Carried by the surprise Of its own unfolding

.

I would like to live
Like a river flows,
Carried by the surprise
Of its own unfolding.
.
~ John O'Donohue
.

Jerusalem

A hand in my soul can reach out and touch Jerusalem

as my other hand tastes the beauty of the Rhine.

And my bare foot can stand upon the holy ashes of rain – each drop a

fallen Phoenix – that sang out from the fire of union

with clay.

The hills, the valleys, the beasts, the vineyards, the sacred meadows

on our earth and body – they shall pass and ascend as all form does,

tiring of the space within a cage;

for all crowds the soul but the infinite. Ascenders to God we are.

Look though how we enrich this planet with our melting organic

shadows, wondrous shadows are all but He.

What a womb God has – what wild love He must have made to

Himself for days and days without stopping

to have given birth to all you can imagine, and to all you cannot

conceive.

All language has taken an oath to fail to describe Him;

any attempt to do so is the height of arrogance and will

always declare some kind of war:

the inner ones that undermine our strength, and the outer conflicts

that maim red.

I cried out one night in the madness of separation from love,

in the madness of doing, of trying to add to the Perfect;

for Perfect is All.

The awakened heart is like a luminous sphere – just giving without

thought to any who may come close or gaze at it.

The soul becomes blessedly lost to all

but its own holy

being.

When we cannot be who we are our divine senses become mute,

mute and sick from the insanity of judging

what He made Immaculate.

Who must God have made love to in order to have given birth to

all this sound,

to this sacred spectrum of color, scents, and music from the

wind’s body and existence’s plea for mercy – that

plea for the real mercy, unbearable joy?

Once we had four legs and tails so useful to balance our raid into

heaven, and I found them again.

I am a swimming galaxy tonight. Angels prowl around me

hoping I will toss them a fresh piece of light -

here dears, here, my sack is full.

The universe rents space from me, and oceans are drawn

from my will. How can that be?

For I can touch Jerusalem while my other hand tastes

the beauty of the

Rhine.

Yes, I can kiss Jerusalem while my mouth

tastes the wonders of

the Rhine.

~ Meister Eckhart

A man traveling across a field encountered a tiger

.

.

Buddha told a parable in a sutra:

 

A man traveling across a field encountered a tiger.
He fled, the tiger after him. 

Coming to a precipice, he caught hold of the root of a wild vine

 and swung himself down over the edge. The tiger sniffed at him from above. 

 Trembling, the man looked down to where, far below, 

 another tiger was waiting to eat him. 

 Only the vine sustained him.

Two mice, one white and one black, 

 little by little started to gnaw away the vine.

 The man saw a luscious strawberry near him.

 

 Grasping the vine with one hand, he plucked the strawberry

 with the other. How sweet it tasted!
.

 

 

from  Zen Flesh Zen Bones, 

 compiled Paul Reps and Nyogen Senzaki

 

 

 

 

.

surrender

If the goal is surrender,
or freefall,
remove the safety net.


Security is prison
if freedom
lives outside.


There is only unity
Everything else is chaotic healing of 

thinking we are separate.




~ Beatrice Arroe

as I sit here

As I sit here
in my little boat
tied to the shore
of the passing river
in a time of ruin,

I think of you,
old ancestor,
and wish you well.



~ Wendell Berry

time of judging

The time of judging
Who is drunk or sober,
Who is right and who is wrong
Who is closer to god, and who is farther away
All that is over

This caravan is led instead by a great delight,
The simple joy that sits with us now

That is the grace

~ Hafiz

Here where the dark-sourced stream brims up

.

Here where the dark-sourced stream brims up,

Reflecting daylight, making sound

In its stepped fall from cup to cup

Of tumbled rocks, singing its round

.

From cloud to sea to cloud, I climb

The deer road through the leafless trees

Under a wind that batters limb

On limb, still roaring as it has

.

Two nights and days, cold in slow spring.

But ancient song in a wild throat

Recalls itself and starts to sing

In storm-cleared light; and the bloodroot,

.

Twinleaf, and rue anemone

Among bare shadows rise, keep faith

With what they have been and will be

Again: frail stem and leaf, mere breath

.

Of white and starry bloom, each form

Recalling itself to its place

And time.  Give thands, for no windstorm

Or human wrong has altered this,

.

The forfiet Garden that recalls

Itself here, where both we and it

Belong; no act or thought rebels

In this brief  Sabbath now, time fit

.

