be as wood to a carpenter

To put it more simply, let that mysterious grace move in your spirit
 as it will and follow wherever it leads you.  Let it be the active doer 
and you the passive receiver.  Do not meddle with it, but let it be... 

Your part is to be as wood to a carpenter or a home to a dweller.
  Remain blind during this time cutting away all desire to know, 
for knowledge is a hindrance here.  Be content to feel 
this mysterious grace sweetly awaken in the 
depths of your spirit.   Forget everything...

~ The Cloud of Unknowing

by the true, loving will of your heart

For silence is not God, nor speaking; 

fasting is not God, nor eating; 

solitude is not God, nor company; 

nor any other pair of opposites.  

He is hidden between them, 

and cannot be found by anything your soul does, 

but only by the love of your heart. 

He cannot be known by reason, 

he cannot be thought, caught, or sought by understanding.  

But he can be loved and chosen by the true, loving will of your heart.

~ The Cloud of Unknowing

Written anonymously, this practical, unemotional book of instruction focuses on stripping away all earthly ways of knowing, of passing through the cloud of forgetting and piercing the cloud of unknowing that exists between himself and God.  Widely read in the fourteen century for its beauty in aiding a contemplative experience, The Cloud, is better known than the later work, The Book of Privy Counseling which also clearly written by one who has trodden the mystical path himself and offers others a helping hand.

.

the peace that surpasses understanding

 

 

 

 

 

 

imagine

Imagine if all the tumult of the body were to quiet down, 

along with our busy thoughts. 

Imagine if all things that are perishable grew still. 

And imagine if that moment were to go on and on, 

leaving behind all other sights and sounds 

but this one vision 

which ravishes and absorbs 

and fixes the beholder in joy, 

so that the rest of eternal life were like 

that moment of illumination which leaves us breathless. 

~ Saint Augustine

I do not want to step so quickly

.

.

I

Do not

Want to step so quickly

Over a beautiful line on God's palm

As I move through the earth's

Marketplace

Today.

I do not want to touch any object in this world

Without my eyes testifying to the truth

That everything is

My Beloved.

Something has happened

To my understanding of existence

That now makes my heart always full of wonder

And kindness.

I do not

Want to step so quickly

Over this sacred place on God's body

That is right beneath your

Own foot

As I

Dance with

Precious life

Today.

.

~ Hafiz

from The Gift

translation by Daniel Ladinsky

photo by albert watson

.

gratitude

 

 

 

 

 

My generation is on the way out, and each death I have felt as an abruption,

 a tearing away of part of myself. There will be no one like us when we are gone,

 but then there is no one like anyone else, ever. When people die,

 they cannot be replaced. They leave holes that cannot be filled, 

for it is the fate - the genetic and neural fate - of every human being

 to be a unique individual, to find his own path, to live his own life, 

to die his own death. I cannot pretend I am without fear. 

 

But my predominant feeling is one of gratitude. 

I have loved and been loved; I have been given much and I have given 

something in return; I have read and traveled and thought and written. 

I have had an intercourse with the world, the special intercourse 

of writers and readers. Above all, I have been a sentient being, 

a thinking animal, on this beautiful planet, and that in itself 

has been an enormous privilege and adventure.

 

 

 

 
 ~ Oliver Sacks
from Gratitude

with thanks to whiskey river

 

 

one truth

In all ten directions of the universe,

there is only one truth.

When we see clearly, the great teachings are the same.

What can ever be lost?  What can be attained?

If we attain something, it was there from the beginning of time.

If we lose something, it-is hiding somewhere near us.

Look: this ball in my pocket:

can you see how priceless it is?

~ Ryokan

Ryokan's love of children and animals is legendary. 

He often played games with the local children, attested to in his own poetry. 

His reputation for gentleness was sometimes carried to comical extremes. 

One tale is told that, one day when Ryokan returned to his hut 

he discovered a robber who had broken in 

and was in the process of stealing the impoverished monk's few possessions. 

In the thief's haste to leave, he left behind a cushion. 

Ryokan grabbed the cushion and ran after the thief to give it to him. 

This event prompted Ryokan to compose one of his best known poems:

The thief left it behind:

the moon

at my window.

hiding in this cage

hiding in this cage

of visible matter

is the invisible

lifebird

pay attention

to her

she is singing

your song

~ Kabir

english version by Rushil Rao

in thanks for the life of Jim Forest

 

 

Thomas Merton and Henri Nouwen: Western Explorers of the Christian East

 

 

NHAT HANH: ... If you cut yourself off from something --

 a tradition, a community -- the hope of things will be lost. 

Right at that moment. So it is not a problem of a word or a term -- 

it is the problem of life. And that problem of being simultaneously

inside and outside yourself is a very wonderful idea. 

Not an idea but a way of life, a way that retain one's self and the link

 between one's self and the other part of one's self.

DAN: This was very much a part of the style of Merton --

 the inside/outside. And it had very rich consequences, 

I think. For him and for others. He used to say that he would never

 become a monk again, but now that he was a monk, 

he would be a monk. Absolutely. Yes.

JIM FOREST: A man playing hide and seek with tradition.

NHAT HANH: Anyway, being a monk or not being a monk,

 that is not the problem. The problem is the way you are a monk 

or the way you are a non-monk. I think if we greet events

 in that way, we can master the situation.

In China, they tell the story of a man who lost his horse.

