stop chasing so many things

My hut lies in the middle of a dense forest;
Every year the green ivy grows long.
No news of the affairs of men,
Only the occasional song of the woodcutter.

The sun shines and I mend my robe.
When the moon comes out, I read Buddhist poems.
I have nothing to report my friends.
If you want to find the meaning, stop chasing so many things.

~ Ryokan

love and kindness

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Christian mysticism read by Rupert Spira

 

in abundance

 

 

 

 

 

I am who I am.

A coincidence as inscrutable

as any other.

 

Other ancestors

might have been mine, after all,

then from some other nest

I would have flown,

from some other stump

I would have crawled in my shell.

 

In nature's wardrobe

there are many costumes-

spider, seagull, field mouse.

Each fits like a glove from the get-go

and is loyally worn

until it wears out.

 

I, too, had no choice,

but I can't complain.

I could have been someone 

much less singular.

Someone from a school of fish,

from an anthill, from a buzzing swarm,

 a piece of landscape thrashed by the wind.

 

Someone much less lucky,

bred for fur

or for a holiday meal,

something swimming under a cover glass.

 

A tree stuck in the earth,

with a fire approaching.

 

A blade of grass trampled by a run 

of incomprehensible events.

 

One born under a dark cloud

whose lining gleams for others.

 

But what if I had awakened fear in people,

or merely revulsion,

or merely pity?

 

 If I hadn't been born 

into the right tribe and

paths closed before me?

 

Fate has proved

benevolent so far.

 

The memory of good moments

 might not have been granted me.

 

A penchant for comparisons

might have been withheld from me.

 

I might have been myself-though without the wonder,

but that would have meant

being someone else.

 

 

 

 

 

~ Wislawa Szymborska

from miracle fair

 Nasa photo

 

 

water

 

 

 

 

 

A raindrop fell on my hand,

crafted from the Ganges and the Nile,

 

from the ascended frost of a seal's whiskers,

from water in broken pots in the cities of Ys and Tyre.

 

On my index finger

the Caspian Sea isn't landlocked,

 

and the Pacific flows meekly into the Rudava,

the one that flew in a cloud over Paris

 

in seventeen sixty-four

on the seventh of May at three in the morning.

 

There are not enough lips to pronounce

your transient names, O water.

 

I would have to say them in every language

pronouncing all the vowels at once,

 

at the same time keeping silent-for the sake of a lake

that waited in vain for a name,

 

and is no longer on earth-as it is in the heavens,

whose stars are no longer reflected in it.

 

Someone was drowning; someone dying 

called out for you. That was long ago and yesterday.

 

You extinguished houses; you carried them off

like trees, forests like cities.

 

You were in baptismal fonts and in the bathtubs of courtesans,

in kisses, in shrouds.

 

Eating away at stones, fueling rainbows.

In the sweat and dew of pyramids and lilacs.

 

How light all this is in the raindrop.

How delicately the world touches me.

 

Whenever wherever whatever has happened

is written on the waters of Babel.

 

 

 

 

~ Wislawa Szymborska

from miracle fair

 

 

 

water / life

 

 

 

 

 

Over 95% of our body is water. 

In order to stay healthy you've got to drink good water. ... 

Water is sacred, air is sacred. Our DNA is made out of the same DNA

 as the tree, the tree breaths what we exhale, we need what the tree exhales.

 So we have a common destiny with the tree. We are all from the earth, 

and when earth, the water, the atmosphere is corrupted

 then it will create its own reaction. 

The mother is reacting. 

 

 

 

~ Floyd Red Crow Westerman

 

 

 

 

 

 

 https://water.org/

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 to transparency and financial accountability.

 

 

 

 

 

to clear violence from ourselves

.

...is it possible to eradicate violence in ourselves?

I am asking whether it is possible for a human being living psychologically

 in any society to clear violence from himself inwardly? 

 If it is, the very process will produce a different way of living in this world.

Some of us, in order to rid ourselves of violence, have used a concept, 

and ideal, called non-violence, and we think by having an ideal of the opposite

 to violence, non-violence, we can get rid of the fact, the actual - but we cannot.

  We have had ideals without number, all the sacred books are full of them,

 yet we are still violent - so why not deal with violence itself

 and forget the word altogether?

If you want to understand the actual you must give your whole attention,

 all your energy, to it.  That attention and energy are distracted when you create

 a fictitious, ideal world.  So can you completely banish the ideal?  

The man who is really serious, with the urge to find out what truth is, 

what love is, has no concept at all. 

 He lives only in what is. 

