Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Whoever now wishes to see properly what is the excellence and the profit of perfect detachment, let him take good heed of Christ's words when he spoke about his human nature and said to his disciples:
"It is expedient for you that I go from you,
for if I do not go, the Holy Spirit cannot come to you."
This is just as if he were to say:
"You have taken too much delight in my present image, so that the perfect delight of the Holy Spirit cannot be yours. So detach yourselves from the image, and unite yourselves to the formless being, for God's spiritual consolation is delicate; therefore he will not offer it to anyone except to him who disdains bodily consolations."
~ Meister Eckhart
from Meister Eckhart - Selections from his Essential Writings
When humility delivers a man
from attachment to his own words
and his own reputation,
he discovers that true joy is only possible
when we have completely forgotten ourselves,
and it is only when we pay no more attention to our life
and our own reputation and our own excellence
that we are at last completely free to serve God for His sake alone.
~ Thomas Merton
Monday, June 27, 2011
It is possible
that even the best counsel
cannot be processed
by the body.
All supplements to
our personal chemistry
are screened by tiny fanatical secret organs
that refuse much more than
they accept. It is hard
to add even minerals.
Iron tablets, for example,
are not correct
and pass through us like
windowless alien crafts.
What the body wants is so exact.
~ Kay Ryan
from The Best of It
Not I, not I, but the wind that blows through me!
A fine wind is blowing the new direction of Time.
If only I let it bear me, carry me, if only it carry me!
If only I am sensitive, subtle, oh, delicate, a winged gift!
If only, most lovely of all, I yield myself and am borrowed
By the fine, fine, wind that takes its course through the chaos of the world
Like a fine, an exquisite chisel, a wedge-blade inserted;
If only I am keen and hard like the sheer tip of a wedge
Driven by invisible blows,
The rock will split, we shall come at the wonder, we shall find the Hesperides.
Oh, for the wonder that bubbles into my soul,
I would be a good fountain, a good well-head,
Would blur no whisper, spoil no expression.
What is the knocking?
What is the knocking at the door in the night?
It is somebody wants to do us harm.
No, no, it is the three strange angels.
Admit them, admit them.
~ D.H. Lawrence
from The Complete Poems of D.H. Lawrence
many thanks to poetry chaikhana
Sunday, June 26, 2011
As some people age
of their eyes widen.
I do not think they weaken;
I think something weak strengthens
until they are more and more it,
like letting in heaven.
But other people are
mussels or clams, frightened.
Steam or knife blades mean open.
They hear heaven, they think boiled or broken.
~ Kay Ryan
from The Best of It
Friday, June 24, 2011
The goddess of discord, Eris, was naturally not popular in Olympus, and when the gods gave a banquet they were apt to leave her out. Resenting this deeply, she determined to make trouble... into an important marriage celebration to which she was not invited she threw a golden a golden apple marked "For the Fairest." Of course all the goddesses wanted it. Zeus was asked to judge between Aphrodite, Hera, and Pallus Athena, but wisely refused. He told them that prince Paris was an excellent judge of beauty, and that they should go to him. He was not asked, however, to gaze at the radiant divinities and choose which seemed to him the fairest, but only to consider the bribes each offered and choose which seemed to him best worth taking. What men cared about most was set before him. Hera promised to make him Lord of Europe and Asia, Athena, that he would lead the Trojans to victory against the Greeks and lay Greece in ruins; Aphrodite, that the fairest woman in all the world should be his. He gave Aphrodite the apple and in doing so, set the stage for the Trojan War.
~ Edith Hamilton
from Mythology - Timeless Tales of Gods and Heroes
story originally from The Judgement of Paris which
is part of the play Trojan Woman by Euripides
Thursday, June 23, 2011
May morning be astir with the harvest of night;
Your mind quickening to the eros of a new question,
Your eyes seduced by some unintended glimpse
That cut right through the surface to a source.
May this be a morning of innocent beginning,
When the gift within you slips clear
Of the sticky web of the personal
With its hurt and its hauntings,
And fixed fortress corners,
A morning when you become a pure vessel
For what wants to ascend from silence,
May your imagination know
The grace of perfect danger,
To reach beyond imitation,
And the wheel of repetition,
Deep into the call of all
The unfinished and unsolved
Until the veil of the unknown yields
And something original begins
To stir toward your senses
And grow stronger in your heart
In order to come to birth
In a clean line of form,
That claims from time
A rhythm not yet heard,
That calls space to
A different shape.