 He was sad and he wept about it. But a few days later the horse returned

 with another horse. So the man was now very happy. His loss turns

 out to be lucky. But the next day his son tried the new horse

 and fell and broke one leg. So now it is not good luck any more,

 but bad luck. So he deserts the other horse and takes his son to the hospital

 and is content with what he has. So they say, if you greet these events 

with a calm mind, then you can make the most of these events

 for the sake of your happiness. 

 

That's not me, but the Chinese! (Laughter.)

 

 

 

 

 

~ from a slightly edited transcript of a conversation

recorded in Paris in 1973 by Jim Forest between 

Thich Nhat Hanh and Daniel Berrigan. 

 

 Jim Forest died yesterday

 

with thanks to louie, louie

 

 

the man watching

I can tell by the way the trees beat, after
so many dull days, on my worried windowpanes
that a storm is coming,
and I hear the far-off fields say things
I can’t bear without a friend,
I can’t love without a sister

The storm, the shifter of shapes, drives on
across the woods and across time,
and the world looks as if it had no age:
the landscape like a line in the psalm book,
is seriousness and weight and eternity.

What we choose to fight is so tiny!
What fights us is so great!
If only we would let ourselves be dominated
as things do by some immense storm,
we would become strong too, and not need names.

When we win it’s with small things,
and the triumph itself makes us small.
What is extraordinary and eternal
does not want to be bent by us.
I mean the Angel who appeared
to the wrestlers of the Old Testament:
when the wrestler’s sinews
grew long like metal strings,
he felt them under his fingers
like chords of deep music.

Whoever was beaten by this Angel
(who often simply declined the fight)
went away proud and strengthened
and great from that harsh hand,
that kneaded him as if to change his shape.
Winning does not tempt that man.
This is how he grows: by being defeated, decisively,
by constantly greater beings.

 

 

 

~ Rainer Maria Rilke 

translation by Robert Bly

this storm is you

Sometimes fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing directions. 

You change direction but the sandstorm chases you. You turn again,

 but the storm adjusts. Over and over you play this out, 

like some ominous dance with death just before dawn.

 

 Why? Because this storm isn’t something that blew in from far away, 

something that has nothing to do with you. This storm is you. 

Something inside of you. So all you can do is give in to it, 

step right inside the storm, closing your eyes and plugging up your ears

 so the sand doesn’t get in, and walk through it, step by step.

 

 There’s no sun there, no moon, no direction, no sense of time.

 Just fine white sand swirling into the sky like pulverized bones.

 That’s the kind of sandstorm you need to imagine.




~ Haruki Murakami

from Kafka on the Shore

calm and complete

On the days when the rest

have failed you,

let this much be yours -

flies, dust, and unnameable odor,

the two waiting baskets:

one for the lemons and passion,

the other for all you have lost.

Both empty,

it will come to your shoulder,

breathe slowly against your bare arm.

If you offer it hay, it will eat.

Offered nothing,

it will stand as long as you ask.

The little bells of the bridle will hang

beside you quietly,

in the heat and the tree's thin shade.

Do not let its sparse mane deceive you,

or the way the left ear swivels into dream.

This too is a gift of the gods,

calm and complete.

~ Jane Hirshfield

from The Lives of the Heart

art by McKenzie Birnie

a healing calm

Cry out all your grief, your

disappointments! Say them in

Farsi, then Greek.  It doesn't 

matter whether you're from Rum

or Arabia.  Praise the beauty

and kindness praised by every

living being.  You hurt and have 

sharp desire, yet your presence

is a healing calm.  Sun, moon,

bonfire, candle, which?  Someone

says your flame is about to be 

dowsed, but you're not smoke or

fire. You're infinitely more

alive.  Say how that is! This

fluttering love will not stay

much longer in my chest.  Soon it 

will fly like a falcon to its

master, like a owl saying HU.

~ Rumi

from The Soul of Rumi

translation by Coleman Barks

the storm

The storm puts its lips to the house

and blows to make a sound.

I sleep restlessly, turn over, with closed

eyes read the book of the storm.

But the child's eyes grow huge in the dark

and the storm whimpers for the child.

Both love to see the swinging lamp.

Both are halfway toward speech.

Storms have childlike hands and wings.

The caravan bolts off toward Lapland

and the house senses the constellation of nails

holding its wall together.

The night is quiet above our floor

(where all the died-away footsteps

are lying like sunken leaves in a pond)

but outside the night is wild!

A more serious storm is moving over us all.

It puts its lips to our soul

and blows to make a sound.  We're afraid

the storm will blow everything inside us away.

~ Tomas Transtromer

translated by robert bly

the eyes of others

You can't see yourself. 

You know what you look like because of mirrors and photographs, 

but out there in the world, as you move among your fellow human beings,

 whether strangers or friends or the most intimate beloveds, 

your own face is invisible to you. 

 

You can see other parts of yourself, arms and legs, hands and feet, 

shoulders and torso, but only from the front, 

nothing of the back except the backs of your legs 

if you twist them into the right position,

 but not your face, never your face, and in the end -

 at least as far as others are concerned - your face is who you are,

 the essential fact of your identity. Passports do not contain pictures

 of hands and feet. Even you, who have lived inside your body

 for sixty-four years now, would probably be unable to recognize

 your foot in an isolated photograph of that foot, not to speak of your ear,

 or your elbow, or one of your eyes in close-up. 

 

All so familiar to you in the context of the whole,

 but utterly anonymous when taken piece by piece. 

We are all aliens to ourselves, and if we have any sense of who we are,

 it is only because we live inside the eyes of others.

~  Paul Auster