To investigate the fact of your own anger you must pass no judgement on it,

 for the moment you conceive of its opposite you condemn it and therefore

 you cannot see it as it is.  When you say you dislike or hate someone,

 that is a fact, although it sounds terrible.  If you look at it, go into it completely,

 it ceases, but if you say, "I must not hate; I must have love in my heart,"

 then you are living in a hypocritical world with double standards.  

To live completely, fully, in the moment is to live with what is,

 the actual, without any sense of condemnation or justification -

 then you understand it so totally that you are finished with it.  

When you see clearly the problem is solved.

~ J. Krishnamurti

from Freedom from the Known

peace is letting go

 

 

 

 

 

The power of quiet is great.
It generates the same feelings in everything one encounters.
It vibrates with the cosmic rhythm of oneness. 

 
It is everywhere, available to anyone at any time.
It is us, the force within that makes us stable, trusting, and loving.
It is contemplation contemplating. 

 
Peace is letting go 

 
– returning to the silence that cannot enter the realm of words
because it is too pure to be contained in words.
This is why the tree, the stone, the river, and the mountain are quiet.

 

 

 

 

~  Malidoma Patrice Some

 with thanks to No Mind's Land

 

 

act great

What is the key

To untie the knot of your mind’s suffering?

What

Is the esoteric secret

To slay the crazed one whom each of us

Did wed

And who can ruin

Our heart’s and eye’s exquisite tender

Landscape?

Hafiz has found

Two emerald words that

Restored

Me

That I now cling to as I would sacred

Tresses of my Beloved’s 

Hair:

Act great.

My dear, always act great.

What is the key

To untie the knot of the mind’s suffering?

Benevolent thought, sound

And movement.

~ Hafiz

the flight of language

Some of the leaves stay on all winter

and spring comes without knowing

whether there is suffering in them

or ever was

and what it is in the tongue they speak

that cannot be remembered by listening

for the whole time that they are on the tree

and then as they fly off with the air 

that always through their lives was there

~ W.S. Merwin

from The Pupil

 

 

we can receive

What I’m coming to lately is an end-of-life conviction that there is more

 to consciousness than what is produced in my little head, or yours.

 Both of us have the capacity, at times, mysteriously, to get beyond 

whatever this small consciousness is doing and telling us. 

When we are able, when we are sufficiently still and relaxed—letting it happen, 

not doing it—we can receive a resonance from a greater consciousness.

Many spiritual masters I’ve known, and also eminent scientists like Carl Jung,

 echo this belief. Just before Jung died, He said: “Man cannot stand a meaningless life.

 Something in us sees around corners, knows beyond time and space, 

so may continue in that state after our physical death. 

Those who fear death as the End, die soon. 

Those who think they will go on, die old.”

Fear is constricting. In fact, so are all those self-concerns for one’s reputation,

 for one’s ideas, even for what the next association is telling me. For example,

 am I just thinking of what I should say to you now? Or am I open to something

 that could be quite new, that is not really coming so much from me 

as from this source consciousness that many traditions have called “I”?

I’m referring to the consciousness that manages to see what things are,

 what I am, and to not get caught in the next reaction or judgment or association

—because all of these are functions; and consciousness is not a function.

Without being in love with consciousness, we can’t reach it, 

and it can’t reach us while we’re preoccupied with all that is going on 

in our ordinary thought, our ordinary bodily habits, sensations, movements,

 and our ordinary emotional reactions.

These are what I am calling functions.
It’s as if we have two natures: a functional nature and what many people

 have been calling a spiritual nature or a soul. But that language

 is suspect these days because we have been so careful for the last couple

 of centuries to separate from the superstitions of the past 

that we have involuntarily cut ourselves off from the sacred,

 and even from God.

This narcissistic preoccupation with my story, my difficulty, 

which always has a kind of negative touch to it because I am complaining

 about what is wrong with me either physically or mentally. And the quiet, 

impartial, impersonal mind, consciousness, with which I 

could be connected, is blocked by that.

It is so important to understand awareness as a connector to 

something greater than me, to my source, really. My presence

 is the doorway to that, even at the moment that I acknowledge

 that I don’t know who I am and I see my lack of presence.

 But that is the beginning of a real wish for it, a wish to be.

And when I have that wish, then maybe something can reach me

 that is of an absolutely different quality. I may perceive it as an axis

 of light running down through my physical body, which has a different

origin. Gurdjieff says the physical body comes from this earth, 

and this other … my essence … comes from the stars, from the sun,

 from higher up, in a sense, closer to the source.

