the fleeting quality of the light

I would like to paint the way a bird sings

~ Claude Monet

 born in Paris in 1840

He met Pierre-Auguste Renoir, Alfred Sisley, and Frédéric Bazille; the four young artists became disillusioned with the meticulous detail that was fashionable in academic circles, and they began experimenting with a new style of landscape painting, producing rapid "sketches" using short, broken brushstrokes and trying to capture, above all, the fleeting quality of the light.

a quiet light

There is a quiet light that shines in every heart. It draws no

attention to itself, though it is always secretly there.

It is what illuminates our minds to see beauty, our desire 

to seek possibility, and our hearts to love life. Without this

subtle quickening our days would be empty and wearisome, and

no horizon would ever awaken our longing. Our passion for life

is quietly sustained from somewhere in us that is welded to

the energy and excitement of life. This shy inner light is what

enables us to recognize and receive our very presence here 

as blessing. We enter the world as strangers who all at once 

become heirs to a harvest of memory, spirit, and dream that has 

long preceded us and will now enfold, nourish, and sustain us.

The gift of the world is our first blessing.

~ John O'Donohue

from the introduction to To Bless the Space Between Us

art by Leonardo Da Vinci

starting a poem

You are alone. Then there's a knock 

On the door. It's a word. You

Bring it in. Things go

OK for a while. But this word 

Has relatives. Soon

They turn up. None of them work.

They sleep on the floor, and they steal

Your tennis shoes. 

You started it; you weren't

Content to leave things alone.

Now the den is a mess, and the

Remote is gone. 

That's what being married 

Is like. You never receive your

Wife only, but the

Madness of her family. 

Now see what's happened?

Where is your car? You won't 

Be able to find 

The keys for a week.

~ Robert Bly

art by Janet Sobel

on the death of the beloved

Though we need to weep your loss,

You dwell in that safe place in our hearts,

Where no storm or might or pain can reach you.

Your love was like the dawn

Brightening over our lives

Awakening beneath the dark

A further adventure of colour.

The sound of your voice

Found for us

A new music

That brightened everything.

Whatever you enfolded in your gaze

Quickened in the joy of its being;

You placed smiles like flowers

On the altar of the heart.

Your mind always sparkled

With wonder at things.

Though your days here were brief,

Your spirit was live, awake, complete.

We look towards each other no longer

From the old distance of our names;

Now you dwell inside the rhythm of breath,

As close to us as we are to ourselves.

Though we cannot see you with outward eyes,

We know our soul’s gaze is upon your face,

Smiling back at us from within everything

To which we bring our best refinement.

Let us not look for you only in memory,

Where we would grow lonely without you.

You would want us to find you in presence,

Beside us when beauty brightens,

When kindness glows

And music echoes eternal tones.

When orchids brighten the earth,

Darkest winter has turned to spring;

May this dark grief flower with hope

In every heart that loves you.

May you continue to inspire us:

To enter each day with a generous heart.

To serve the call of courage and love

Until we see your beautiful face again

In that land where there is no more separation,

Where all tears will be wiped from our mind,

And where we will never lose you again.

~ John O'Donohue

from To Bless the Space Between Us

art by Camille Pissarro

Pissarro

happy birthday Kurt

The Work of Karlfried Graf Dürckheim

with thanks to intense city

too simple for words

truth is too simple for words

before thought gets tangled up in nouns and 

verbs

there is a wordless sound

a deep breathless sigh

of overwhelming relief

to find the end of fiction

in this ordinary

yet extraordinary moment

when words are recognized

as words

and truth is recognized

as everything else

~ Nirmala

with thanks to poetry chaikhana

Nirmala is a contemporary spiritual teacher in the nondualist Advaita tradition. 

He traces his spiritual lineage through Neelam and H.W.L. Poonja to Ramana Maharshi.

love of the wind

.

We've spent a lot of time keeping some old men alive. 

I don’t’ think you should criticize us for that. 

Even old sailors keep their love of the wind. 

We know so little of our neighbor’s sorrow. 

He never told us what happened to his son. 

What can it mean that Jesus had no sister? 

We’ll never know anything better than a dog. 

It doesn't matter how deeply he sleeps. 

The sleeping dog leaves all the world for the floor. 

It’s all right if the family gathers together at night 

And sings like sailors when the wind rises. 

The roof of the house will last the night. 

I've never been an old friend to the wind. 

