the true love

 

There is a faith in loving fiercely

the one who is rightfully yours,

especially if you have

waited years and especially

if part of you never believed

you could deserve this

loved and beckoning hand

held out to you this way.

I am thinking of faith now

and the testaments of loneliness

and what we feel we are

worthy of in this world.

Years ago in the Hebrides,

I remember an old man

who walked every morning

on the grey stones

to the shore of baying seals,

who would press his hat

to his chest in the blustering

salt wind and say his prayer

to the turbulent Jesus

hidden in the water,

and I think of the story

of the storm and everyone

waking and seeing

the distant

yet familiar figure

far across the water

calling to them

and how we are all

preparing for that

abrupt waking,

and that calling,

and that moment

we have to say yes,

except it will

not come so grandly

so Biblically

but more subtly

and intimately in the face

of the one you know

you have to love

so that when

we finally step out of the boat

toward them, we find

everything holds

us, and everything confirms

our courage, and if you wanted

to drown you could,

but you don’t

because finally

after all this struggle

and all these years

you simply don’t want to

any more

you’ve simply had enough

of drowning

and you want to live and you

want to love and you will

walk across any territory

and any darkness

however fluid and however

dangerous to take the

one hand you know

belongs in yours.

~ David Whyte

from The House of Belonging

To learn from animal being

 

Nearer to the earth's heart, 

Deeper within its silence:

Animals know this world

In a way we never will.

We who are ever

Distanced and distracted

By the parade of bright

Windows thought opens;

Their seamless presence

Is not fractured thus.

Stranded between time

Gone and time emerging,

We manage seldom

To be where we are:

Whereas they are always

Looking our from

The here and now.

May we learn to return 

And rest in the beauty

Of animal being,

Learn to lean low,

Leave our locked minds,

And with freed senses

Feel the earth

Breathing with us.

May we enter 

Into lightness of spirit,

And slip frequently into

The feel of the wild.

Let the clear silence 

Of our animal being

Cleanse our hearts

Of corrosive words.

May we learn to walk

Upon the earth

With all their confidence

And clear-eyed stillness

So that our minds

Might be baptized

In the name of the wind

And the light and the rain.

~ John O'Donohue

from To Bless the Space Between Us

at ease

 

The more that we’re at ease, the more we’re willing to open up a bit.

 When our attitude is not oriented exclusively around ‘me’ 

we experience a greater readiness to share. 

There is a sense of wanting all our friends to be at ease 

that gradually expands to encompass the whole population around us, 

the whole region. 

This being at ease with ourselves, accepting, 

or having a certain affection for our own state of being, 

can be steadily expanded to include others. 

This is the true beginning of meditation practice. 

~ Tsoknyi Rinpoche

from Fearless Simplicity: 

The Dzogchen Way of Living Freely in a Complex World

benefits for others

 

The only source of every kind of benefit for others

 is awareness of our own condition.  

When we know how to help ourselves,

 and how to work with our own situation…

our feelings of compassion arise spontaneously, 

without the need to hold ourselves to the rules of behavior

 of any religious doctrine.    

~ Nyoshul Khen Rinpoche 

Caring for Each Other and Our World - Jack Kornfield's Dec 2023 Community Talk

 

~ Jack Kornfield

simply

 

I'm too alone in the world, yet not alone enough

to make each hour holy

I'm too small in the world, yet not small enough

to be simply in your presence, like a thing-

just as it is.

I want to know my own will

 and to move with it.

And I want, in the hushed moments

when the nameless draws near,

to be among the wise ones-

or alone.

I want to mirror your immensity.

I want never to be too weak or too old

to bear the heavy, lurching image of you.

I want to unfold.

Let no place in me hold itself closed,

for where I am closed, I am false.

I want to stay clear in your sight.

~ Rilke's Book of Hours

The Book of Monastic Life

the way it is with children

.

I believe in all that has never yet been spoken.

I want to free what waits within me

so that what no one has dared to wish for

.

may for once spring clear

without my contriving.

.

If this is arrogant, God, forgive me,

but this is what I need to say.

May what I do flow from me like a river,

no forcing and no holding back,

the way it is with children.

.

Then in these swelling and ebbing currents,

these deepening tides moving out, returning,

I will sing you as no one ever has,

.

streaming through widening channels

into the open sea.

.

~ Rainer Maria Rilke

from Rilke's Book of Hours

translation by Anita Barrows and Joanna Macy

.

from a place of gratefulness

It is only from such a place of gratefulness 

that we can perform beautiful acts — 

from a place of absolute, ravishing appreciation

 for the sheer wonder of being alive at all, 

each of us an improbable and temporary triumph

 over the staggering odds of nonbeing and nothingness

 inking the ledger of spacetime.

 But because we are human, because we are batted about

 by the violent immediacies of everyday life, 

such gratitude eludes us as a continuous state of being.

 We access it only at moments, 

only when the trance of busyness lifts 

and the blackout curtain of daily demands

 parts to let the radiance in, those delicious moments

 when we find ourselves 

awash in nonspecific gladness,

 grateful not to this person,

 grateful not for this turn of events,

 but grateful at life — a diffuse gratitude

 that irradiates every aspect and atom 

of the world, however small, however unremarkable,

 however coated with the dull patina of habit.

 In those moments, everything sings, 

everything shimmers. 

In those moments, we are most alive.

~ Seneca

from Letters from a Stoic

as if to demonstrate an eclipse

 

I pick an orange from a wicker basket

and place it on the table

to represent the sun.

