why bodhidharma went to motel 6

"Where is your home?” the interviewer asked him.

“Here.”

“No, no,” the interviewer said, thinking it a problem of translation,

“when you are where you actually live?”

Now it was his turn to think, Perhaps the translation?

~ Jane Hirshfield

no path

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Now, if you go into it very clearly and thoroughly, with intelligence, you see that to truth there can be no path; there is no path, as yours and mine: the path of service, the path of knowledge, the path of devotion, and the other innumerable paths that philosophers have invented, depending on their particular idiosyncrasies and neurological responses. Now, if one can think clearly about this matter, without prejudice - I mean by prejudice, being committed to a particular action of thought or belief, and being utterly unaware that one particular form of thinking, one particular approach, must inevitably limit, whether it is the path of knowledge, the path of devotion, or the path of action - , one will see that any particular path must invariably limit, and therefore cannot lead to reality. Because, a path of action, or a path of knowledge, or a path of devotion, in itself, is not sufficient, surely. A man of learning, however erudite, however encyclopedic his knowledge may be, if he has no love, surely his knowledge is worthless; it is merely book learning. A man of belief, as we discussed, must inevitably shape his life according to the dogma, the tenet, that he holds, and therefore his experience must be limited; because, one experiences according to one’s beliefs, and such experience can never be liberating. On the contrary, it is binding. And, as we said, only in freedom can we discover anything new, anything fundamental.

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~ J. Krishnamurti 

from The Collected Works Volume V

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a blessing of solitude

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May you recognize in your life the presence, 

power, and light of your soul.

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May you realize that you are never alone, 

that your soul in its brightness and belonging connects

you intimately with the rhythm of the universe.

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May you have respect for your own individuality and difference.

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May you realize that the shape of your soul is unique, 

that you have a special destiny here, 

that behind the facade of your life there is something beautiful, 

good, and eternal happening.

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May you learn to see yourself with the same delight, 

pride, and expectation with which God sees you in every moment.

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~ John O’Donohue

from To Bless the Space Between Us

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abandon

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The rain has stopped,

the clouds have drifted away,

and the weather is clear again.

If your heart is pure,

then all things in your world are pure.

Abandon this fleeting world,

abandon yourself,

then the moon and the flowers

will guide you along the way.

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~ Ryokan

photo by  Hideyuki Katagiri

thanks to http://dhammanovice.tumblr.com/

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how heron comes

It is a negligence of the mind

not to notice how at dusk

heron comes to the pond and

stands there in his death robes, perfect

servant of the system, hungry, his eyes

full of attention, his

wings pure light.

~ Mary Oliver

photo by Kathleen Connally

the way in

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Whoever you are: some evening take a step,

out of your house, which you know so well.

Enormous space is near, your house lies where it begins,

whoever you are.

Your eyes find it hard to tear themselves

from the sloping threshold, but with your eyes,

slowly, slowly, lift one black tree

up, so it stands against the sky, skinny, alone.

With that you have made the world, the world is immense

and like a word that is still growing in the silence.

In the same moment that your will grasps it,

your eyes, feeling its subtlety  will leave it....

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~ Rainer Maria Rilke

translated by Robert Bly

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quietly

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I sit quietly, listening to the falling leaves--

A lonely hut, a life of renunciation ...

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and

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this hut of sticks,

flimsy as the world itself.

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~ Ryokan

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My hermitage

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My hermitage lies in a forest all around me,

Everything is thick and green

no one finds this place,

Only those who have lost their way.

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No news of the affairs of men

Only the occasional song of a woodcutter.

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A thousand peaks, ten thousand mountain streams

yet no signs of anyone.

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~ Ryokan

art by Cezanne

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The great good news

The great good news is that 

love is free and it has not gone anywhere. 

In all of these eons that you have been hiding from love,

 love is still here, 

it is still open, 

it is still waiting for your commitment, 

still waiting for you to say,

"Yes, I give my life to the truth of love. 