Don’t expect me to be happy about haystacks 

Scattered in a storm or blown-down barns. 

Don’t expect me to talk about the Spanish armada 

Getting into trouble off the Galway coast. 

Even old sailors keep their love of the wind.

~ Robert Bly

art by van gogh

carmel point

The extraordinary patience of things!
This beautiful place defaced with a crop of suburban houses -
How beautiful when we first beheld it,
Unbroken field of poppy and lupin walled with clean cliffs;
No intrusion but two or three horses pasturing,
Or a few milch cows rubbing their flanks on the outcrop rockheads -
Now the spoiler has come: does it care?
Not faintly, It has all time, It knows the people are a tide
That swells and in time will ebb, and all
Their works dissolve.  Meanwhile the image of the pristine beauty
Lives in the very grain of the granite,
Safe as the endless ocean that climbs our cliff. - As for us:
We must uncenter our minds from ourselves;
We must unhumanize our views a little, and become confident 
As the rock and ocean that we were made from.






~ Robinson Jeffers
art by Gordon Mortensen

790

Nature — the Gentlest Mother is,

Impatient of no Child —

The feeblest — or the waywardest —

Her Admonition mild —

In Forest — and the Hill —

By Traveller — be heard —

Restraining Rampant Squirrel —

Or too impetuous Bird —

How fair Her Conversation —

A Summer Afternoon —

Her Household — Her Assembly —

And when the Sun go down —

Her Voice among the Aisles

Incite the timid prayer

Of the minutest Cricket —

The most unworthy Flower —

When all the Children sleep —

She turns as long away

As will suffice to light Her lamps —

Then bending from the Sky —

With infinite Affection —

And infiniter Care —

Her Golden finger on Her lip —

Wills Silence — Everywhere —

~ Emily Dickinson

with thanks to writers almanac

lost in the forest

Lost in the forest, I broke off a dark twig

and lifted its whisper to my thirsty lips:

myabe it was the voice of the rain crying, 

a cracked bell, or a torn heart.

Something from far off it seemed

deep and secret to me, hidden by the earth,

a shout muffled by huge autumns,

by the moist half-open darkness of the leaves.

Wakening from the dreaming forest there, the hazel-sprig

sang under my tongue, its drifting fragrance

climbed up though my conscious mind

as if suddenly the roots I had left behind

cried out to me, the land I had lost with my childhood -

and I stopped, wounded by the wandering scent.

~ Pablo Neruda

.

a thought

Some thoughts

throw off 

a backward heat

as walls might,

at night, in summer.

It could happen 

this moment -

Some movement.

One word's almost

imperceptible shiver.

And what was

long cold

in your left palm,

long cold in your right palm,

might find itself

malleable, warmer.

An apricot

could be planted

in such a corner.

~ Jane Hirshfield

from Come, Thief

not mine

All my life to pretend this world of theirs is mine

And to know such pretending is disgraceful.

But what can I do? Suppose I suddenly screamed

And started to prophesy. No one would hear me. 

Their screens and microphones are not for that. 

Others like me wander the streets

And talk to themselves. Sleep on benches in parks,

Or on pavements in alleys. For there aren't enough prisons

To lock up all the poor. I smile and keep quiet. 

They won't get me now. 

To feast with the chosen—that I do well.

~ Czeslaw Milosz 

translated by Robert Hass 

photo by Christine de Grancy

meaning

.

When I die, I will see the lining of the world. 

The other side, beyond bird, mountain, sunset. 

The true meaning, ready to be decoded. 

What never added up will add Up, 

What was incomprehensible will be comprehended. 

- And if there is no lining to the world? 

If a thrush on a branch is not a sign, 

But just a thrush on the branch? If night and day 

Make no sense following each other? 

And on this earth there is nothing except this earth? 

- Even if that is so, there will remain 

A word wakened by lips that perish, 

A tireless messenger who runs and runs 

Through interstellar fields, through the revolving galaxies, 

And calls out, protests, screams.

~ Czeslaw Milosz

snow-mountain

.

All my life perplexed by truth and falsity, right and wrong;

Now amusing myself in the moonlight,

Laughing at the wind,

Listening to the songs of birds --

So many years spent idly contemplating

The immense white layer on the mountains;

This winter, all of a sudden,

I see it for the first time as a snow-mountain.

~ Dogen

english version by Steven Heine

from The Zen Poetry of Dogen

with thanks to poetry chaikhana

art by Chen Jun