May it be its own force field
And dwell uniquely
Between the heart and the light
To surprise the hungry eye
By how deftly it fits
About its secret loss.
~ John O'Donohue
from To Bless the Space Between Us
Bright but hidden, the Self dwells in the heart.
Everything that moves, breathes, opens, and closes
Lives in the Self. He is the source of love
And may be known through love but not through
He is the goal of life. Attain this goal!
The shining Self dwells hidden in the heart.
Everything in the cosmos, great and small,
Lives in the Self. He is the source of life,
Truth beyond the transience of this world.
He is the goal of life. Attain this goal!
~ The Mundaka Upanishad
Modes of knowing
translation by Eknath Easwaran
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Not Christian or Jew or Muslim, not Hindu
Buddhist, sufi, or zen. Not any religion
or cultural system. I am not from the East
or the West, not out of the ocean or up
from the ground, not natural or ethereal, not
composed of elements at all. I do not exist,
am not an entity in this world or in the next,
did not descend from Adam and Eve or any
origin story. My place is placeless, a trace
of the traceless. Neither body or soul.
I belong to the beloved, have seen the two
worlds as one and that one call to and know,
first, last, outer, inner, only that
breath breathing human being.
translated by Coleman Barks
from The Essential Rumi
Saturday, June 18, 2011
A woman who was beautiful
removed her face
her head became smooth
blind and deaf
safe from the snares of mirrors
and from looks of love
amid the reeds of the sun
her head hatched by a sparrowhawk
could not be found
secrets much more beautiful
for not having been said
words not written
nameless ashes flown away
without marble plaque
so many wings to break
~ Alice (Rahon) Paalen
painting of Alice by her husband Wolfgang Paalen
with thanks to leda-swanson
Friday, June 17, 2011
We had not enough respect for the changing moon.
Then the days seemed to pass only to return again.
Having learned by loss that men’s days part from them forever,
We eat and drink together beneath the full moon
Acknowledging and celebrating the power that bereft us
And yet sheds over the earth a light that is beautiful.
~ Wendell Berry
after the Painting and Poem by Shen Chou
And the priestess spoke again and said:
Speak to us of Reason and Passion.
And he answered, saying:
Your soul is oftentimes a battlefield, upon which your reason
and your judgment wage war against your passion and your appetite.
Would that I could be the peacemaker in your soul,
that I might turn the discord and the rivalry of your elements into oneness and melody.
But how shall I, unless you yourselves be also the peacemakers,
nay, the lovers of all your elements?
Your reason and your passion are the rudder and the sails of your seafaring soul.
If either your sails or your rudder be broken, you can but toss and drift,
or else be held at a standstill in mid-seas.
For reason, ruling alone, is a force confining; and passion,
unattended, is a flame that burns to its own destruction.
Therefore let your soul exalt your reason to the height of passion,
that it may sing;
And let it direct your passion with reason,
that your passion may live through its own daily resurrection,
and like the phoenix rise above its own ashes.
I would have you consider your judgment and your appetite
even as you would two loved guests in your house.
Surely you would not honour one guest above the other;
for he who is more mindful of one loses the love and the faith of both.
Among the hills, when you sit in the cool shade of the white poplars,
sharing the peace and serenity of distant fields and meadows --
then let your heart say in silence, "God rests in reason."
And when the storm comes, and the mighty wind shakes the forest,
and thunder and lightning proclaim the majesty of the sky, --
then let your heart say in awe, "God moves in passion."
And since you are a breath in God's sphere,
and a leaf in God's forest,
you too should rest in reason and move in passion.
~ Kahlil Gibran
from The Prophet
with thanks to poetry chaikhana
Thursday, June 16, 2011
The Arabs used to say,
When a stranger appears at your door,
feed him for three days
before asking who he is,
where he's come from,
where he's headed.
That way, he'll have strength
enough to answer.
Or, by then you'll be
such good friends
you don't care.
Let's go back to that.
Rice? Pine nuts?
Here, take the red brocade pillow.
My child will serve water
to your horse.
No, I was not busy when you came!
I was not preparing to be busy.
That's the armor everyone put on
to pretend they had a purpose
in the world.
I refuse to be claimed.
Your plate is waiting.
We will snip fresh mint
into your tea.
