who speaks

 

Who speaks the sound of an echo?

Who paints the image in a mirror?

Where are the spectacles in a dream?

Nowhere at all - that's the nature of the mind!

~ Tree-Leaf Woman, (8th - 11th c.)

tantric Buddhist women's song

from Women in Praise of the Sacred

painting: undergrowth by Van Gogh

to clear away

 

 

The true purpose of all spiritual disciplines is to clear away

whatever may block our awareness of that which is God in us. . . .

It will be in order to suggest certain simple aids to this end. 

 

One of these is the practice of silence, or quiet. 

As a child I was accustomed to spend many hours alone in my rowboat,

 fishing along the river, when there was no sound 

save the lapping of the waves against the boat. 

 

There were times when it seemed as if the earth 

and the river and the sky and I were one beat of the same pulse. 

It was a time of watching and waiting for what I did not know—

yet I always knew. 

 

There would come a moment when beyond the single pulse beat

 there was a sense of Presence which seemed always to speak to me. 

 

My response to the sense of Presence always had the quality of personal communion. 

There was no voice. There was no image. There was no vision.

 There was God. 

 

 

 

 

~  Howard Thurman

from Disciplines of the Spirit

 photo above by Jordan McChesney

 with thanks to Richard Rohr's Daily Meditation 

 

 

 

already broken

 

 

 

 

 

Once someone asked a well-known Thai meditation master,

 "In this world where everything changes, 

where nothing remains the same,

 where loss and grief are inherent in our very coming into existence,

 how can there be any happiness?

 How can we find security when we see that

 we can't count on anything being the way we want it to be?"

 

 The teacher, looking compassionately at this fellow,

 held up a drinking glass which had been given to him earlier in the morning and said, 

"You see this goblet? 

For me, this glass is already broken.

 I enjoy it, I drink out of it. It holds my water admirably,

 sometimes even reflecting the sun in beautiful patterns.

 If I should tap it, it has a lovely ring to it. 

But when I put this glass on a shelf and the wind knocks it over

 or my elbow brushes it off the table and it falls to the ground and shatters, 

I say, 'Of course.' 

But when I understand this glass is already broken,

 every moment with it is precious.

 Every moment is just as it is and nothing need be otherwise."


When we recognize that, just as that glass, 

our body is already broken, that indeed we are already dead, 

then life becomes precious and we open to it just as it is, 

in the moment it is occurring.

 When we understand that all our loved ones are already dead -

 our children, our mates, our friends - how precious they become.

 How little fear can interpose, how little doubt can estrange us.

 When you live your life as though you're already dead, 

life takes on new meaning. Each moment becomes a whole lifetime,

 a universe unto itself.

When we realize we are already dead, our priorities change,

 our heart opens, our mind begins to clear of the fog of old holdings and pretendings.

 We watch all life in transit and what matters becomes instantly apparent:

 The transmission of love, the letting go of obstacles to understanding, 

the relinquishment of our grasping, our hiding from ourselves. 

Seeing the mercilessness of our self-strangulation,

 we begin to come gently into the light we share with all beings. 

Taking each teaching, each loss, each gain, each fear, each joy,

 as it arises and experiencing it fully, life becomes workable...

If our only spiritual practice were to live as though we were already dead, 

relating to all we meet, to all we do, as though it were our final moments in the world,

 what time would there be for old games or falsehoods or posturing? 

If we lived our life as though we were already dead, 

as though our children were already dead, 

how much time would there be for self-protection 

and the re-creation of ancient mirages?

 Only love would be appropriate, only the truth.





Stephen and Ondrea Levine
Excerpt: Who Dies?

with thanks to being silently drawn

 

 

 

work perfectly realized

.

 

 

 

In work perfectly realized 

there is no thought of reward, 

no love of procedure, 

no seeking after good, 

no clinging to goals, 

whether of attainment 

or of god himself.

 

 

 

~ Meister Eckhart 

art by Harlan Hubbard, "Below Madison," 1934

 

 

 

a man whose eyes love opens

The other birds in turn received their chance

To show off their loquacious ignorance.

All made their excuses - floods of foolish words

Flowed from these babbling, rumor-loving birds.

Forgive me, reader, if I do not say

All these excuses to avoid the Way;

But in an incoherent rush they came,

And all were inappropriate and lame.

How could they gain the Simorgh?  Such a goal

Belongs to those who discipline the soul.

The hoopoe counseled them: 'The world holds few

As worthy of the Simorgh's throne as you,

But you must empty this first glass; the wine

That follows it is love's devoted sign.

If petty problems keep you back - or none -

How will you seek the treasures of the sun?