I vow to let love live this life as it will, 

for better or worse, for richer or poorer." 

The love that you search for everywhere is already present within you. 

It may be evoked by any number of people or events. 

A mountain can evoke this love. 

A sunset can evoke this love. 

But finally, you must realize you are this love. 

The source of all love is within you. 

- Gangaji

Keep your intelligence white-hot
and your grief glistening
so your life will stay fresh.
Cry easily like a little baby.

~ Rumi

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The hunger of the hungry and the fullness of the full

 

 

 

 

If the soul was born with pinions

What are hovels to it, what are mansions?

What's Genghis Khan to it and what his Horde?

I have two enemies in all the world,

Two twins, inseparably fused:

The hunger of the hungry and the fullness of the full.

 

 

 

Marina Tsvetaeva, (1892-1941)

translation by David McDuff

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(Born in Moscow, she married Sergey Efron who fought with the White Guard.  One of her two children died of malnutrition in 1920.  They lived in exile in Prague and Paris.  Even though Sergey was secretly a soviet informer during their exile, he was executed by the secret police on their return to the Soviet Union.  Tsvetaeva hanged herself in 1941.)

 

 

 

out of the freezing sky

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Coming down out of the freezing sky

with its depths of light,

like an angel, or a Buddha with wings,

it was beautiful, and accurate,

striking the snow and whatever was there

with a force that left the imprint 

of the tips of its wings — five feet apart —

and the grabbing thrust of its feet,

and the indentation of what had been running

through the white valleys of the snow —

and then it rose, gracefully,

and flew back to the frozen marshes

to lurk there, like a little lighthouse,

in the blue shadows —

so I thought: 

maybe death isn't darkness, after all,

but so much light wrapping itself around us — 

as soft as feathers —

that we are instantly weary of looking, and looking,

and shut our eyes, not without amazement,

and let ourselves be carried,

as through the translucence of mica,

to the river that is without the least dapple or shadow,

that is nothing but light — scalding, aortal light —

in which we are washed and washed

out of our bones. 

~ Mary Oliver 

from Owls and Other Fantasies: Poems and Essays

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Grace is not something to be acquired from others. 

If it is external, it is useless. 

All that is necessary is to know its existence in you.

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~ Ramana Maharshi

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Waving Adieu, Adieu, Adieu

That would be waving and that would be crying,

Crying and shouting and meaning farewell,

Farewell in the eyes and farewell at the centre,

Just to stand still without moving a hand.

In a world without heaven to follow, the stops

Would be endings, more poignant than partings, profounder,

And that would be saying farewell, repeating farewell,

Just to be there and just to behold.

To be one's singular self, to despise

The being that yielded so little, acquired

So little, too little to care, to turn

to the ever-jubilant weather, to sip

One's cup and never to say a word,

Or to sleep or just to lie there still,

Just to be there, just to be beheld,

That would be bidding farewell, be bidding farewell.

One likes to practice the thing. They practice,

Enough, for heaven. Ever-jubilant,

What is there here but weather, what spirit

Have I except it comes from the sun?

~Wallace Stevens

If the rise of the Fish

 

 

 

If for a moment

the leaves fell upward,

if it seemed a small flock

of brown-orange birds

circled over the trees,

if they circled then scattered each in 

its own direction for the lost seed

they had spotted in tall, gold-checkered grass.

If the bloom of flies on the window

in morning sun, if their singing insistence

on grief and desire.  If the fish.

If the rise of the fish.

If the blue morning held in the glass of the window,

if my fingers, my palms.  If my thighs.

If your hands, if my thighs.

If the seeds, among all the lost gold of the grass.

If your hands on my thighs, if your tongue.

If the leaves. If the singing fell upward.  If grief.

For a moment if singing and grief.

If the blue of the body fell upward, out of our hands.

If the morning held it like leaves.

 

 

 

 

~ Jane Hirshfield

from The Lives of the Heart