Touch Nothing But The Lamp

Buried under the racist and sexist material of Disney's "Aladdin" is a useful metaphor for mindfulness that I'd like to excavate here: the Cave of Wonders.

A note to my readers: As always, thank you for reading. Your presence here in the Courtyard inspires me, frightens me, emboldens me. I appreciate you, perhaps more than you know.

I have been posting here twice a month for 7 months now. Some of you have chosen to become paid subscribers. To you, I promised to send a handmade gratitude postcard, and to share exclusive content once or twice a month, along with a monthly sonic meditation. I’ve followed through on the postcard, but not on the exclusive content. I’m making some changes now to better reflect what commitments I can actually fulfill to honor your investment.

I’ll still post twice a month, but the second post of each month will be reserved for my paid subscribers. I still reserve the right to post a surprise third piece each month, and this, too, will be for my paid subscribers. I may get my act together and start sending out sonic meditations at some point for my paid subscribers, but for now, I’m taking that off the table.

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Onward.

Actually, one more thing, a note on the inspiration for the following poem:

Aladdin was a folktale long before it was a Disney movie. The story appears in The Book of One Thousand and One Nights (Arabian Nights) and has ancient roots in the Middle East and possibly China. But the only contact with the story I’ve ever had is through the Disney movie. I watched it dozens of times as a kid.

I rewatched it last summer with Tana, a throwback to our childhoods, and was struck by the inspiration for this poem. Before the film began, however, a disclaimer appears on the screen: “This program includes negative depictions and/or mistreatment of people or cultures. These stereotypes were wrong then and are wrong now. Rather than remove this content, we want to acknowledge its harmful impact, learn from it and spark conversation to create a more inclusive future together.”

Indeed, it is a Disney film of its time, a vector for a serious viral lode of racist and sexist tropes. The following poem is not a deconstruction of the Disney film, but it felt important to at least acknowledge the problematic material from which the gem of this idea for the poem emerged. But then again, that gem itself was taken by Disney from an ancient folk tradition in the Middle East.

So, in short:

Thank you to the ancient wisdom-carriers who crafted this story, and to the age-old lineage of storytellers and story-listeners for keeping the story alive, and also to Disney for their dubious role in propagating the story to the point that it could find its way to me, so that I could sift through it for myself and receive some of its gifts. And while I’m in prayer mode, I’ll drop another: May we all continue deconstructing the stories we picked up as kids, from Disney, from the adults we were exposed to, from the other kids we wanted to be like, those hidden stories within stories about ourselves, about others, that just weren’t true or clear or kind, which we came to believe, which is actually a good transition…

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This mind is like the Cave of Wonders.

When we touch the forbidden treasure,

try to hold onto it,

make it our own,

make it who we are,

it tends not to work out so well.

We are to walk through this cave,

eyes wide open,

and touch nothing but the lamp.

But what even is the lamp?

Wouldn’t you like to know.

Wouldn’t we all.

I certainly would.

Maybe I’ll get there someday

to the sanctum sanctorum of this cave,

but there are just so many treasures, man,

so many goodies to get into,

and what’s the old lamp anyway?

Who cares about the lamp?

This gobsmacking ruby of a thought,

this idea,

this story,

this memory,

this whole reality,

or is it an illusion,

whatever it is,

I wanna touch this ruby so bad,

snatch it up,

believe it,

become it,

make myself a crown of it,

build myself a palace with it,

because what else am I supposed to be doing here in this cave?

Touch nothing but the lamp?

Like, nothing nothing?

When I touch the wonders, the cave comes crashing down.

That’s how this goes.

At least I learn something in the process.

Or do I?

If I learned, why would I pick up that same goddamn ruby,

again and again, day after day?

I must be the monkey.

I cannot help myself,

stop myself,

from grabbing and hoarding all these thoughts,

raising my ruby kingdom,

my shining empire

in the dark.

Oh, sweet monkey.

Touch nothing but the lamp means absolutely nothing to you.

Because that ruby, dude!

It’s so big.

And I am so poor.

Well, not poor exactly, but definitely not financially secure.

I need that money.

But see, that’s just another ruby right there,

I need that money,

paved into the glittering streets of my secret kingdom.

I see it happening, sometimes,

watch myself picking up the wonders in this cave,

but I’m pretty sure my monkey’s picking up all kinds of shit when I’m not looking.

I think I live in a perpetual state of collapse.

The cave is crashing down as a matter of course

in here,

one thought after another, glommed onto and believed.

We make it normal, somehow, don’t we?

We get used to the apocalypse

of believing.

What if everyone only touched the lamp today?

What if I touched nothing but the lamp?

But my what-ifs are just more treasure,

gorgeous, glittering, gobsmacking rubies.

Maybe I should go find an actual ruby and gaze into it for an hour.

Maybe I should go pick up an actual sapphire, an actual diamond.

There are ten thousand lamps all around me right now,

waiting to be touched.

Those two birds singing outside my window.

The grass of the lawn I mowed last weekend, every blade bedewed in dusk.

The cars shushing by on the road.

The mosquito bites on my back from picking blueberries yesterday.

And the blueberries.

The blueberries.

The blueberries.