until everything is continuous and whole again

.

.

First, forget what time it is for an hour.

Do it regularly every day.

Then forget what day of the week it is,

and do this regularly in company for a week.

Then forget what country you are in,

and practice doing it in company for a week,

and then do them together for a week

with as few breaks as possible.

Follow these by forgetting how to add

or to subtract.

It makes no difference.

You can change them around after a week.

Both will later help you to forget how to count.

.

Forget how to count,

starting with your own age,

starting with how to count backwards,

starting with even numbers,

with roman numerals,

starting with fractions,

with the old calendar,

going on to the alphabet,

forgetting it all until everything

is continuous and whole again.

.

~  W. S. Merwin

.

Can You Imagine

.

.

For example, what the trees do

not only in lightening storms

or the watery dark of a summer's night

or under the white nets of winter

but now, and now, and now - whenever

we're not looking. Surely you can't imagine

they don't dance, from the root up, wishing

to travel a little, not cramped so much as wanting

a better view, or more sun, or just as avidly

more shade - surely you can't imagine they just

stand there loving every

minute of it, the birds or the emptiness, the dark rings

of the years slowly and without a sound

thickening, and nothing different unless the wind,

and then only in its own mood, comes

to visit, surely you can't imagine

patience, and happiness, like that.

.

~ Mary Oliver 

.

.

"the mind" instead of "my mind"

.

.

Imagine if for the next twenty-four hours you had to wear a cap 

that amplified your thoughts so that everyone 

within a hundred yards of you could hear 

every thought that passed through your head. 

.

Imagine if the mind were broadcast so that 

all about you could overhear your thoughts and fantasies,

 your dreams and fears. 

.

How embarrassed or fearful would you be to go outside? 

.

How long would you let your fear of the mind continue to isolate you from the hearts of others?

.

 And though this experiment sounds like one which few might care to participate in, 
imagine how freeing it would be at last to have nothing to hide.
 And how miraculous it would be to see that all others' minds too 
were filled with the same confusion and fantasies,
 the same insecurity and doubt.
.
 How long would it take the judgmental mind to begin to release its grasp,
 to see through the illusion of separateness,
 to recognize with some humor the craziness of all beings' minds,
 the craziness of mind itself?
.
~ Stephen and Ondrea Levine
.
Who Dies?

 .
reblogged from: http://whiskeyriver.blogspot.com/
.

Bonsai

One morning beginning to notice

which thoughts pull the spirit out of the body, and which return it.

How quietly the abandoned body keens,

like a bonsai maple surrounded by her dropped leaves.

Rain or objects call the forgotten back.

The droplets' placid girth and weight. The table's lack of ambition.

How strange it is that longing, too, becomes a small green bud,

thickening the vacant branch-length in early March.

~ Jane Hirshfield

One Life Is Spent

One life is spent, the other spends us.

Rarely, they touch -

like a cat for the first time meeting itself in a mirror.

In the world, mirrors are few.

The slightest wind dissolves them.

In a life, the moments of recognition are few.

Consciousness does not hate or love, it neither grieves nor longs.

Walking and breathing are not its nature.

It is.

Yet something passes and ends, grows wet in rain and then dries.

and the small bowl of kibble empties into a delicate, spotted paw,

a tail slightly kinked, a preference for one windowsill

over another.

~ Jane Hirshfield

you are the future

.

You are the future,

the red sky before sunrise

over the fields of time.

You are the cock's crow when night is done,

you are the dew and the bells of matins,

maiden, stranger, mother, death.

You create yourself in ever-changing shapes 

that rise from the stuff of our days---

unsung, unmourned, undescribed,

like a forest we never knew.

You are the deep innerness of all things,

the last word that can never be spoken.

To each of us you reveal yourself differently:

to the ship as coastline, to the shore as a ship.

~ Rainer Maria Rilke

(Rilke's Book of Hours: Love Poems to God)

.

lighthouse

Its vision sweep its one path

like a aged monk raking a garden,

his question long ago answered or moved on.

