Saturday, February 15, 2020

empty and awake






We were never really born, we will never really die. 
It has nothing to do with the imaginary idea of a personal self, 
other selves, many selves everywhere: Self is only an idea, 
a mortal idea. That which passes into everything is one thing.
 It’s a dream already ended. There’s nothing to be afraid of 
and nothing to be glad about. I know this from staring at mountains
 months on end. They never show any expression, they are
 like empty space. Do you think the emptiness of space will ever crumble away?
Mountains will crumble, but the emptiness of space, which is the one
 universal essence of mind, the vast awakenerhood, empty and awake, 
will never crumble away because it was never born.


The world you see is just a movie in your mind.
Rocks don't see it.
Bless and sit down.
Forgive and forget.
Practice kindness all day to everybody
and you will realize you're already
in heaven now.
That's the story.
That's the message.
Nobody understands it,
nobody listens, they're
all running around like chickens with heads cut
off. I will try to teach it but it will
be in vain, s'why I'll
end up in a shack
praying and being
cool and singing
by my woodstove
making pancakes.
 
 
 

  ~ Jack Kerouac
from  The Portable Jack Kerouac
with thanks to whiskey river
 
 
 

Thursday, February 13, 2020

radical discontinuity







I have been talking, of course, about a dualism that manifests itself in several ways:
 as a cleavage, a radical discontinuity, between Creator and creature,
 spirit and matter, religion and nature, religion and economy, 
worship and work, and so on. This dualism, I think, is the most destructive disease
 that afflicts us. In it’s best-known, it’s most dangerous, and perhaps its fundamental version,
 it is the dualism of body and soul. This is an issue as difficult as it is important,
 and so to deal with it we should start at the beginning…




~ Wendell Berry
from The Art of the Commonplace: The Agrarian Essays of Wendell Berry



Wednesday, February 12, 2020

progress?






• Questioner:

How am I to know if there is any progress in my spiritual search?
How am I to know if I am progressing?


 
• Maharaj: 


You don't really listen. If you did, such a question should not arise.
 And, if at all it did, you could have easily dealt with it yourself,
 in case if you had listened to me attentively and understood 
what I had been saying. Instead, I find that this question does disturb
 many of you. The problem apparently is about 'progress'. 

Now, who is to make the progress, and progress towards what?

 I have said this repeatedly and untiringly that you are the Conscious Presence,
 the animating consciousness which gives sentience to phenomenal objects; 
that you are not a phenomenal object, which is merely an appearance
 in the consciousness of those who perceive it. How can an 'appearance' 
make any 'progress' towards any objective? 

Now, instead of letting this basic perception impregnate your very being, 
what you do is to accept it merely as an ideological thesis and ask the question. 
How can a conceptual appearance know whether it is making any 
conceptual progress towards its conceptual liberation? 

Perception is not a matter of gradual practice. It can only happen by itself 
instantaneously, there are no stages in which deliberate progress is made. 
There is no 'one' to make any progress.

 Perhaps, one wonders, could it be that the surest sign of 'progress',
 if one cannot give up the concept, is a total lack of concern about 'progress'
 and an utter absence of anxiety about anything like 'liberation', 
a sort of' 'hollowness' in one's being, a kind of looseness, 
an unvolitional surrender to whatever might happen? 



 ~ Nisargadatta Maharaj
with thanks to No Mind's Land


Tuesday, February 11, 2020

it belonged to no one







You playmates of mine in the scattered parks of the city,
small friends from childhood of long ago:
how we found and liked one another, hesitantly,
and, like the lamb with the talking scroll,

spoke with our silence. When we were filled with joy
it belonged to no one: it was simply there.
And how it dissolved among all the adults who passed by
and in the fears of the endless year.

Wheels rolled past us, we stood and stared at the carriages;
horses surrounded us, solid but untrue--and none 
of them ever knew us. What in the world was real?

Nothing. Only the balls. Their magnificent arches.
Not even the children . . . But sometimes one,
oh a vanishing one, stepped under the plummeting ball.




~ Rainer Maria Rilke
 In memorial: Egon von Rilke
(beloved cousin of Rilke who died young) 



comparison and struggle






One is everlastingly comparing oneself with another, with what one is, 
with what one should be, with someone who is more fortunate.
 This comparison really kills. Comparison is degrading, it perverts one's outlook.
 And on comparison one is brought up. All our education is based on it 
and so is our culture. So there is everlasting struggle to be something other than
 what one is. The understanding of what one is uncovers creativeness, 
but comparison breeds competitiveness, ruthlessness, ambition, 
which we think brings about progress. Progress has only led so far 
to more ruthless wars and misery than the world has ever known.
 To bring up children without comparison
 is true education.



