by Rebecca Bradley


How strange it is,

This thing called family.

Tight bonds of worry and concern

That span the depth and breadth

Of oceans, seas and the awkward

Timetabling of international phone calls.


How strange it is,

This exclusivity of love

For those alive primarily

In daydreamed fantasy

Whilst those whose everyday

Toil keeps us alive

Slip below the scope of our radar.


How strange it is

The pain felt upon brief separation

From ones enmeshed with ‘I’ and ‘mine.’

Yet largely unphased are we

By the painful arising and ceasing

Of life in the rest of the world.


How wonderful it would be

To be free of this

Bondage of partiality

That keeps us locked away

From seeing our true nature

Of expansive interdependency.


How wonderful it would be

To have a heart filled with love

Upon mere sight of that

Possessing the breath of life

Emboldened by caring concern

To be a cause of their joy.


May I work tirelessly

To see others outside the

Framework of just this life.

Setting those I hold dear

Free from a love encumbered

By unchecked expectations

And selfish motivations.


Moved by compassion

May I recognize all beings.

Kind mothers and fathers suffering

Within the depths of the cyclic round

Fueled by their own

Lack of equanimity.


Wise Ones, hold me close

As I disentangle pure intent

From afflicted ways of being.

So I can be of benefit

To all embraced as family.