Early in practice,
it is very helpful to have a glimpse of the other side of reality.
Even the tiniest glimpse will put a dent in our armor.
Yet in order to have a glimpse,
we must be willing to ask a simple question:
"Is there a perspective other than my own?"

Dennis Genpo Merzel¹

L i

Tuco had began to research the desert in Chile.
The Atacama.
Arlu asked him to begin there.


It is a desert unlike what he knew.
He drove the safe routes across it.
He flew, cautiously, over it.
Barren beauty stretched before him.
No matter where he looked:
barren,
beautiful,
dry,
dry,
dry.

It is impossible to know what kinds of life experiences
a person will need in order to have that question come up.
What did it take to get you here,
right now, in this moment of space and time?
Only a few of those forces can ever be known
because you are the karmic result of
everything that happened in the past.
Everything!

Dennis Genpo Merzel¹

L ii

Tuco considered what he'd read about no flies... ever.
And it was true,
alien to him,
but true.
He was well aware he lugged everything he needed in.
And he pondered the esthetic of taking it all out
or leaving it all here, buried or rocked over
so it would stay in place
no matter where the wind blew toward
or how brusque it was.

He considered the obvious experiment:
Styrofoam cup left to blow about,
to fly...
where?

A cup with karma?
Maybe, skimming the sand...
naah, no way.

The creepy thought
nagged him for days.

He wasn't English
but this was a noon day sun.
And he knew the research was done.
He was done
here.
Baked, fried
and strewn about the landscape.
A proto-fly?

He checked the radiator,
started the four-wheel
and turned again
toward water, electricity,
people
speaking
with other tongues.

A comfort to look forward to.
A place of the cold brew,
the cool shadows
where he could ponder
many angles on what is.

The Atacama is what it is,
the result of
everything that happened in the past.

Tuco scanned the horizon.
If he were home,
there would be monsoon clouds forming
on the horizon.
Idle breezes
waiting
for the dance
of rain.

As he got to town, he remembered,
home is where you are.
No monsoon this time.