We have such a resistance to even the theoretical idea that we could,

 right now, you and I, be breathing an air charged with 

the omnipresence of consciousness, the omniscience of consciousness. 

We’ve all had, perhaps rarely, a direct experience of a moment when

 I knew everything at once and I was aware not just of what

 I’m calling this present moment, but of past, present, future,

 as one eternity.

These are just words at this moment. But I remember it wasn’t just a word,

 it was a flash of light, of electricity from the top of my head to my toes.

 And it changed something in my cellular structure that persists today. 

I feel that now. And everybody has this possibility for a change.

 As you say, we have to be aware of our need, in order to be receptive

 to this source consciousness, to wake up in a larger sense.

I can’t reach it, but it can reach me.

It’s not a mental conception, but a deeper conviction 

that could draw everything and everyone together in the love

 of consciousness, the faith of consciousness, the hope of consciousness.

~ James George

from To let the Light In, A Conversation with James George

in Parabola Magazine

 

 

 

the night house

Every day the body works in the fields of the world
Mending a stone wall
Or swinging a sickle through the tall grass -
The grass of civics, the grass of money -
And every night the body curls around itself
And listens for the soft bells of sleep.

But the heart is restless and rises
From the body in the middle of the night,
Leaves the trapezoidal bedroom
With its thick, pictureless walls
To sit by herself at the kitchen table
And heat some milk in a pan.

And the mind gets up too, puts on a robe
And goes downstairs, lights a cigarette,
And opens a book on engineering.
Even the conscience awakens
And roams from room to room in the dark,
Darting away from every mirror like a strange fish.

And the soul is up on the roof
In her nightdress, straddling the ridge,
Singing a song about the wildness of the sea
Until the first rip of pink appears in the sky.
Then, they all will return to the sleeping body
The way a flock of birds settles back into a tree,

Resuming their daily colloquy,
Talking to each other or themselves
Even through the heat of the long afternoons.
Which is why the body - the house of voices -
Sometimes puts down its metal tongs, its needle, or its pen
To stare into the distance,

To listen to all its names being called
Before bending again to its labor.

  ~ Billy Collins

 art by Van Gogh

when faces called flowers float out of the ground

when faces called flowers float out of the ground

and breathing is wishing and wishing is having-

but keeping is downward and doubting and never

-it’s april(yes,april;my darling)it’s spring!

yes the pretty birds frolic as spry as can fly

yes the little fish gambol as glad as can be

(yes the mountains are dancing together)

when every leaf opens without any sound

and wishing is having and having is giving-

but keeping is doting and nothing and nonsense

-alive;we’re alive,dear:it’s(kiss me now)spring!

now the pretty birds hover so she and so he

now the little fish quiver so you and so i

(now the mountains are dancing, the mountains)

when more than was lost has been found has been found

and having is giving and giving is living-

but keeping is darkness and winter and cringing

-it’s spring(all our night becomes day)o,it’s spring!

all the pretty birds dive to the heart of the sky

all the little fish climb through the mind of the sea

(all the mountains are dancing;are dancing)

~ e.e.cummings

.

kindness

Before you know what kindness really is

you must lose things,

feel the future dissolve in a moment

Like salt in a weakened broth.

What you held in your hand,

what you counted and carefully saved,

all this must go so you know

how desolate the landscape can be 

between the regions of kindness.

How you ride and ride

thinking the bus will never stop,

the passengers eating maize and chicken

will stare out the window forever.

Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness,

you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho

lies dead by the side of the road.

You must see how this could be you,

how he too was someone

who journeyed through the night with plans

and the simple breath that kept him alive.

Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,

you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.

You must wake up with sorrow.

You must speak to it till your voice

catches the thread of all sorrows

and you see the size of the cloth.

Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,

only kindness that ties your shoes

and sends you out into the day to mail letters and purchase bread,

only kindness that raises its head

from the crown of the world to say

It is I you have been looking for,

and then goes with you everywhere

like a shadow or a friend.

~ Naomi Shihab Nye

from Words Under the Words: Selected Poems
 

to create one's own world, takes courage.

The abstraction is often the most definite form 

for the intangible thing in myself that I can clarify in paint.

I decided that if I could paint that flower in a huge scale, 

you could not ignore its beauty. 

The bones seem to cut sharply to the center of something that is keenly alive on the desert even tho' it is vast and empty and untouchable... and knows no kindness with all its beauty.

There's something about black. You feel hidden away in it.

~ Georgia O'Keeffe

photo by Alfred Stieglitz