love frees

All day long a little burro labors, sometimes

with heavy loads on her back and sometimes just with worries

about things that bother only

burros.

And worries, as we know, can be more exhausting

than physical labor.

Once in a while a kind monk comes

to her stable and brings

a pear, but more

than that,

he looks into the burros eyes and touches her ears

and for a few seconds the burro is free

and even seems to laugh,

because love does

that.

Love frees.

~ Meister Eckhart

art by: Stephen Filarsky

sometimes

.

Water is sometimes sharp and sometimes strong,
sometimes acid and sometimes bitter,
sometimes sweet and sometimes thick or thin,
sometimes it is seen bringing hurt or pestilence,
sometime health-giving, sometimes poisonous.

It suffers change into as many natures as
are the different places through which it passes.

And as the mirror changes with the colour of its subject,
so it alters with the nature of the place,
becoming noisome, laxative, astringent, sulfurous, salty,
incarnadined, mournful, raging, angry, red, yellow,
green, black, blue, greasy, fat or slim.

Sometimes it starts a conflagration,
sometimes it extinguishes one;
is warm and is cold, carries away or sets down,
hollows out or builds up, tears or establishes,
fills or empties, raises itself or burrows down,
speeds or is still;

is the cause at times of life or death, or increase or privation,
nourishes at times and at others does the contrary;
at times has a tang, at times is without savor,
sometimes submerging the valleys with great floods.

In time and with water, everything changes.






~ Leonardo da Vinci
(art by Leonardo, The Last Supper, the face of John)

.

letters from God

I have said that the soul is not more than the body, 

And I have said that the body is not more than the soul, 

And nothing, not God, is greater to one than one’s self is,

And whoever walks a furlong without sympathy walks to his own 

funeral drest in his shroud, 

And I or you pocketless of a dime may purchase the pick of the 

earth, 

And to glance with an eye or show a bean in its pod confounds the 

learning of all times, 

And there is no trade or employment but the young man following it 

may become a hero, 

And there is no object so soft but it makes a hub for the wheel’d 

universe, 

And I say to any man or woman, Let your soul stand cool and composed 

before a million universes. 

And I say to mankind, Be not curious about God, 

For I who am curious about each am not curious about God, 

(No array of terms can say how much I am at peace about God and 

about death.) 

I hear and behold God in every object, yet understand God not in the 

least, 

Nor do I understand who there can be more wonderful than myself. 

Why should I wish to see God better than this day? 

I see something of God each hour of the twenty-four, and each moment 

then, 

In the faces of men and women I see God, and in my own face in the 

glass, 

I find letters from God dropt in the street, and every one is sign’d 

by God’s name, 

And I leave them where they are, for I know that wheresoe’er I go, 

Others will punctually come for ever and ever.

~ Walt Whitman
photo by Edward Weston

last instruction

"Make of yourself a light" said the Buddha,

 before he died. I think of this 

every morning as the east begins to tear 

off its many clouds of darkness, 

to send up the first signal-a white fan 

streaked with pink and violet, even green. 

An old man, he lay down between two sala trees,

 and he might have said anything, 

knowing it was his final hour. The light burns upward,

 it thickens and settles over the fields. Around him,

 the villagers gathered and stretched forward to listen. 

Even before the sun itself hangs, disattached,

 in the blue air, I am touched everywhere

 by its ocean of yellow waves.

 No doubt he thought 

of everything that had happened in his difficult life. 

And then I feel the sun itself 

as it blazes over the hills, like a million flowers on fire- 

clearly I'm not needed, 

yet I feel myself turning into something 

of inexplicable value. Slowly, 

beneath the branches, he raised his head. 

He looked into the faces of that frightened crowd.

~  Mary Oliver

motion

If you are the amber mare

I am the road of blood

If you are the first snow

I am he who lights the hearth of dawn

If you are the tower of night

I am the spike burning in your mind

If you are the morning tide

I am the first bird's cry

If you are the basket of oranges

I am the knife of the sun

If you are the stone altar

I am the sacrilegious hand

If you are the sleeping land

I am the green cane

If you are the wind's leap

I am the buried fire

If you are the water's mouth

I am the mouth of moss

If you are the forest of the clouds

I am the axe that parts it

If you are the profaned city

I am the rain of consecration

If you are the yellow mountain

I am the red arms of lichen

If you are the rising sun

I am the road of blood

~ Octavio Paz

translated by Eliot Weinberger, 

from Collected Poems 1957-1987 

wander

"Everything around me is evaporating. My whole life, my memories, my imagination and its contents, my personality—it’s all evaporating. I continuously feel that I was someone else, that I felt something else, that I thought something else. What I’m attending here is a show with another set. And the show I’m attending is myself.

In the ordinary jumble of my literary drawer, I sometimes find texts I wrote ten, fifteen, or even more years ago. And many of them seem to me written by a stranger: I simply do not recognize myself in them. There was a person who wrote them, and it was I. I experienced them, but it was in another life, from which I just woke up, as if from someone else’s dream.

I often find texts of mine that I wrote when I was very young—when I was seventeen or twenty. And some have a power of expression that I do not remember having them. Certain sentences and passages I wrote when I had just taken a few steps away from adolescence seem produced by the self I am today, educated by years and things. I recognize I am the same as I was. And having felt I am today making a great progress from what I was, I wonder where this progress is if I was then the same as I am today.

Just a few days earlier I suffered horribly reading a short text I’d written earlier. I remember perfectly that my scruples—at least as far as language is concerned—are only a few years old. In a drawer I found a much older text in which those same scruples were strongly accentuated. I didn’t understand myself in the past in a positive way. How did I advance towards what I already was? How can the person who knows me today not know me yesterday? 

