Chopping potatoes

Chopping down potatoes,

feeling the way how my Dad used to do before,

Hundreds and thousands of lives’ time before.

To make it so perfectly,

paper-thinly fine-cut,

hairlike, featherlike fine-cut.

Chopping and chopping,

with a big heavy, Chinese square stainless steel butcher-knife.

Chopping away all my fears over knives,

All the past lives’ fears over hurts, injuries, cuts

and needs of running away from harshness and darkness.

Chopping away all the self-centered presumptuous pompous ego and self-righteousness.

Chopping away all the dull edges of the self that are in the way

of the present moment now.

Feeling the soft and tender presence of Dad on the inside.

Showing me how to simply allowing it be.

Letting the weight of the mental dropping down…

Like a magic, slicing open the blankness of the unknown juicy yummy delicious Potatoes,

in a perpendicular way.

Let it slicing open, effortlessly,

as if watching the raindrop on the window panes, on the foot steps, quietly, yet, with a palpable texture,

running down my veins, muscle grooves, fine lines of the palm...

Sinking down profoundly among the vastness of Dad’s love,

Silent, with a renounced temperature of glowing warmth,

and some sparkling angel white lights,

that can suddenly brighten up a heart

or a whole starry galaxy.

And, with a steady pace, marching forward,

In a chopping motion,

Steadily and rhythmically.

One day at a time.