The question

All of life is a question.
The reality of life is a question.
And each moment, every event
awaits our response.

I do not mean that particular events --
this or that occurrence -- is a question.
I mean the whole range of life
is a query.

When you look out at life,
it looks back at you with wondering eyes.
How will you answer?
What will you answer?

Are you the answer?

It is also like a door:
a door with a keyhole in the shape of a question.
The right answer unlocks the door;
the right answer enters the other side.

We are, in fact, that answer
but our meaning remains unformed.
So life waits, and asks;
it keeps asking all the days of our lives.

And our answer has no form.
To say it did, we would have to be something else
capable of giving that answer.
But we are the answer.

So in a sense, the question and the answer
circle about one another;
and each waits for the other
to the make the first move.

Question and answer:
they seem like two things, but are not.
They could be called one thing,
but they are not.

Without the answer,
there would be no question;
without the question,
there would be no answer.

They are each the reality of the other.

And this reality lives.
In a dance of wholeness,
in the interplay of one state against the other,
time is seen to unfold.

So we interact; we see each other.
We have intimate communion --
as if life were the mirror
in which we saw ourselves.

The drawn out Moment of anticipation;
the continual asking;
the parade of the same Present
in a million forms:

It thrives, it yearns;
it begs the two to join--
and yet is coy, coquette.
It enjoys the distance.

They are like lovers.

And this question and answer,
are destined to meet;
they find happiness
in the fulfillment of one another.

How to answer?
You are the answer.
It is only this fact
that must be understood.

Which is to say: Understood.

life keeps on looking,
keeps on seeking,
the fragrance of its mate.

Until these bare essences
they remain forever unsatisfied --
unasked and unanswered.