Wednesday, January 16, 2019

written in my hut on a snowy evening






Reflecting over seventy years,
I am tired of judging right from wrong.
Faint traces of a path trodden in deep night snow.
A stick of incense under the rickety window.


~ Ryokan 
from Sky Above, Great Wind

Sunday, January 13, 2019

discontinuous fragments





We are a thoroughly shell-shocked species.
 Though we have not all suffered abuse as children, 
we have all endured experiences that we perceived as terrifying, 
and that utterly exhausted our tender attempts to comprehend and cope
....as a result of our histories, and of our inborn disposition to become dissociative
 when our minds need protection, moderately dissociative awareness
 is the normal mental status of all adult human beings. 

 What we conceive of as an unbroken thread of consciousness is,
 instead, quite often a train of discontinuous fragments. 
Our awareness is divided.
 And much more commonly than we know, 
even our personalities are fragmented-disorganized
 team efforts trying to cope with past-rather than the sane,
 unified wholes we anticipate in ourselves and in other people.





~ Martha Stout
from The Myth of Sanity
art by picasso




Saturday, January 12, 2019

a basis of peace












~ Rupert Spira



 

your presence is 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



a living flame





Love's valley is the next, and here desire
Will plunge the pilgrim into seas of fire,
Until his very being is en-flamed
And those whom fire rejects turn back ashamed.
The lover is a man who flares and burns,
Whose face is fevered, who in frenzy yearns,
Who knows no prudence, who will gladly send
A hundred worlds toward their blazing end,
Who knows of neither faith nor blasphemy,
Who has no time for doubt or certainty,
To whom both good and evil are the same,
And who is neither, but a living flame.
But you! Lukewarm in all you say or do,
Backsliding, weak - oh no, this is not you!
True lovers give up everything they own
To steal one moment with the Friend alone -
They make no vague, procrastinating vow,
But risk their livelihood and risk it now.
Until their hearts are burned, how can they flee
From their desire's incessant misery?
They are the falcon when it flies distressed
In circles, searching for its absent nest -
They are the fish cast up upon the land
That seeks the sea and shudders on the sand.
Love here is fire; its thick smoke clouds the head -
When love has come the intellect has fled;
It cannot tutor love, and all its care
Supplies no remedy for love's despair.
If you could seek the unseen you would find
Love's home, which is not reason or the mind,
And love's intoxication tumbles down
The world's designs for glory and renown -
If you could penetrate their passing show
And see the world's wild atoms, you would know
That reason's eyes will never glimpse one spark
Of shining love to mitigate the dark.
Love leads whoever starts along our Way;
The noblest bow to love and must obey -
But you, unwilling both to love and tread
The pilgrim's path, you might as well be dead!
The lover chafes, impatient to depart,
And longs to sacrifice his life and heart.




~ Farid Attar
translated by Afkham Darbandi and Dick Davis
from The Conference of Birds



Unity's inclusive span








The pilgrim sees no form but His and knows
That He subsists beneath all passing shows --
The pilgrim comes from Him whom he can see,
Lives in Him, with Him, and beyond all three.
Be lost in Unity's inclusive span,
Or you are human but not yet a man.
Whoever lives, the wicked and the blessed,
Contains a hidden sun within his breast --
Its light must dawn though dogged by long delay;
The clouds that veil it must be torn away --
Whoever reaches to his hidden sun
Surpasses good and bad and knows the One.
The good and bad are here while you are here;
Surpass yourself and they will disappear.




 ~ Farid Attar
English version by Afkham Darbandi and Dick Davis
art by Andrew Wyeth

Wednesday, January 9, 2019

profound not-knowing






One of my favorite things to do is to sit with my elderly father who has Alzheimers. It's a beautiful thing just to sit a place of profound not-knowing with him, a place where I do not know what to say or do. I sit, without expectation, without trying to 'fix' him, or manipulate his experience in any way. I just listen, without trying to make things better in the moment, without playing the role of 'the one who knows'. As consciousness, I am simply available to him. I don't need to 'know' anything in this place, for we are each other. I simply cannot tell who is the one with memory loss. 

And here, I notice a deep and profound acceptance of any wave of frustration or sadness that appears in the ocean of experience. His pain, my pain, there is no difference at all. 

And this seems to me to be what true relationship is at its very core - meeting, really meeting in the moment, without hope, without a future, without expectation, without a story. Coming face to face with yourself. Nobody meeting nobody. 

I love what Nisargadatta Maharaj says: 

"With the dissolution of the personal 'I', 
personal suffering disappears." 

But crucially, he also adds: 

"What remains is the great sadness of compassion". 

Yes, the absence of 'I' is not cold detachment and neo-Advaita world-rejection, 
but intimacy of the most unspeakable kind. 

"Thanks, Dad, for keeping me grounded." 




~ Jeff Foster
from his newsletter: Life Without a Centre
art by picasso


unnameable



.




There is no where in you a paradise that is no place and there
You do not enter except without a story.

To enter there is to become unnameable.
Whoever is nowhere is nobody, and therefore cannot exist except as unborn:
No disguise will avail him anything

Such a one is neither lost nor found.

But he who has an address is lost.
They fall, they fall into apartments and are securely established!
They find themselves in streets. They are licensed
To proceed from place to place
They now know their own names
They can name several friends and know
Their own telephones must some time ring.

If all telephones ring at once, if all names are shouted at once and all cars crash at one crossing:
If all cities explode and fly away in dust
Yet identities refuse to be lost. There is a name and a number for everyone.
There is a definite place for bodies, there are pigeon holes for ashes:
Such security can business buy!

Who would dare to go nameless in so secure a universe?
Yet, to tell the truth, only the nameless are at home in it.

