the ancient womb

The world rests in the night. 

Trees, mountains, fields, and faces are released from the prison of shape and the burden of exposure. 

Each thing creeps back into its own nature within the shelter of the dark. 

Darkness is the ancient womb. 

Nighttime is womb- time. Our souls come out to play. 

The darkness absolves everything; 

the struggle for identity and impression falls away. 

We rest in the night.

~ John O’Donohue 

from  Anam Cara: A Book of Celtic Wisdom

the unseeable animal

.

My Daughter: "I hope there's an animal

Somewhere that nobody has ever seen.

And I hope nobody ever sees it."

Being, whose flesh dissolves

at our glance, knower

of the secret sums and measures,

you are always here,

dwelling in the oldest sycamores,

visiting the faithful springs

when they are dark and the foxes

have crept to their edges.

I have come upon pools

in streams, places overgrown

with the woods' shadow,

where I knew you had rested,

watching the little fish 

hang still in the flow;

as I approached they seemed

particles of your clear mind

disappearing among the rocks.

I have waked deep in the woods

in the early morning, sure

that while I slept

your gaze passed over me.

That we do not know you

is your perfection

and our hope. The darkness

keeps us near you.

~ Wendell Berry

from The Selected Poems of Wendell Berry

the rain

.

All night the sound had 

come back again, 

and again falls 

this quiet, persistent rain. 

What am I to myself 

that must be remembered, 

insisted upon 

so often? Is it 

that never the ease, 

even the hardness, 

of rain falling 

will have for me 

something other than this, 

something not so insistent— 

am I to be locked in this 

final uneasiness. 

Love, if you love me, 

lie next to me. 

Be for me, like rain, 

the getting out 

of the tiredness, the fatuousness, the semi- 

lust of intentional indifference. 

Be wet 

with a decent happiness.

~ Robert Creeley

with thanks to the mark on the wall

time and space?

We tend to misunderstand the nature, 

and exaggerate the importance, of "time" and "space."

There are no such "things" (they do not exist in their own right):

 these come into apparent existence, i.e. they "function"

 only as a mechanism whereby events, extended spatially and sequentially, 

may become cognizable. 

 

 They accompany events and render their development realizable.

   In themselves they have no existence whatever.  They are appearances, 

and their apparent existence is deduced from the events they accompany

 and render perceptible.  They are hypothetical,

 like the "ether," symbols, like algebra, psychic inferences to aid 

in the cognizance of the universe we objectify,

 and they neither preexist, nor survive apart from, 

the events they accompany, but are utilized in function

 of each such event as it occurs.

Where there is no event there is no need of "time" or of "space"

 - and in their absence we are no longer in bondage- 

for there is no one to believe that he is bound.

Time is only an inference, devised in an effort to explain growth, 

development, extension and change, which constitute a further direction 

of measurement beyond the three that we know 

and at right-angles to volume; and "past," "present" and "future" 

are inferences derived from this temporal interpretation 

of the further dimension in which extension appears to occur. 

 

 All forms of temporality, therefore, are conceptual and imagined.

~ Wei Wu Wei

from Open Secret

this rain

.

Some Sunday afternoon, it may be,

you are sitting under your porch roof,

looking down through the trees

to the river, watching the rain.  The circles

make by the raindrops' striking

expand, intersect, dissolve,

and suddenly (for you are getting on

now, and much of your life is memory)

the hands of the dead, who have been here

with you, rest upon you tenderly

as the rain rests shining

upon the leaves.  And you think then

(for thought will come) of the strangeness

of the thought of Heaven, for now

you have imagined yourself there,

remembering with longing this 

happiness, this rain.  Sometimes here

we are there, and there is no death.

~ Wendell Berry

from A Timbered Choir

photo by laffy4k

the great harvest

.

Consider the vast crop is thus annually shed upon the earth.  

This, more than any mere grain or seed, is the great harvest of the year.  

This annual decay and death, this dying by inches, 

before the whole tree at last lies down and turns to soil.  

As trees shed their leaves, so deer their horns, and men their hair or nails.  

The year's great crop.   

I am more interested in it than in the English grass alone or in the corn.  

It prepares the virgin mold for future cornfields on which the earth fattens.  

They teach us how to die.

~ Henry David Thoreau

from his journal entry, 1853

the wren from Carolina

.

Just now the wren from Carolina buzzed

through the neighbor's hedge

a line of grace notes I couldn't even write down

much less sing.

Now he lifts his chestnut colored throat

and delivers such a cantering praise -

for what?

For the early morning, the taste of the spider,

for his small cup of life

that he drinks from every day, knowing it will refill.

All things are inventions of holiness.

Some more rascally than others.

I'm on that list too,

though I don't know exactly where.

But every morning, there's my own cup of gladness,

and there's that wren in the hedge, above me, with his

blazing song.

~ Mary Oliver

from Why I Wake Early

overtone

.

Some listening were certain they could hear

through the notes summoned from the strings one more

following at a distance low but clear

a resonance never part of the score

not noticed during the rehearsals nor

prayed into the performance and yet here

with the first note it had been waiting for

holding silent the iced minors of fear

the key of grief the mourning from before

the names were read of those no longer there

that sound of what made no sound any more

made up the cords that in a later year

some still believed that they could overhear

echoing music played during a war

~ W.S. Merwin

from The Pupil

photo found at child of danu's little book of wonder

the pear

.

November. One pear

sways on the tree past leaves, past reason.

In the nursing home, my friend has fallen.