Then down at the other end

a blue and white marble

becomes the earth

and nearby I lay the little moon of an aspirin.

I get a glass from a cabinet,

open a bottle of wine,

then I sit in a ladder-back chair,

a benevolent god presiding

over a miniature creation myth,

and I begin to sing

a homemade canticle of thanks

for this perfect little arrangement,

for not making the earth too hot or cold

not making it spin too fast or slow

so that the grove of orange trees

and the owl become possible,

not to mention the rolling wave,

the play of clouds, geese in flight,

and the Z of lightning on a dark lake.

Then I fill my glass again

and give thanks for the trout,

the oak, and the yellow feather,

singing the room full of shadows,

as sun and earth and moon

circle one another in their impeccable orbits

and I get more and more cockeyed with gratitude.

~ Billy Collins

from Nine Horses

with thanks to The Marginalian by Maria Popova

image by James McCue/The Virtual Telescope

a great light

 

I saw a great light come down over London,

And buildings and cars and people were still

They were held wherever they were under the sky’s

Clear humming radiance as it descended --

Everywhere, in shops, behind desks and on trains

Everything stopped as the stillness came down

And touched the crown of our heads

As our eyes closed, and the sky filled us

And our minds became the sky --

And everyone, regardless of crime class or creed

Was touched; as slowly we began to stir

Out of this penetrated light-filled sleep

Dizzily as the hand completed its dialing,

And the train lurched forward

And I saw faces looking at one another questioning,

I saw people meeting eye to eye and standing

Half amazed by each other’s presence

I saw their mouths silently shaping the word why

Why didn’t we know this? and yet knowing

They already knew, and without words

We all stood searching for the gesture

That would say it --

As the lights went green, and we drove on.

~ Jay Ramsay

from The Longing in Between: Sacred Poetry from Around the World

(A Poetry Chaikhana Anthology) Edited by Ivan M. Granger

Yes! No!

How necessary it is to have opinions! I think the spotted trout
lilies are satisfied, standing a few inches above the earth. I
think serenity is not something you just find in the world,
like a plum tree, holding up its white petals.

The violets, along the river, are opening their blue faces, like
small dark lanterns.

The green mosses, being so many, are as good as brawny.

How important it is to walk along, not in haste but slowly,
looking at everything and calling out

Yes! No! The

swan, for all his pomp, his robes of grass and petals, wants
only to be allowed to live on the nameless pond. The catbrier
is without fault. The water thrushes, down among the sloppy
rocks, are going crazy with happiness. Imagination is better
than a sharp instrument. To pay attention, this is our endless
and proper work.

 

 

 ~ Mary Oliver

from White Pine: Poems and Prose Poems

with thanks to Poetry Chaikhana

 

 

no word for “war”

Trying to explain it to them

Leaves one feeling ridiculous and obscene.

Their houses, like white bowls,

Sit on a prairie of ancient snowfalls

Caught beyond thaw or the swift changes

Of night and day.

They listen politely, and stride away.

With spears and sleds and barking dogs

To hunt for food. The women wait

Chewing on skins or singing songs,

Knowing that they have hours to spend,

That the luck of the hunter is often late.

Later, by fires and boiling bones

In streaming kettles, they welcome me,

Far kin, pale brother,

To share what they have in a hungry time

In a difficult land. While I talk on

Of the southern kingdoms, cannon, armies,

Shifting alliances, airplanes, power,

They chew their bones, and smile at one another.

~ Mary Oliver

the hurt you embrace

The hurt you embrace becomes joy.

Call it to your arms where it can

change.  A silkworm eating leaves

makes a cocoon.  Each of us weaves

a chamber of leaves and sticks.

Silkworms begin to truly exist

as they disappear inside that room.

Without legs, we fly.  When I stop

speaking, this poem will close,

and open its silent wings...

~ Rumi

blessing for the interim time

 

When near the end of day, life has drained

Out of light, and it is too soon

For the mind of night to have darkened things,

No place looks like itself, loss of outline

Makes everything look strangely in-between,

Unsure of what has been, or what might come.

In this wan light, even trees seem groundless.

In a while it will be night, but nothing

Here seems to believe the relief of darkness.

You are in this time of the interim

Where everything seems withheld.

The path you took to get here has washed out;

The way forward is still concealed from you.

The old is not old enough to have died away;

The new is still too young to be born.”

You cannot lay claim to anything;

In this place of dusk,

Your eyes are blurred;

And there is no mirror.

Everyone else has lost sight of your heart

And you can see nowhere to put your trust;

You know you have to make your own way through.

As far as you can, hold your confidence.

Do not allow confusion to squander

This call which is loosening

Your roots in false ground,

That you might come free

From all you have outgrown.

What is being transfigured here in your mind,

And it is difficult and slow to become new.

The more faithfully you can endure here,

The more refined your heart will become

For your arrival in the new dawn.

~ John O’Donohue

from To Bless the Space Between Us

it all moves

 

 

 

 

 

 

At night outside it all moves or
almost moves–trees, grass,
touches of wind. The room you have
in the world is ready to change.
Clouds parade by, and stars in their
configurations. Birds from far
touch the fabric around them–you can
feel their wings move. Somewhere under
the earth it waits, that emanation
of all things. It breathes. It pulls you
slowly out through doors or windows
and you spread in the thin halo of night mist.

 

 

 

 

~ William Stafford