~ J. Krishnamurti
with thanks to j krishnamurti online
art by van gogh




see another?








Where there is a duality, as it were, there one sees another; 
there one smells another; there one tastes another; there one speaks to another ...

But where everything has become just one's own self,
 Then whereby and whom would one see? 
Then whereby and whom would one smell? 
Then whereby and to whom would one speak? 
Then whereby and whom would one hear? 
Then whereby and of whom would one think? 
Then whereby and whom would one touch?
 Then whereby and whom would one understand?



~  Brihadaranyaka Upanishad



I am nobody






I am nobody:
A red sinking autumn sun
Took my name away
 
 
 
by Richard Wright
from  Haiku Enlightenment: New Expanded Edition
 by Gabriel Rosenstock
with thanks to Poetry Chaikhana
 
 
 

Saturday, February 8, 2020

attached to the known







Now if you see how it is still the action of thought and is therefore based on fear,
 on imagination, on the past, that is the field of the known.  That is,
 I am attached to the field of the known, with all its varieties, changes,
 its activities, and what I demand is comfort.  Because I have found comfort
 in the past,  I have lived within the field of the known; that is my territory, 
 I know its borders, the frontiers.  

So I ask myself: my life has been the past; I live in the past; I act in the past;
 that is my life.  Listen to this!  My life, living in the past is a dead life. 
 You understand?  My mind, which lives in the past , is a dead mind.  

  I see this as something enormously real.  Therefore the mind, realizing that,
 actually dies to the past; it will use the past, but it has lost its grip;  
the past has lost its values, grip, its, vitality.  So the mind has its own energy,
 which is not derived from the past.  
Therefore living is dying - you understand? 

Therefore living is love, which is dying.  Because if there is no attachment, 
then there is love.  If there is no attachment to the past - the past has its value,
 which can be used, which must be used as knowledge - then my living
 is a constant renewal, is a constant movement in the field of the unknown
 in which there is learning, moving





J. Krishnamurti
from a talk in Saanen, July 27th, 1972
art by Van Gogh



you are sitting in a wagon






You are sitting in a wagon being
drawn by a horse whose
reins you
hold.

There are two inside of you
who can steer.

Though most never hand the reins to Me
so they go from place to place the
best they can, though
rarely happy.

And rarely does their whole body laugh
feeling God's poke
in the
ribs.

If you feel tired, dear,
my shoulder is soft,
I'd be glad to
steer a
while.


~ Kibir
art by Van Gogh


earth and fire






In this woman the earth speaks
Her words open in me, cells of light
flashing in my body, and make a song
that I follow toward her out of my need.
The pain I have given her I wear
like another skin, tender, the air
around me flashing with thorns.
And yet such joy as I have given her
sings in me and is part of her song.
The winds of her knees shake me
like a flame.  I have risen up from her,
time and again, a new man.





~ Wendell Berry
from Farming




welcomers of that ancient joy








In a crease of the hill
under the light,
out of the wind,
as warmth, bloom, and song
return, lady, I think of you,
and myself with you.
What are we but forms
of self-acknowledging
light that brings us
warmth and song from time
to time? Lip and flower,
hand and leaf, tongue
and song, what are we but welcomers
of that ancient joy, always
coming, always passing?
Mayapples rising
out of old time, leaves
folded down around
the stems, as if for flight,
flower bud folded in 
unfolding leaves, what
are we but hosts
of times, of all
the Sabbath morning shows,
the light that finds it good.



~ Wendell Berry
from This Day - Collected and New Sabbath Poems



Friday, February 7, 2020

Interview with Pir Zia Inayat-Khan









 ~ Pir Zia Inayat-Khan


forbearance



The Chinese ideograph for forbearance is a heart 
with a sword dangling over it, another instance of language's
 brilliant way of showing us something surprising and important
 fossilized inside the meaning of a word.





Vulnerability is built into our hearts, which can be sliced open at any moment
 by some sudden shift in the arrangements, some pain, some horror, some hurt.
 We know and instinctively fear this, so we protect our hearts by covering them 
against exposure. But this doesn't work. Covering the heart binds and suffocates it
 until, like a wound that has been kept dressed for too long, the heart starts to fester
 and becomes fetid. Eventually, without air, the heart is all but killed off,
 and there's no feeling, no experiencing at all.

