15.

The ancient Masters were profound and subtle.
Their wisdom was unfathomable.
There is no way to describe it;
all we can describe is their appearance.
They were careful
as someone crossing an iced-over stream.
Alert as a warrior in enemy territory.
Courteous as a guest.
Fluid as melting ice.
Shapable as a block of wood.
Receptive as a valley.
Clear as a glass of water.
Do you have the patience to wait
till your mud settles and the water is clear?
Can you remain unmoving
till the right action arises by itself?
The Master doesn’t seek fulfillment.
Not seeking, not expecting,
she is present, and can welcome all things.

14.

Look and it can’t be seen.

Listen, and it can’t be heard.

Reach, and it can’t be grasped.

Above, it isn’t bright.

Below, it isn’t dark.

Seamless, unnamable,

it returns to the realm of nothing.

Form that includes all forms,

image without an image,

subtle, beyond all conception.

Approach it and there is no beginning;

follow it and there is no end.

You can’t know it, but you can be it,

at ease in your own life.

Just realize where you come from:

this is the essence of wisdom.

The Nature of What Is

The pervasive theme … of Prajnaparamita is signaled by the phrase: the depth of unthinkability. The nature of What Is … can never be described, thought about or indicated in any way.

The following terms are, therefore, used … to refer to the Perfection of Wisdom, Mother Prajnaparamita herself: unfindable, unthinkable, indescribable, indecipherable,  indefinable, ungraspable, unformulatable, inconceivable, incomparable, unlocatable, unisolatable, unapproachable, unchangeable, unreachable, uncalibratable, unframable, uncorrelatable, uncharacterizable, insubstantial, nonperspectival, non self-existing, foundationless, baseless, traceless, nameless, pathless, goalless, abodeless, stainless, measureless, connectionless, relationless.

Mother dwells at the center of my being,

forever delightfully at play.

Whatever conditions of consciousness may arise,

I hear through them the music of her life-giving names,

Om Tara, Om Kali.

Closing my eyes, I perceive the radiant Black Mother

as indivisible, naked awareness,

dancing fiercely or gently on my heart lotus.

She wears a garland of snow-white skulls,

bright emblem of freedom from birth and death.

Gazing upon her resplendent nakedness,

all concepts and conventions vanish.

Those who judge by mundane standards call me mad.

Timid and limited persons can think what they wish.

My only longing is to express

the total madness of her love.

This poet child of the Wisdom Goddess

cries out with abandon:

“The Queen of the Universe

resides within the flower of my secret heart.

Mother! Mother! Mother!

I seek refuge at your beautiful feet,

and delicate and fragrant as the dark blue lotus.

As my body dissolves into earth

and my mind into space,

may I dissolve into you.”