Far off, night-grazing horses,

breath scented with oat grass and fennel,

step through it, disappear, step through it, disappear.

~ Jane Hirshfield

From Taos to Gallup and Canyon de Chelly

.

.

You still come to me like a fresh lover

Woman of brown and pale pink

I should have left everything for you

should have gone so deep into your heart

I'd get lost in yellow aspen leaves

stand on the straw of your autumn

.

I should never have taken another lover

I should have walked your hills

till my soles burned

till the sky, that old dwarf,

opened its secrets

till someone stopped whispering your name 1,000 miles away

.

~ Natalie Goldberg

painting, Abstract at Ghost Ranch,  by the author

.

.

Into this world

.

.

Let us die gracefully into this world

like a leaf pressed in stone

let us go quietly breathing our last breath

let  the sun continue to revolve in its great golden dance

let us leave it be as it is

and not hold on 

not even to the moon

tipped as it will be tonight 

and beckoning wildly in the sea

.

~ Natalie Goldberg

.

somewhere i have never traveled

.

.

somewhere i have never traveled, gladly beyond

any experience,your eyes have their silence:

in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,

or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will enclose me

though i have closed myself as fingers,

you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens

(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me,i and

my life will shut very beautifully,suddenly,

as when the heart of this flower imagines

the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals

the power of your intense fragility:whose texture

compels me with the colour of its countries,

rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes

and opens;only something in me understands

the voice of you eyes is deeper than all roses)

nobody, not even the rain,has such small hands

.

e. e. cummings

.

the simple truth

.

And this is the simple truth - 

that to live is to feel oneself lost. 

He who accepts it has already begun to find himself, 

to be on firm ground. 

Instinctively, as do the shipwrecked, 

he will look around for something to which to cling, 

and that tragic, ruthless glance,

absolutely sincere, 

because it is a question of his salvation,

will cause him to bring order into the chaos of his life. 

These are the only genuine ideas; 

the ideas of the shipwrecked.

All the rest is rhetoric, 

posturing, farce.

.

- Søren Kierkegaard

.

no more real than is a cinematograph film

The human being may be no more real than is a cinematograph film. 

When the projected light is switched off all that remains is a blank screen. 

That which has been projected by light was a series of 'stills'.

Such also is what is being projected by 'life'. 

The more you consider the analogy 

the more perfect it seems to be: it could help us to understand.

~ Wei Wu Wei

The flower invites the butterfly

.

.

The flower invites the butterfly with no-mind;

The butterfly visits the flower with no-mind.

The flower opens, the butterfly comes;

The butterfly comes, the flower opens.

I don’t know others,

Others don’t know me.

By not-knowing 

we follow nature’s course

.

~ Ryokan

.

Instant Glimpsable Only for an Instant

.

Moment. Moment. Moment.

- equal inside you, moment,

the velocitous mountains and cities rising and falling,

songs of children, iridescence even of beetles.

It is not you the locust can strip of all leaf.

Untouchable green at the center,

the wolf too lopes past you and through you as he eats.

Insult to mourn you, you who mourn no one, unable.

Without transformation,

yours the role of the chorus, to whom nothing happens.

The living step forward: choosing to enter, to lose.

I, who am made of you only,

speak these words against your unmasterable instruction -

A knife cannot cut itself open,

yet you ask me both to be you and to know you.

~ Jane Hirshfield

To my granddaughters

.

To my granddaughters who visited the Holocaust

Museum on the day of the burial of Yitzhak Rabin

Now you know the worst

we humans have to know

about ourselves, and I am sorry,

for I know that you will be afraid.

To those of our bodies given

without pity to be burned, I know

there is no answer

but loving one another,

even our enemies, and this is hard.

But remember:

when a man of war becomes a man of peace,

he gives a light, divine

though it is also human.

When a man of peace is killed

by a man of war, he gives a light.

You do not have to walk in darkness.

If you will have the courage for love,

you may walk in light. It will be

the light of those who have suffered

for peace. It will be

your light.

~ Wendell Berry

from: A Timbered Choir