~ Naomi Shihab Nye
from 19 Varieties of Gazelle
This was the time which began with his feeling as general and anonymous as a slowly recovering convalescent. He didn't love anything, unless it could be said that he loved existing. The humble love that his sheep felt for him was no burden; like sunlight falling through clouds, it dispersed around him and softly shimmered upon the meadows. On the innocent trail of their hunger, he walked silently over pastures of the world. Strangers saw him on the Acropolis, and perhaps for many years he was one of the shepherds in Les Baux, and saw petrified time outlast that noble family which, in spite of all their conquests under the holy numbers seven and three, could not overcome the fatal sixteen-rayed star on their own coat-of-arms. Or should I imagine him at Orange, resting against the rustic triumphal arch? Should I see him in the soul-inhabited shade of Alyscamps, where, among the tombs that lie open as the tombs of the resurrected, his glance chases a dragonfly?
~ Rainer Maria Rilke
from The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge
translated by Stephen Mitchell
Geronimo, was born on this day in 1829 near the present day town of Clifton, in southeastern Arizona. He was the fourth of eight children, four boys and four girls, and was named Goyathlay — "one who yawns." He was received into the Council of Warriors when he was 17, which meant he was now allowed to marry, which he did, and the young couple had three children, by and by. His life seemed headed down a peaceful, uneventful path.
In 1858, Goyathlay and his family traveled with the rest of their tribe down to Old Mexico, where they set up a temporary camp. The women and children stayed behind in the camp while the men — with the exception of a few guards — left to hunt and trade. On the men's return, they discovered that Mexican troops had attacked the camp, stealing their horses, weapons, and supplies and killing not only the guards but also many of the women and children as well. Goyathlay lost his mother, his wife, and all of his children in the attack. He also left behind his peaceful life and became a fierce warrior, conducting numerous raids in northern Mexico and the southwestern United States. He was so fearless in his attacks that the Mexican soldiers cried out to their patron, St. Jerome, for aid: "Cuidado! Geronimo!" It became a battle cry for Apaches, and Goyathlay's new name.
Why did he fight?
Geronimo was a member of the Chiricahua Apache tribe whose homelands in the deserts of New Mexico were annexed first by Mexico and later by the United States during its expansion into the south-west during the 19th century. His insurgency was part of a wider rebellion by Native Indians against their treatment by white settlers, who carried out what in modern terms might be called ethnic cleansing: removing tribes from ancestral territories and (in some cases) placing a bounty on their scalps. Geronimo's success was down to old-fashioned derring-do, and sheer good luck. Because of repeated close shaves with mortality, many followers believed he was resistant to bullets. His men were adept at using their opponents' technology – including rifles and pistols – against them.
How was he captured?
After more than 30 years the US General Nelson Miles tracked Geronimo to Arizona. The rebels were exhausted after decades on the run, and their number had dwindled to just 36 men, many of whom (including their leader) had taken to heavy drinking. In the autumn of 1886, Geronimo negotiated a tactical surrender, agreeing to lay down his arms on condition that his followers would be allowed to disband and return home to their families. But the US reneged on its promises, and promptly took Geronimo and his troops into custody. They spent seven years in prison in Alabama before being transferred to Fort Sill, where they lived out the rest of their days in a form of open prison.
from the independent
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
"When someone is seeking," said Siddhartha, "it happens quite easily that he only sees the thing that he is seeking; that he is unable to find anything, unable to absorb anything, because he is only thinking of the thing he is seeking, because he has a goal, because he is obsessed with his goal.
...'someday' is illusion; it is only a comparison. ... The world, Govinda, is not imperfect or slowly evolving along a long path to perfection. No, it is perfect at every moment; ... I just love the stone and the river and all these things that we see and from which we can learn. I can love a stone, Govinda, and a tree or a piece of bark. These are things and one can love things. But one cannot love words. Therefore teachings are of no use to me; they have no hardness, no softness, nor colors, no corners, so smell, no taste - they have nothing but words.
Perhaps that is what prevents you from finding peace, perhaps there are too many words, for even salvation and virtue. Samsara and Nirvana are only words, Govinda. Nirvana is not a thing; there is only the word Nirvana."
