Path of the Insiders
A Poem inspired by the Indo-Tibetan Dharma tradition
Upon a mountain robed in snow,
Where silent silver moonbeams flow,
A wanderer climbed with weary tread,
And carried questions in his head.
“What is this world that comes and goes? Why joy’s sweet flower conceals its thorns? Why hopes arise like morning mist, Then vanish where they once were kissed?”
The wind replied but did not speak. The stars shone bright upon the peak. At last beside an ancient cave bare
He met a wise yogi, sitting in simple wear.
The master smiled with knowing eyes, Reflecting neither earth nor skies. “Young traveller, before you roam, You first must learn to come back home.”
“Back home?” he asked. “But here I stand. I crossed the valleys of the land.” The yogi laughed, both warm and kind: “You’ve crossed the world, not crossed your mind.”
The master poured a cup of tea, And held it up for him to see.
“Observe the steam that drifts away, It does not linger, does not stay. So too all things that life composes, The mountain stands, the flower closes.
Your body changes day by day, Your thoughts like clouds drift on their way. All things assembled must depart, This is the first seal of the heart.”
The student watched the vapours curl, Like tiny ghosts above the world. He saw his childhood disappear, His future too seemed less severe.
For when we know all things must pass, We cease to cling to shards of glass. Impermanence, once feared and fled, Becomes the path by wisdom led.
“Now tell me,” said the lama then, “Why run in circles, again and again?”
The student answered, “Seeking delight, Chasing the pleasant, shunning the slight.” The yogi nodded. “There you see The root of restless misery.
The honey spread upon the blade Is sweet indeed, debts are paid. Conditioned joys are mixed with pain, And what is won is lost again.”
The student thought of all his years, His fleeting triumphs, hidden fears. The victories that did not last, The future chased, the present passed.
Then gentle sorrow filled his chest, Not dark despair, but truth confessed. And from that truth there softly grew A wish for every being too.
For who among the realms that roam Has truly found abiding home? The wealthy, poor, the weak, the strong, All seek belonging all life long.
Thus from renunciation’s flame Compassion rose and softly came.
The moon ascended clear and bright. The master pointed at its light.
“Now look within and tell me where The self resides you guard with care.”
The student searched from head to feet, Through memory’s lanes and heartbeat’s beat. He sought the owner of his name, Yet nowhere could he find the same.
A body? No, it changes fast. A mind? Each thought can never last. A feeling? Perceptions? Stories spun? None remained as only one.
The yogi said, “Now do not fear. The deepest teaching enters here.
The self was never what you thought. Yet do not think that all is naught. Like rainbows dancing after rain, Appearances arise again.
Dependent upon countless things The eagle flies, the blackbird sings. The flower blooms from earth and sky. Without conditions, all would die.
Because things lack a fixed foundation, There is growth and transformation. Because things are not locked in stone, Awakening can be fully known.”
The student saw the mountain side, The streams that through the valleys glide. Each shining thing seemed clear and free, Empty, yet full of mystery.
The night grew still beyond all sound. No creature stirred above the ground. The master then sat quietly, A direct peace not a concept of eternity.
“What lies beyond confusion’s keep? What wakes from samsara’s troubled sleep?”
The student listened to the breeze Moving gently through the trees. No answer came in word or phrase, Yet wisdom filled the mountain haze.
The grasping mind relaxed its hold. The anxious stories all grew old. For one brief moment, vast and clear, Nothing remained to grasp or fear.
Not somewhere far, Not something made, Not hidden in celestial shade.
The peace of Nirvana softly revealed, Like sunlight claimed its awareness field. Not added new, Not bought or earned, But recognised when delusion burned.
The dawn arrived with golden flame. The world appeared, yet not the same. The rivers flowed, The birds still flew, The sky remained its endless blue.
Yet now he saw the secret art, The insider’s path, the mindful heart.
Not fleeing life, Not clinging tight, But meeting each appearance right.
A thought arises, let it be. A feeling comes, allow it free. A joy appears, enjoy its grace. A sorrow comes, give it its place.
Awareness knowing, bright and clear, Needs neither hope nor doubt nor fear. Like space embracing moon and sun, It leaves no thing outside, not one.
So walk the path the sages trod, The Mahāsiddhas beyond the clod, The Buddhas, yogins, saints of old, Whose wealth was not in gems or gold.
Train bodhicitta day and night. Let wisdom guide compassion’s flight. See all appearances as teachers, The poor and kings, the saints and creatures.
For every moment, great or small, Contains the Dharma’s gentle call.
Impermanence loosens the chain. Compassion transforms the pain. Emptiness dissolves the wall. Awareness embraces all.
And when the seeker disappears, Along with grasped and grasper’s fears, The Snow Lion’s roar is heard within:
The path was never somewhere far. The traveller was the shining star. The Buddha sought through countless days
Was awareness knowing its own ways.
And thus the insiders quietly sing, Not seeking praise from any king:
“Within this moment, clear and bright, Samsara and Nirvana unite. Through wisdom’s gaze and compassion’s art, Awakening flowers within the heart.” ✨🙏🏻