Chased, he said, from the freckled woods

by angry Thoreau, Coleridge, and Beaumarchais.

Delusion too, it seems, can be well-read.

He is courteous, well-spoken even in dread.

The old fineness in him hangs on

for dear life. "My mind now?

A small ship under the wake of a large.

They force you to walk on your heels here,

the angles matter.  Four or five degrees,

and you're lost." Life is dear to him yet,

though he believes it his own fault he grieves,

his own fault his old friends have turned against him

like crows against an injured of their kind.

There is no kindness here, no flint of mercy.

Descend, descend,

some voice must urge, inside the pear-stem.

The argument goes on, he cannot outrun it.

Dawnlight to dawnlight, I look: it is still there.

~ Jane Hirshfield 

from Come, Thief

art by janis zroback

only a state of being

.

There is in fact only one state, 

not two states such as the conscious and the unconscious there is only a state of being, 

which is consciousness, 

though you may divide it as the conscious and the unconscious. 

But that consciousness is always of the past, never of the present; 

you are conscious only of things that are over. 

You are conscious of what I am trying to convey the second afterwards, are you not? 

You understand it a moment later. 

You are never conscious or aware of the now. 

Watch your own hearts and minds and you will see that 

consciousness is functioning between the past and the future 

and that the present is merely a passage of the past to the future.

If you watch your own mind at work, 

you will see that the movement to the past and to the future is a process in which the present is not. 

Either the past is a means of escape from the present, which may be unpleasant, 

or the future is a hope away from the present. 

So the mind is occupied with the past or with the future and sloughs off the present. 

It either condemns and rejects the fact or accepts and identifies itself with the fact. 

Such a mind is obviously not capable of seeing any fact as a fact. 

That is our state of consciousness, which is conditioned by the past and our thought, 

is the conditioned response to the challenge of a fact; 

the more you respond according to the conditioning of belief, of the past, 

the more there is strengthening of the past.

That strengthening of the past is obviously the continuity of itself, which it calls the future. 

So that is the state of our mind, 

of our consciousness;a pendulum swinging backwards and forwards between the past and the future.

~ J. Krishnamurti

from The Book of Life

thanks to j. krishnamurti online

look at love

.

look at love

how it tangles

with the one fallen in love

look at spirit

how it fuses with earth

giving it new life

why are you so busy

with this or that or good or bad

pay attention to how things blend

why talk about all

the known and the unknown

see how the unknown merges into the known

why think separately

of this life and the next

when one is born from the last

look at your heart and tongue

one feels but deaf and dumb

the other speaks in words and signs

look at water and fire

earth and wind

enemies and friends all at once

the wolf and the lamb

the lion and the deer

far away yet together

look at the unity of this

spring and winter

manifested in the equinox

you too must mingle my friends

since the earth and the sky

are mingled just for you and me

be like sugarcane

sweet yet silent

don't get mixed up with bitter words

my beloved grows right out of my own heart

how much more union can there be

~ Rumi

from Fountain of Fire

translated by Nader Khalili

art by klimt

no entity

.

There is no entity separate from craving; there is only craving, there is no one who craves. 

Craving takes on different masks at different times, depending on its interests.

The memory of these varying interests meets the new, which brings about conflict, 
and so the chooser is born, 
establishing himself as an entity separate and distinct from craving.

But the entity is not different from its qualities. 
The entity who tries to fill or run away from emptiness, incompleteness, loneliness, 
is not different from that which he is avoiding; he is it. 

He cannot run away from himself; all that he can do is to understand himself. 
He is his loneliness, his emptiness; 
and as long as he regards it as something separate from himself;
 he will be in illusion and endless conflict. 
When he directly experiences that he is his own loneliness, 
then only can there be freedom from fear. 

Fear exists only in relationship to an idea, and idea is the response of memory as thought. 
Thought is the result of experience; and though it can ponder over emptiness,
 have sensations with regard to it, it cannot know emptiness directly. 

The word loneliness, with its memories of pain and fear, prevents the experiencing of it afresh. 
The word is memory, and when the word is no longer significant,
then the relationship between the experiencer and the experienced is wholly different; 
then that relationship is direct and not through a word, through memory; 
then the experiencer is the experience, 
which alone brings freedom from fear.

~ J. Krishnamurti

from The Book of Life

thanks to krishnamurti online

nothing to gain

.

There is nothing to gain. 

Abandon all imaginings and know yourself as you are. 

...

All craving is due to a sense of insufficiency. 

When you know that you lack nothing, 

that all there is, is you and yours, desire ceases.

~ Nisargadatta Maharaj

like water

.

The best, like water, 

Benefit all and do not compete. 

They dwell in lowly spots that everyone else scorns. 

Putting others before themselves, 

They find themselves in the foremost place 

And come very near to the Tao. 

~  Lao Tzu

reluctance

.

Out through the fields and the woods

And over the walls I have wended;

I have climbed the hills of view

And looked at the world and descended;

I have come by the highway home,

And lo, it is ended.

The leaves are all dead on the ground,

Save those that the oak is keeping

To ravel them one by one

And let them go scraping and creeping

Out over the crusted snow,

When others are sleeping.

And the dead leaves lie huddled and still,

No longer blown hither and thither;

The last lone aster is gone;

The flowers of the witch-hazel wither;

The heart is still aching to seek,

But the feet question 'Whither?'

Ah, when to the heart of man

Was it ever less than a treason

To go with the drift of things,

To yield with a grace to reason,

And bow and accept the end

Of a love or a season?

~ Robert Frost

with thanks to writers almanac