They bear with them in the center of nowhere the unborn flower of nothing:
This is the paradise tree. It must remain unseen until words end and arguments are silent.





~ Thomas Merton
from The Selected Poems of Thomas Merton


.

Friday, January 4, 2019

to breathe nothing but silence


.


Minds which are separated pretend to blend in one another's language.
The marriage of souls in concepts is mostly an illusion.

Thoughts which travel outward bring back reports from You from outward things, but a dialogue with You, uttered through the world, always ends by being a dialogue with my own reflection in the stream of time.  With You there is no dialogue, unless You choose a mountain, circle it with cloud and print Your words in fire upon the mind of Moses.

What was delivered to Moses on tablets of stone, as the fruit of lighting and thunder, 
is now more thoroughly born in our souls 
as quietly as the breath of our own being.


from Dialogues with Silence



To deliver oneself up, to hand oneself over, entrust oneself completely to the silence of a wide landscape of woods and hills, or sea, or desert; to sit still while the sun comes up over the land and fills its silences with light.  To pray and work in the morning and to labor in meditation in the evening when night falls upon that land and when the silence fills itself with darkness and with stars.  This is a true and special vocation.  There are few who are willing to belong completely to such silence, to let it soak into their bones, to breathe nothing but silence, to feed on silence, and to turn the very substance of their life into a living and vigilant silence.



Thomas Merton
from Thoughts in Solitude
sketch by the author
.



silence






.
The only silence we know is the silence when noise stops, the silence when thought stops - but that is not silence. Silence is something entirely different, like beauty, like love.  And this silence is not the product of a quiet mind, it is not the product of the brain cells which have understood the whole structure and say, 'for God's sake be quiet'; then the brain cells themselves produce the silence and that is not silence.  Nor is silence the outcome of attention in which the observer is observed; then there is no friction, but that is not silence.

You are waiting for me to describe what this silence is so that you can compare it, interpret it, carry it away and bury it.  It cannot be described.  What can be described is the known, and freedom from the known can come into being only when there is a dying every day to the known, to the hurts, the flatteries, to all the images you have made, to all your experiences - dying every day so that the brain cells themselves become fresh, young, innocent.  But that innocency, that freshness, that quality of tenderness and gentleness, does not produce love;  it is not the quality of beauty or silence.

That silence which is not the silence of the ending of noise is only a small beginning.  It is like going through a small hole to an enormous, wide, expansive ocean, to an immeasurable, timeless state.  But this you cannot understand verbally unless you have understood the whole structure of consciousness and the meaning of pleasure, sorrow and despair, and the brain cells themselves have become quiet.  Then perhaps you may come upon that mystery which nobody can reveal to you and nothing can destroy.  A living mind is a still mind, a living mind is a mind that has no center and therefore no space and time.  Such a mind is the limitless and that is the only truth, that is the only reality.





~ J. Krishnamurti
from Freedom from the Known
photo by Shreve Stockton





silence II








Silence is not a lack of words. 
Silence is not a lack of music. 
Silence is not a lack of curses. 
Silence is not a lack of screams. 
Silence is not a lack of colors 
or voices or bodies or whistling wind. 
Silence is not a lack of anything. 

Silence is resting, nestling 
in every leaf of every tree, 
in every root and branch. 
Silence is the flower sprouting 
upon the branch. 

Silence is the mother singing 
to her newborn babe. 
Silence is the mother crying 
for her stillborn babe. 
Silence is the life of all 
these babes, whose breath 
is a breath of God. 

Silence is seeing and singing praises. 
Silence is the roar of ocean waves. 
Silence is the sandpiper dancing 
on the shore. 
Silence is the vastness of a whale. 
Silence is a blade of grass. 

Silence is sound 
And silence is silence. 
Silence is love, even 
the love that hides in hate. 

Silence is the pompous queen 
and the harlot and the pimp 
hugging his purse on a crowded street. 

Silence is the healer dreaming 
the plant, the drummer drumming 
the dream. It is the lover's 
exhausted fall into sleep. 
It is the call of morning birds. 

Silence is God's beat tapping all hearts. 

Silence is the star kissing a flower. 

Silence is a word, a hope, a candle 
lighting the window of home. 

Silence is everything --the renewing sleep 
of Earth, the purifying dream of Water, 
the purifying rage of Fire, the soaring 
and spiraling flight of Air. It is all 
things dissolved into no-thing--Silence 
is with you always.....the Presence 
of I AM 



~ Elaine Maria Upton




Thursday, January 3, 2019

a state of magical simplicity




To practice Zen means to realize one's existence 
moment after moment,
 rather than letting life unravel in regret of the past 
and daydreaming of the future.
To "rest in the present"
 is a state of magical simplicity, 
although attainment of this state is not as simple as it sounds.



~  Peter Matthiessen
 from 'Nine-Headed Dragon River'


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


saunter reverently








I don't like either the word [hike] or the thing.
People ought to saunter in the mountains - not 'hike!' 
 
Do you know the origin of that word saunter?
 It's a beautiful word. Away back in the middle ages 
people used to go on pilgrimages to the Holy Land, 
and when people in the villages through which they passed 
asked where they were going they would reply,
 
 'A la sainte terre', 'To the Holy Land.'
 
 And so they became known as sainte-terre-ers or saunterers. 
Now these mountains are our Holy Land,
 
and we ought to saunter through them reverently,
 not 'hike' through them.




― John Muir 



Saturday, December 29, 2018

the wind







The day we die
the wind comes down
to take away
our footprints.

The wind makes dust
to cover up
the markings we left
while walking.

For otherwise 
the thing would seem
as if we were
still living.

Therefore the wind
is he who comes
to blow away
our footprints.



~ Southern Bushmen
from A Book of Luminous Things
edited by Czeslaw Milosz