In drops you lose yourselves, yet you must dive

Through untold fathoms and remain alive.

This is no journey for the indolent -

Our quest is Truth itself, not just its scent!'

When they had understood the hoopoe's words,

A clamor of complaint rose from the birds:

'Although we recognize you as our guide,

You must accept - it cannot be denied -

We are a wretched, flimsy crew at best,

And lack the bare essentials for this quest.

Our feathers and our wings, our bodies' strength

Are quite unequal to the journey's length;

For one of us to reach the Simorgh's throne

Would be miraculous, a thing unknown.

At least say what relationship obtains

Between His might and ours; who can take pains

To search for mysteries when he is blind?

If there were some connection we could find,

We would be more prepared to take our chance.

He seems like Solomon, and we like ants;

How can mere ants climb from their darkened pit

Up to the Simorgh's realm?  And is it fit

That beggars try the glory of a king?

How ever could they manage such a thing?'

The hoopoe answered them:  'How can love thrive

in hearts impoverished and half alive?

"Beggars," you say - such niggling poverty

Will not encourage truth or charity.

A man whose eyes love opens risks his soul -

His dancing breaks beyond the mind's control.

When long ago the Simorgh first appeared -

His face like sunlight when the clouds have cleared -

He cast unnumbered shadows on the earth,

On each one fixed His eyes, and each gave birth.

Thus we were born; the birds of every land

Are still his shadows - think, and understand.

If you had known this secret you would you would see

The link between yourselves and majesty.

Do not reveal this truth, and God for-fend

That you mistake for God Himself God's friend.

If you become that substance I propound,

You are not God, though in God you are drowned;

Those lost in Him are not the Deity -

This problem can be argued endlessly.

You are His shadow, and cannot be moved

By thoughts of life or death once this is proved.

If He had kept His majesty concealed,

No earth shadow would have been revealed,

And where that shadow was directly cast

The race of bird sprang up before it passed.

Your heart is not a mirror bright and clear

If there the Simorgh's form does not appear;

No one can bear His beauty face to face,

And for this reason, of His perfect grace,

He makes a mirror in our hearts - look there

To see Him, search your hearts with anxious care.

~ Farid Attar

from The Conference of Birds

translated by Afkham Darbandi and Dick Davis

the resemblance between your life and a dog

I never intended to have this life, believe me --
It just happened.  You know how dogs turn up
At a farm, and they wag but can't explain.


It's good if you can accept your life - you'll notice
Your face has become deranged trying to adjust
To it.  Your face thought your life would look


Like your bedroom mirror when you were ten.
That was a clear river touched by mountain wind.
Even your parents can't believe how much you've changed.


Sparrows in winter, if you've ever held one, all feathers,
Burst out of your hand with a fiery glee.
You see them later in hedges.  Teachers praise you,


But you can't quite get back to the winter sparrow.
Your life is a dog.  He's been hungry for miles,
Doesn't particularly like you, but gives up, and comes in.








~ Robert Bly
from Eating the Honey of Words

indeterminacy

Indeterminacy means, literally: not fixed, not settled, uncertain, indefinite.

 It means that you don't know where you are. 

How can it be otherwise, say the Buddhist teachings, 

since you have no fixed or inherent identity 

and are ceaselessly in process?

 

Life is filled with uncertainty.  Chance events happen to all of us. 

Each of us must take responsibility and make decisions. 

None of us should be imposing our ego image on others.

There's another way to live.

 Accept indeterminacy as a principle,

 and you see your life in a new light,

 as a series of seemingly unrelated jewel-like stories 

within a dazzling setting of change and transformation.

 

 Recognize that you don't know where you stand,

 and you will begin to watch where you put your feet.

 That's when the path appears.

~ John Cage

from Where the Heart Beats: John Cage, 

Zen Buddhism, and the Inner Life of Artists

by Kay Larson

***

be open

may my heart always be open to little

birds who are the secrets of living

whatever they sing is better than to know

and if men should not hear them men are old

may my mind stroll about hungry

and fearless and thirsty and supple

and even if it's sunday may i be wrong

for whenever men are right they are not young

and may myself do nothing usefully

and love yourself so more than truly

there's never been quite such a fool who could fail

pulling all the sky over him with one smile

e.e.cummings

.