All this confuses me in a labyrinth where I am with myself and wander away from myself.

I wander with my thoughts and I’m sure that what I’m writing now I already wrote. I remember. And I ask the being that in me presumes to exist if there might not be in the Platonism of sensations another, more appropriate amamnesis, another memory of a former life that might only be of this life…

My God, my God, whose performance am I watching? How many people am I? What is this space between myself and myself?"

~ Fernando Pessoa
 from The Book of Disquiet

by the inquiry

"By the inquiry 'Who am I?'.
The thought 'who am I?' will destroy all other thoughts,
and like the stick used for stirring the burning pyre,
it will itself in the end get destroyed.
Then, there will arise Self-realization."



~ Ramana Maharshi

Sometimes

Sometimes, when a bird cries out,

Or the wind sweeps through a tree,

Or a dog howls in a far off farm,

I hold still and listen for a long time.

My soul turns and goes back to the place

Where, a thousand forgotten years ago,

The bird and the blowing wind

Were like me, and were my brothers.

My soul turns into a tree,

and an animal, and a cloud bank.

Then changed and odd it comes home

And asks me questions.  What should I reply?

~ Hermann Hesse

.

leading a strange life

At times he heard within him a soft, gently voice, which reminded him quietly, complained quietly, so that he could hardly hear it.  Then he suddenly saw clearly that he was leading a strange life, that he was doing many things that were only a game, that he was quite cheerful and sometimes experienced pleasure, but that real life was flowing past him and did not touch him.  Like a player who plays with his ball, he played with his business, with the people around him, watched them, derived amusement from them; but with his heart, with his real nature, he was not there.  His real self wandered elsewhere, far away, wandered on and on invisibly and had nothing to do with his life.  He was sometimes afraid of these thoughts and wished that he could also share their childish daily affairs with intensity, truly to take part in them, to enjoy and live their lives instead of only being there as an onlooker.

~ Herman Hesse

from Siddhartha

throw it all away

take each step

then throw it all away again,

suddenly,  beauty

overflows 

~ Hermann Hesse

from Rosshalde

separation left me

You went away but remained in me
And thus became my peace and happiness.

In separation, separation left me
And I witnessed the Unknown.

You were the hidden secret of my longing,
Hidden deep within my conscience deeper than a dream.

You were my true friend in the day
And in darkness my companion.

~ Mansur al- Hallaj
(9th Century)
English version by Mahmood Jamal

beneath the bark

We don't know who we are.

We are lost in the forest, and the black stars

move lazily above us as if they were 

only our dream.

But still, the second angel mumbled shyly,
there's always a little joy, and even beauty
lies close at hand, beneath the bark
of every hour, in the quiet heart of concentration,
and another person hides in each of us -
universal, strong, invincible.

 ...

Memory lives in the ocean, in galloping blood,

in black, burnt stones, in poems,

and in every quiet conversation.

The world is the same as it always was,

full of shadows and anticipation.

- Adam Zagajewski
from Three Angels
translated by Clare Cavanagh

the deep pull of love

When I am not present to myself, 

then I am only aware of that half of me, 

that mode of my being which turns outward to created things. 

And then it is possible for me to lose myself among them. 

Then I no longer feel the deep secret pull 

of the gravitation of love which draws my inward self toward God. 

My will and my intelligence lose their command of the other faculties. 

My senses, my imagination, my emotions, 

scatter to pursue their various quarries all over the face of the earth. 

Recollection brings them home. 

It brings the outward self into line with the inward spirit, 

and makes my whole being answer the deep pull of love 

that reaches down into the mystery of God.

~ Thomas Merton 

from No Man is an Island

sketch by the author

heavy

That time
I thought I could not
go any closer to grief
without dying

I went closer,
and I did not die.
Surely God
had His hand in this,

as well as friends.
Still, I was bent,
and my laughter,
as the poet said,

was nowhere to be found.
Then said my friend Daniel
(brave even among lions),
"It's not the weight you carry

but how you carry it-
books, bricks, grief-
it's all in the way
you embrace it, 

balance it, carry it

when you cannot,

 and would not,
put it down.
So I went practicing.
Have you noticed?

Have you heard
the laughter
that comes, now and again,
out of my startled mouth?

How I linger
to admire, admire, admire
the things of this world
that are kind, and maybe

also troubled-
roses in the wind,
the sea geese on the steep waves,
a love
to which there is no reply?




~ Mary Oliver



.

on another's sorrow

Wiping all our tears away.

O! no never can it be.

Never never can it be.

Can I see anothers woe,

And not be in sorrow too.

Can I see anothers grief,

And not seek for kind relief.

Can I see a falling tear

And not feel my sorrows share,

Can a father see his child,

Weep, nor be with sorrow fill'd.

Can a mother sit and hear,

An infant groan an infant fear-

No no never can it be.

Never never can it be.

And can he who smiles on all

Hear the wren with sorrows small,

Hear the small birds grief & care

Hear the woes that infants bear—

And not sit beside the nest

Pouring pity in their breast,

And not sit the cradle near

Weeping tear on infants tear.

And not sit both night & day,

He doth give his joy to all.

He becomes an infant small.

He becomes a man of woe

He doth feel the sorrow too.

Think not, thou canst sigh a sigh,

And thy maker is not by.

Think not thou canst weep a tear,

And thy maker is not near.

O! he gives to us his joy,

That our grief he may destroy

Till our grief is fled; gone

He doth sit by us and moan

~ William Blake

from The Complete Poetry and Prose

of William Blake