~ Hermann Hesse
Today is the anniversary of the day King John of England placed his seal on the Magna Carta, granting basic liberties to his subjects. He wasn't the first English king to grant a charter, but he was the first to have it forced on him by his barons. He had taxed the Church and the barons heavily to fund the Third Crusade, defend his holdings in Normandy, and pay for unsuccessful wars, and England was on the brink of civil war. The charter limited the monarchy's absolute power and paved the way for the formation of Parliament, and it is the nearest thing to a "Bill of Rights" that Britain has ever had. It guaranteed, among other things, that
"No free man shall be arrested, or imprisoned, or deprived of his property, or outlawed, or exiled or in any way destroyed, nor shall we go against him or send against him, unless by legal judgement of his peers, or by the law of the land."
Of course, John had no intention of upholding the document, and it was repealed almost immediately on the grounds that he gave his seal under duress. But the idea had taken root, and through a succession of subsequent charters, it became the basis for the British legal system and, in turn, the legal systems of most of the world's democracies. Parts of the United States Constitution were lifted directly from the Magna Carta, and it is so central to our own idea of law that the American Bar Association erected a monument at the meadow of Runnymede. The yew tree, under which the signing is believed to have taken place, still stands.
Alive today, the yew tree at Runnymede has lived over 2,000 years.
with thanks to writers almanac
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
A river tugs at whatever is within reach, trying to set it afloat and carry it downstream. Living trees are undermined and washed away. No piece of driftwood is safe, though stranded high up the bank; the river will rise to it, and away it will go.
The river extends this power of drawing all things with it even to the imagination of those who live on its banks. Who can long watch the ceaseless lapsing of a river's current without conceiving a desire to set himself adrift, and, like the driftwood which glides past, float with the stream clear to the final ocean.
~ Harlan Hubbard
from Shantyboat - A River Way of Life
reminiscent of Van Gogh's Starry Night,
massive congregations of greenish phytoplankton
swirl in dark water around Sweden’s Gotland island
in a satellite picture by the U.S. Geological Survey
Monday, June 13, 2011
Dance there upon the shore;
What need have you to care
For wind or water’s roar?
And tumble out your hair
That the salt drops have wet;
Being young you have not known
The fool’s triumph, nor yet
Love lost as soon as won,
Nor the best labourer dead
And all the sheaves to bind.
What need have you to dread
The monstrous crying of wind?
Has no one said those daring
Kind eyes should be more learn’d?
Or warned you how despairing
The moths are when they are burned,
I could have warned you, but you are young,
So we speak a different tongue.
O you will take whatever’s offered
And dream that all the world’s a friend,
Suffer as your mother suffered,
Be as broken in the end.
But I am old and you are young,
And I speak a barbarous tongue.
~ William Butler Yeats
(13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939)
from Responsibilities and Other Poems, 1916
thanks to woods lot
It's hard to know what sort of rough music
Could send our forgetfulness back into the ground,
From which the gravediggers pulled it years ago.
The first moment of the day we court forgetfulness.
Even when we are fully awake, a century can
Go by in the space of a single heartbeat.
The life we lose through forgetfulness resembles
The earth that sticks to the sides of plowshares
And the eggs the hen has abandoned in the woods.
A thousand gifts were given to us in the womb.
We lost hundreds during the forgetfulness of birth,
And we lost the old heaven on the first day of school.
Forgetfulness resembles the snow that weighs down
The fir boughs; behind our house you'll find
A forest going on for hundreds of miles.
It's to our credit that we can remember
So many lines of Rilke, but the purpose of forgetfulness
Is to remember the last time we left this world.
~ Robert Bly
from Talking into the Ear of a Donkey
Sunday, June 12, 2011
When you do things
from your soul,
you feel a river
moving in you,
When actions come
from another section,
the feeling disappears
Don’t let others lead you
They may be blind
or, worse, vultures.
Reach for the rope of God
And what is that?
Putting aside self-will.
Because of willfulness
people sit in jail,
the trapped bird’s wings are tied,
fish sizzle in the skillet.
The anger of police is willfulness.
You've seen a magistrate
inflict visible punishment
Now see the invisible.
If you could leave your selfishness,
you would see how
you've been torturing your soul
We are born and live inside
black water in a well.
How could we know
what an open field of sunlight is?
Don’t insist on going
where you think you want to go
Ask the way to the spring.
Your living pieces
will form a harmony.
There is a moving palace
that floats in the air
with balconies and
clear water flowing through,
yet contained under a single tent.
~ Jelalludin Rumi
from The Soul of Rumi
translated by Coleman Barks
art by van gogh