on his:
“Everyone knows your answers shine like jewels!
But answers are answers to questions.
I honor the Question.”

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