Homage to Dr. Seuss and the un-doctors (like Molly Sante) who propel
the healing of the planet forward.
It is easy to cloister,
Midst the cacophony of attachment,
See the grasping of diamonds,
The guzzling of wine,
The slobbering o’er foie gras,
The shackles of possessions,
The healer’s no hermit,
She knows not, “That’s mine.”
For only by merging
Can she land in moksha,
The healer does beseech
That the Powers That Be
Allow her indulgence,
To be mute in her aura,
To commune with the cosmos,
To be tetherless and free.
Yet the karma asserts itself
And the weak and the hurting
Arrive on her doorstep,
She is deaf in the din,
Their wounds rip her organs,
Their blood salts her taste buds,
She wants to say no,
Yet instead chirps, “Come in.”
It is only thru service
That the chains can be broken,
It is only by giving
That respite can be claimed,
And the great re-emergence
Is there for all seekers,
So the healer lays hands on
The feeble and maimed,
The injured, the disabled, the mangled, the disfigured,
They nip at her countenance,
She withers inside,
She draws from the Angels,
And siphons their wisdom,
For she cannot escape now,
There’s no place to hide.
“We say to all Earthlings
Who seek to be healers,
To gaze in the looking glass,
Your patients are there,
You exist not to cure them
But instead to embrace them,
To see yourself in them,
Envelop them in care.
Their tears wet your lashes,
Their wails make you shudder,
You pray they are quenched
By the Goddess’ udder.
And as their pain ceases,
So too, you are healed,
Your soul’s raw and open,
There is nothing concealed.
The IS knows your secrets,
Your future and past,
The pain in your fury,
The mirth in your laugh.
The IS up in Is-ville
Loves all that It sees,
When the Healer follows suit
Then every cough, pain and wheeze
Will trickle away smoothly,
Like clear vernal rain,
For you are a hologram,
And so is your pain.
Amen.
the healing of the planet forward.
It is easy to cloister,
Midst the cacophony of attachment,
See the grasping of diamonds,
The guzzling of wine,
The slobbering o’er foie gras,
The shackles of possessions,
The healer’s no hermit,
She knows not, “That’s mine.”
For only by merging
Can she land in moksha,
The healer does beseech
That the Powers That Be
Allow her indulgence,
To be mute in her aura,
To commune with the cosmos,
To be tetherless and free.
Yet the karma asserts itself
And the weak and the hurting
Arrive on her doorstep,
She is deaf in the din,
Their wounds rip her organs,
Their blood salts her taste buds,
She wants to say no,
Yet instead chirps, “Come in.”
It is only thru service
That the chains can be broken,
It is only by giving
That respite can be claimed,
And the great re-emergence
Is there for all seekers,
So the healer lays hands on
The feeble and maimed,
The injured, the disabled, the mangled, the disfigured,
They nip at her countenance,
She withers inside,
She draws from the Angels,
And siphons their wisdom,
For she cannot escape now,
There’s no place to hide.
“We say to all Earthlings
Who seek to be healers,
To gaze in the looking glass,
Your patients are there,
You exist not to cure them
But instead to embrace them,
To see yourself in them,
Envelop them in care.
Their tears wet your lashes,
Their wails make you shudder,
You pray they are quenched
By the Goddess’ udder.
And as their pain ceases,
So too, you are healed,
Your soul’s raw and open,
There is nothing concealed.
The IS knows your secrets,
Your future and past,
The pain in your fury,
The mirth in your laugh.
The IS up in Is-ville
Loves all that It sees,
When the Healer follows suit
Then every cough, pain and wheeze
Will trickle away smoothly,
Like clear vernal rain,
For you are a hologram,
And so is your pain.
Amen.
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