In 1926, Cummings' father was killed in a car accident. Though severely injured, Cummings' mother survived. Cummings detailed the accident in the following passage from his i: six nonlectures series given at Harvard (as part of the Charles Eliot Norton Lectures) in 1952–1953:

... a locomotive cut the car in half, killing my father instantly. When two brakemen jumped from the halted train, they saw a woman standing – dazed but erect – beside a mangled machine; with blood spouting (as the older said to me) out of her head. One of her hands (the younger added) kept feeling her dress, as if trying to discover why it was wet. These men took my sixty-six year old mother by the arms and tried to lead her toward a nearby farmhouse; but she threw them off, strode straight to my father's body, and directed a group of scared spectators to cover him. When this had been done (and only then) she let them lead her away.

His father's death had a profound impact on Cummings, who entered a new period in his artistic life. Cummings began to focus on more important aspects of life in his poetry. He began this new period by paying homage to his father's memory in the poem "my father moved through dooms of love"

Born into a Unitarian family, Cummings exhibited transcendental leanings his entire life. As he grew in maturity and age, Cummings moved more toward an "I, Thou" relationship with God. His journals are replete with references to “le bon Dieu” as well as prayers for inspiration in his poetry and artwork (such as “Bon Dieu! may I some day do something truly great. amen.”). Cummings "also prayed for strength to be his essential self ('may I be I is the only prayer--not may I be great or good or beautiful or wise or strong'), and for relief of spirit in times of depression ('almighty God! I thank thee for my soul; & may I never die spiritually into a mere mind through disease of loneliness')."

i thank You God for most this amazing

day:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees

and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything

which is natural which is infinite which is yes

~ from Wikipedia

the starting point

Images, however sacred

they may be, retain

the attention outside,

whereas at the time of prayer

the attention must be within -

in the heart.  The concentration

of attention in the heart -

this is the starting point of prayer.

~ Saint Theophan the Recluse

from for lovers of god everywhere

compiled by Roger Housden

deepest prayer

A person should always offer a prayer of graciousness 

for the love that has awakened in them. 

When you feel love for your beloved and his or her love for you, 

now and again you should offer the warmth of your love 

as a blessing for those who are damaged and unloved. 

Send that love out into the world to people who are desperate; 

to those who are starving; to those who are trapped in prison; 

in hospitals and all the brutal terrains of bleak and tormented lives. 

When you send that love out from the bountifulness of your own love, 

it reaches other people. 

This love is the deepest power of prayer.

~ John O'Donohue

from Anam Cara

one art

 

 

 

The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.

—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

 

 

 

 

~  Elizabeth Bishop

 with thanks to brainpickings

 

 

 

prayer

 

Lead me from dreaming to waking.
Lead me from opacity to clarity.
Lead me from the complicated to the simple.
Lead me from the obscure to the obvious.
Lead me from intention to attention.
Lead me from what I'm told I am to what I see I am.
Lead me from confrontation to wide openness.
Lead me to the place I never left,
Where there is peace, and peace


~ The Upanishads

 

 

 

 

 

peace is every step

.

 

 

 

Peace is every step.

The shining red sun is my heart.
Each flower smiles with me.
How green, how fresh all that grows.
How cool the wind blows.
Peace is every step.
It turns the endless path to joy.



~ Thich Nhat Hanh

photo by Ansel Adams

.

into the stillness

 

 

 

 

 

There is a silence into which the world cannot intrude. 

There is an ancient peace you carry in your heart and have not lost. 

Lay down your arms and come without defense into the quiet place 

where Heaven's peace holds all things still at last.

 

 Lay down all thoughts of danger and of fear.

As you close your eyes, sink into the stillness.

 Let these periods of rest and respite reassure your mind

 that all its frantic fantasies were but dreams 

of fever that has passed away. 

 

Let it be still and thankfully accept its healing.

~ A Course in Miracles
art by Odilon Redon

behind uneasyness

Remedios Varo

Now we will count to twelve

and we will all keep still.

This one time upon the earth,

let’s not speak any language,

let’s stop for one second,

and not move our arms so much.

It would be a delicious moment,

without hurry, without locomotives,

all of us would be together

in a sudden uneasiness.

The fishermen in the cold sea

would do no harm to the whales

and the peasant gathering salt

would look at his torn hands.

Those who prepare green wars,

wars of gas, wars of fire,

victories without survivors,

would put on clean clothing

and would walk alongside their brothers

in the shade, without doing a thing.

What I want shouldn’t be confused

with final inactivity:

life alone is what matters,

I want nothing to do with death.

If we weren’t unanimous

about keeping our lives so much in motion,

if we could do nothing for once,

perhaps a great silence would

interrupt this sadness,

this never understanding ourselves

and threatening ourselves with death,

perhaps the earth is teaching us

when everything seems to be dead

and then everything is alive.

 

Now I will count to twelve

and you keep quiet and I’ll go.

~ Pablo Neruda 
from Full Woman, Fleshly Apple, Hot Moon