Friday, March 27, 2020

aloneness








But loneliness is entirely different from aloneness. That loneliness must be passed to be alone. Loneliness is not comparable with aloneness. The man who knows loneliness can never know that which is alone. Are you in that state of aloneness? Our minds are not integrated to be alone. The very process of the mind is separative. And that which separates knows loneliness.

But aloneness is not separative. It is something which is not the many, which is not influenced by the many, which is not the result of the many, which is not put together as the mind is; the mind is of the many. Mind is not an entity that is alone, being put together, brought together, manufactured through centuries. Mind can never be alone. Mind can never know aloneness. But being aware of the loneliness when going through it, there comes into being that aloneness. Then only can there be that which is immeasurable. Unfortunately most of us seek dependence. We want companions; we want friends; we want to live in a state of separation, in a state which brings about conflict. That which is alone can never be in a state of conflict. But mind can never perceive that, can never understand that; it can only know loneliness.





~ J. Krishnamurti
from the talk On Love and Loneliness (1952)
national geographic photo





all these insane borders we protect





A woman's body, like the earth, has seasons;
when the mountain stream flows,
when the holy thaws,
when I am most fragile and in need,
it was then, it seemed,
God came closest.

God, like a medic on a field, is tending our souls.
Our horns get locked with desires, but don't hold yourself
too accountable; for all desires are really innocent. 
That is what the compassion in His eyes tell me.

Why this great war between the countries -- the countries --
inside of us?

What are all these insane borders we protect?
What are all these different names for the same church of love
we kneel in together? For it is true, together we live; and only
at that shrine where all are welcome will God sing
loud enough to be heard.

Our horns got locked with the earth and sky in some odd
marriage ritual; so what, don't worry. We should be proud of
ourselves for everything we helped create in this
magic world.

And God is always there, if you feel wounded. He kneels
over this earth like a divine medic,
and His love thaws the holy in us.





~ St. Teresa of Avila
from Love Poems From God: Twelve Sacred Voices from the East and West
version by Daniel Ladinsky
art by Steve Shinn








together in a tapestry








We are all bound together in a tapestry that like the sea gives the impression of movement 

towards something but is actually just a maternal body of material...

The flowers buzz when the vibration of the bees stimulates their pistons 

and their molecules swell and their petals hum like cellos. Rocks are alive,
 the firstborn of the natural world, somber without will.

There is no freedom from this universe we were born into, because it is our

 vague source of sensation, our soul, the container of our guilt.

Skins liquefy in heat. And when a bald baby swallow dies on your palm, 

you feel warmth pouring over your skin, a kind of burning fountain 
that scalds you like pepper spray.

Do you think this is a sign of the spirit ripping its energy into you to carry

 to the other side? I do. There are no actual objects over there, no materials
 but unformed steaming clouds, colors that harmonize musically, 
no gravity exists but elasticity composed of invisible images.

 

~ Fanny Howe
from 'The Child's Child'
The Needle's Eye: Passing through Youth




Monday, March 23, 2020

a hand is shaped for what it holds or makes





.
A hand is shaped for what it holds or makes.
Time takes what's handed to it then - warm bread, a stone,
a child whose fingers touch the page to keep her place.

Beloved, grown old separately, your face
shows me the changes on my own.
I see the histories it holds, the argument it makes

against the thresh of trees, the racing clouds, the race
of birds and sky birds always lose:
the lines have ranged, but not the cheek's strong bone.
My finger touching there recall that place.

Once we were one.  Then what time did, and hands, erased
us from the future we had owned.
For some, the future holds what hands release, not made.

We make a bridge.  We walked it.  Laced
night's sounds with passion.
Owls' pennywhistles, after, took our place.

Wasps leave their nest. Wind takes the papery case.
Our wooden house, less easily undone,
now houses others.  A life is shaped by what it holds or makes.
I make these words for what they can't replace.






~ Jane Hirshfield
from Come, Thief



we victims - our suffering










~ Gangaji



Sunday, March 22, 2020

change









~ Jack Kornfield



 

an old story









with thanks to brainpickings



Thursday, March 19, 2020

no ground to stand on










~ Ram Dass



 

the third body








A man and a woman sit near each other, and they do not long
at this moment to be older, or younger, nor born
in any other nation, or time, or place.
They are content to be where they are, talking or not talking.
Their breaths together feed someone whom we do not know.
The man sees the way his fingers move;
he sees her hands close around a book she hands to him.
They obey a third body they have in common.
They have made a promise to love that body.
Age may come, parting may come, death will come.
A man and woman sit near each other;
as they breathe they feed someone we do not know, 
someone we know of, whom we have never seen.



~ Robert Bly
art by  Ismail Shammout

Tuesday, March 17, 2020

peace and the scary spider








~ Gangaji 


until we know everything






We know nothing until we know everything.