To practice forbearance is to appreciate and celebrate the heart's vulnerability,
 and to see that the slicing or piercing of the heart does not require defense; 
that the heart's vulnerability is a good thing, because wounds can make us more 
peaceful and more real - if, that is, we are willing to hang on to the leopard 
of our fear, the serpent of our grief, the boar of our shame, without running away
 or being hurled off. Forbearance is simply holding on steadfastly with whatever
 it is that unexpectedly arises: not doing anything; not fixing anything 
(because doing and fixing can be a way to cover up the heart, 
to leap over the hurt and pain by occupying ourselves with schemes
 and plans to get rid of it).
 Just holding on for dear life. 
Holding on with what comes is what makes life dear. 


~ Norman Fischer 



Norman Fischer is a poet, author, and Zen Buddhist teacher and priest. A graduate of the Iowa Writer’s Workshop, he has been publishing poetry since 1979. He is the author of seventeen books of poetry, six books of prose on Zen and religion, as well as numerous articles and essays. His most recent publication, Experience: Thinking, Writing, Language, and Religion, is a long-awaited collection of his essays about experimental writing as spiritual practice.

Norman has been a Zen Buddhist priest for nearly 30 years. He served as abbot for the San Francisco Zen Center from 1995 to 2000. He is the spiritual director of the Everyday Zen Foundation, an organization dedicated to adapting Zen Buddhist teachings to Western culture, which he founded in 2001. One of the most highly respected contemporary Zen teachers in America, his Zen teaching is known for its eclecticism, openness, warmth, and common sense, and for his willingness to let go of everything, including Zen.


without the shadow of a reason



The more I write the less substance do I see in my work, ... It is tolerably awful. 
And I face it, I face it but the fright is growing on me. My fortitude is shaken 
by the view of the monster. It does not move; its eyes are baleful; it is as still as death itself 
— and it will devour me. Its stare has eaten into my soul already deep, deep.




Faith is a myth and beliefs shift like mists on the shore; thoughts vanish; 
words, once pronounced, die; and the memory of yesterday is as shadowy 
as the hope of to-morrow....

In this world – as I have known it – we are made to suffer without the shadow
 of a reason, of a cause or of guilt....

There is no morality, no knowledge and no hope; there is only the consciousness 
of ourselves which drives us about a world that... is always but a vain
 and fleeting appearance....A moment, a twinkling of an eye and nothing remains
 – but a clod of mud, of cold mud, of dead mud cast into black space,
 rolling around an extinguished sun. Nothing.
 Neither thought, nor sound, nor soul. Nothing.


~ Joseph Conrad



born Józef Teodor Konrad Korzeniowski  was a Polish-born English novelist who today is most famous for Heart of Darkness, his fictionalized account of Colonial Africa.

Conrad left his native Poland in his middle teens to avoid conscription into the Russian Army. He joined the French Merchant Marine and briefly employed himself as a wartime gunrunner. He then began to work aboard British ships, learning English from his shipmates. He was made a Master Mariner, and served more than sixteen years before an event inspired him to try his hand at writing.

He was hired to take a steamship into Africa, and according to Conrad, the experience of seeing firsthand the horrors of colonial rule left him a changed man. His introspective need to come to terms with his experience lead to Heart of Darkness, which was followed by other fictionalized explorations of his life.

He has been lauded as one of the most powerful, insightful, and disturbing novelists in the English canon despite coming to English later in life, which allowed him to combine it with the sensibilities of French, Russian, and Polish literature.



no places to go to







For some it a terrifying prospect. It would be better, think they, 
if Heaven were above and Hell below—anywhere outside, but not within.
 But that comfort has been knocked from under us. There are no places
 to go to, either for reward or punishment. The place is always here and now,
 in your own person and according to your own fancy. The world is exactly 
what you picture it to be, always, every instant. It is impossible to shift
 the scenery about and pretend that you will enjoy another, a different act. 
The setting is permanent, changing with the mind and heart, 
not according to the dictates of an invisible stage director. 
You are the author, director and actor all in one: the drama is always going
 to be your own life, not some one else’s. A beautiful, terrible, ineluctable drama,
 like a suit made of your own skin. Would you want it otherwise? 
Could you invent a better drama?




~ Henry Miller
from Sexus
photo by Christine de Grancy