To be eternal. Such a bliss

Of bloom’s no ornament, but root

And light, a saving loveliness,

Starred firmament here underfoot.

.

~ Wendell Berry

.

I liked her from the first

I liked her from the first. She was of most pleasing appearance.

 She was very mild. Her eyes were the mildest I had ever seen.

 In this she was quite unlike the rest of the girls and women of the Folk,

 who were born viragos. She never made harsh, angry cries,

 and it seemed to be her nature to flee away from trouble

 rather than to remain and fight.
...
The mildness I have mentioned seemed to emanate from her whole being.

 Her bodily as well as facial appearance was the cause of this.

 Her eyes were larger than most of her kind, and they were not so deep-set, 

while the lashes were longer and more regular. Nor was her nose so thick

 and squat. It had quite a bridge, and the nostrils opened downward.

Her incisors were not large, nor was her upper lip long and down-hanging,

 nor her lower lip protruding. She was not very hairy, except on the outsides

 of arms and legs and across the shoulders; and while she was thin-hipped,

 her calves were not twisted and gnarly.
...
I have often wondered, looking back upon her from the twentieth century

 through the medium of my dreams, and it has always occurred to me

 that possibly she may have been related to the Fire People. 

Her father, or mother, might well have come from that higher stock.

 

 

 

 
~ Jack London

 from Before Adam

 

 

.

Interior Portrait

You don't survive in me

because of memories;

nor are you mine because

of a lovely longing's strength.

What does make you present

is the ardent detour

that a slow tenderness

traces in my blood.

I do not need

to see you appear;

being born sufficed for me

to lose you a little less.

~ Rainer Maria Rilke

 

Losing too is still ours

Losing too is still ours; and even forgetting

still has a shape in the kingdom of transformation.

When something's let go of, it circles; and though we are

rarely the center

of the circle, it draws around us its unbroken, marvelous

curve.

~ Rainer Maria Rilke

(For Hans Carossa)

Exposed on the cliffs of the heart

Exposed on the cliffs of the heart. Look, how tiny down there,
look: the last village of words and, higher,
(but how tiny) still one last
farmhouse of feeling. Can you see it?

.
Exposed on the cliffs of the heart. Stoneground
under your hands. Even here, though,
something can bloom; on a silent cliff-edge
an unknowing plant blooms, singing, into the air.

.
But the one who knows? Ah, he began to know
and is quiet now, exposed on the cliffs of the heart.

While, with their full awareness,
many sure-footed mountain animals pass
or linger. And the great sheltered birds flies, slowly
circling, around the peak's pure denial. - But
without a shelter, here on the cliffs of the heart... 

.


~ Rainer Maria Rilke 

the lovers

See how in their veins all becomes spirit:

into each other they mature and grow.

Like axles, their forms tremblingly orbit,

round which it whirls, bewitching and aglow.

Thirsters, and they receive drink,

watchers, and see:they receive sight.

Let them into one another sink

so as to endure each other outright.

~ Rainer Maria Rilke

But as all severall soules containe

Mixtures of things, they know not what,

Love, these mixt soules, doth mixe again,

And makes both one, each this and that.

 

~ John Donne from The Extasie
    painting by Oliver Hunter

  

though love be a day

 ...

.

(though love be a day

and life be nothing,

it shall not stop kissing)

~ e.e.cummings

...

show me your face

.

show me your face 
i crave
flowers and gardens
open your lips
i crave
the taste of honey
come out from
behind the clouds
i desire a sunny face
your voice echoed
saying "leave me alone"
i wish to hear your voice
again saying "leave me alone"
i swear this city without you
is a prison
i am dying to get out
to roam in deserts and mountains
i am tired of
flimsy friends and
submissive companions
i die to walk with the brave
am blue hearing
nagging voices and meek cries
i desire loud music
drunken parties and
wild dance
one hand holding
a cup of wine
one hand caressing your hair
then dancing in orbital circle
that is what i yearn for
i can sing better than any nightingale
but because of
this city's freaks
i seal my lips
while my heart weeps
yesterday the wisest man
holding a lit lantern
in daylight
was searching around town saying
i am tired of
all these beasts and brutes
i seek
a true human
we have all looked
for one but
no one could be found
they said
yes he replied
but my search is
for the one
who cannot be found

.

 ~ Rumi

Translated by Nader Khalili