I wrote this little poem at a retreat with Gangaji.  It’s an attempt to express something about the place that stories (and story fields) arise from.  I offer it in honor of that placeless place.  Lorraine Cook

Freedom in the Binding

My teacher told me to write about Illusion and the Truth. 
I wrote Illusions on the left side of my journal
and Truth responded on the right.

Until it became obvious
they were opposing each other.

“Where exactly do you meet?” I wrote. 
And discovered, then, the binding,
A slit so narrow, there aren’t any words.

I will write you a book of Truth and Illusion
but where I rest is in the binding.

The place where consciousness is born and breathes,
writing out the pages of a story that
holds together only by what binds it.