I have no object to defend
for all is of equal value
to me.

I cannot lose anything in this
place of abundance
I found.

If something my heart cherishes
is taken away,

I just say, "Lord, what happened?"

And a hundred more appear.



~ Saint Catherine of Siena, (1347-1380)

she felt the need to go out into the world and help her neighbors out of love for God.  Thus she was not only and ascetic and mystic, but also and activist...She devoted herself with such dedication to the sick and poor of Siena that they called her "our holy mother."

comment by Ursula King
art by Sano di Pietro




Monday, March 16, 2020

life's joys and sorrow









~ Jack Kornfield

 


Sunday, March 15, 2020

the Indian parrot







There was a merchant setting out for India. 

He asked each male and female servant
what they wanted to be brought as a gift. 

Each told him a different exotic object:
A piece of silk, a brass figurine,
a pearl necklace. 

Then he asked his beautiful caged parrot,
the one with such a lovely voice,
and she said,
"When you see the Indian parrots,
describe my cage. Say that I need guidance
here in my separation from them. Ask how
our friendship can continue with me so confined
and them flying about freely in the meadow mist. 

Tell them that I remember well our mornings
moving together from tree to tree. 

Tell them to drink one cup of ecstatic wine
in honor of me here in the dregs of my life. 

Tell them that the sound of their quarreling
high in the trees would be sweeter
to hear than any music." 

This parrot is the spirit-bird in all of us,
that part that wants to return to freedom,
and is the freedom. What she wants
from India is herself! 

So this parrot gave her message to the merchant,
and when he reached India, he saw a field
full of parrots. He stopped
and called out what she had told him. 

One of the nearest parrots shivered
and stiffened and fell down dead. 

The merchant said, "This one is surely kin
to my parrot. I shouldn't have spoken." 

He finished his trading and returned home
with the presents for his workers. 

When he got to the parrot, she demanded her gift.
"What happened when you told my story
to the Indian parrots?" 

"I'm afraid to say."
"Master, you must!" 

"When I spoke your complaint to the field
of chattering parrots, it broke
one of their hearts. 

She must have been  close companion,
or a relative, for when she heard about you
she grew quiet and trembled, and died." 

As the caged parrot heard this, she herself
quivered and sank to the cage floor. 

This merchant was a good man.
He grieved deeply for his parrot, murmuring
distracted phrases, self-contradictory -
cold, then loving - clear, then
murky with symbolism. 

A drowning man reaches for anything!
The Friend loves this flailing about
better than any lying still. 

The One who lives inside existence
stays constantly in motion,
and whatever you do, that king
watches through the window. 

When the merchant threw the "dead" parrot
out of the cage, it spread its wings
and glided to a nearby tree! 

The merchant suddenly understood the mystery.
"Sweet singer, what was in the message
that taught you this trick?" 

"She told me that it was the charm
of my voice that kept me caged.
Give it up, and be released!" 

The parrot told the merchant one or two more
spiritual truths. Then a tender goodbye. 

"God protect you," said the merchant
"as you go on your new way.
I hope to follow you!" 





~ Rumi 
from  One-Handed Basket Weaving
translated by Coleman Barks


.

Saturday, March 14, 2020

vulnerability - Brene Brown










~ Brene Brown




vulnerability








Vulnerability is not a weakness, a passing indisposition 
or something we can arrange to do without, vulnerability is not a choice,
 vulnerability is the underlying, ever present and abiding undercurrent
 of our natural state. To run from vulnerability is to run from the essence
 of our nature, the attempt to be invulnerable is the vain attempt
 to become something we are not and most especially, to close off 
our understanding of the grief of others. More seriously,
 in refusing our vulnerability we refuse the help needed at every turn 
of our existence and immobilize the essential, tidal and conversational
 foundations of our identity.

To have a temporary, isolated sense of power over all events 
and circumstances, is a lovely illusionary privilege and perhaps 
the prime and most beautifully constructed conceit of being human 
and especially of being youthfully human, but it is a privilege
 that must be surrendered with that same youth, with ill health, 
with accident, with the loss of loved ones who do not share 
our untouchable powers; powers eventually and most emphatically
 given up, as we approach our last breath.

The only choice we have as we mature is how we inhabit our vulnerability,
 how we become larger and more courageous and more compassionate 
through our intimacy with disappearance, our choice is to inhabit vulnerability
 as generous citizens of loss, robustly and fully, or conversely, 
as misers and complainers, reluctant and fearful, always at the gates 
of existence, but never bravely and completely attempting to enter,
 never wanting to risk ourselves, never walking fully through the door.





~ David Whyte
from Consolations:The Solace, Nourishment and 

Underlying Meaning of Everyday Words