I wish I had visionary verification of your existence,
It would quench the thirst of my doubt.
My faith is strong, you know it is.
My voice saying your name
Is familiar to you.
But the karma of the culture
In which I was raised
Casts deep doubts on the existence
Of spiritual heights
And those who have attained them.
So this niggling, nasty doubt
Sometimes pokes its head in my bedroom
In the late night’s silence.
I have tried ridding myself
Of all that makes me unsure
Just as one tries to shake an empty wine bottle
To get the pushed in cork back out.
I wonder why I haven’t had a vision
But then
I look at my life
And it seems to be mostly about
My seeking pleasure.
So what can I really expect,
To have Bodhisattvas ironing my socks?
In the end, I must turn my doubt over to you, Amitabha.
I make it your business now, let your light resolve it away.
I will just try to ignore it
Preoccupy my mind
And if all else fails,
I’ll simply say your name
Over and over and over.
I will inundate the doubt,
Sending down a deluge of droplets
Of the Buddha-name
To fill up my mind’s caverns
And any other place my doubt has tried to hide away.
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