Thursday, May 14, 2020

starting with the fruit









~ Jack Kornfield and Frank Ostaseski



 

shrink us to our proper size





III


Yes, though hope is our duty,
let us live a while without it
to show ourselves we can.
Let us see that, without hope,
we still are well.  Let hopelessness
shrink us to our proper size.
Without it we are half as large
as yesterday, and the world
is twice as large.  My small
place grows immense as I walk
upon it without hope.
Our springtime rue anemones
as I walk among them, hoping 
not even to live, are beautiful
as Eden, and I their kinsman
am immortal in their moment.



~ Wendell Berry




to dance my dance






Waking up is unpleasant, you know. 
You are nice and comfortable in bed. 
It is irritating to be woken up. 

That's the reason the wise guru will not attempt
 to wake people up.
 I hope I'm going to be wise here 
and make no attempt whatsoever
 to wake you up if you are asleep.

 It is really none of my business, 
even though I say to you at times,
 "Wake up!"
 My business is to do my thing, 
to dance my dance. 

As the Arabs say,
 "The nature of rain is the same,
 but it makes thorns grow in the marshes
 and flowers in the gardens."




~ Anthony de Mello


.

Wednesday, May 13, 2020

do you have time



Oh do you have time

to linger
for just a little while
out of your busy

and very important day
for the goldfinches
that have gathered
in a field of thistles

for a musical battle,
to see who can sing
the highest note,
or the lowest,

or the most expressive of mirth,
or the most tender?
Their strong, blunt beaks
drink the air

as they strive
melodiously
not for your sake
and not for mine

and not for the sake of winning
but for sheer delight and gratitude—
believe us, they say,
it is a serious thing

just to be alive
on this fresh morning
in the broken world.
I beg of you,

do not walk by
without pausing
to attend to this
rather ridiculous performance.

It could mean something.
It could mean everything.
It could be what Rilke meant, when he wrote:

'You must change your life.'



~ Mary Oliver



the need to win






When the archer is shooting for nothing
He has all his skill.
If he shoots for a brass buckle
He is already nervous.
If he shoots for a prize of gold
He goes blind
Or see two targets -
He is out of his mind!
His skill has not changed.  But the prize
Divides him.  He cares.
He thinks more of winning
Than of shooting -
And the need to win 
Drains him of power.





~ Chuang Tzu
translation by Thomas Merton
sculpture by Antoine Bourdelle





detached from results





.
“It is useless to try to make peace with ourselves by being pleased with everything we have done. In order to settle down in the quiet of our own being we must learn to be detached from the results of our own activity. We must withdraw ourselves, to some extent, from effects that are beyond our control and be content with the good will and the work that are the quiet expression of our interior life. We must be content to live without watching ourselves live, to work without expecting immediate reward, to love without instantaneous satisfaction, and to exist without any special recognition.” Thomas Merton, No Man is an Island, Ch. 7 “Being and Doing” (Highly recommended
 reading)

subtectummeum:




It is useless to try to make peace with ourselves by being pleased with everything we have done. 
In order to settle down in the quiet of our own being 
we must learn to be detached from the results of our own activity. 


We must withdraw ourselves, to some extent, 
from effects that are beyond our control 
and be content with the good will and the work 
that are the quiet expression of our interior life. 


We must be content to live without watching ourselves live, 
to work without expecting immediate reward, 
to love without instantaneous satisfaction, 
and to exist without any special recognition.





~ Thomas Merton
from  No Man is an Island





Tuesday, May 12, 2020

the present






The present is the wave that explodes over my head,
flinging the air with particles at the height of its breathless unroll;
it is the live water and light that bears from undisclosed sources
the freshest news, renewed and renewing,
world without end.




~ Annie Dillard



from the unknown






However smart we may be,
 however rich and clever or loving or charitable or spiritual or impeccable,
 it doesn't help us at all. 
The real power comes in to us from the beyond.
 Life enters us from behind, 
where we are sightless,
 and from below, 
where we do not understand. 
And unless we yield to the beyond, 
and take our power and might and honor and glory 
from the unseen, from the unknown,
 we shall continue empty.




~  D. H. Lawrence





Monday, May 11, 2020

sojourns in the parallel world







We live our lives of human passions,
cruelties, dreams, concepts,
crimes and the exercise of virtue
in and beside a world devoid
of our preoccupations, free
from apprehension--though affected,
certainly, by our actions. A world
parallel to our own though overlapping.
We call it "Nature"; only reluctantly
admitting ourselves to be "Nature" too.
Whenever we lose track of our own obsessions,
our self-concerns, because we drift for a minute,
an hour even, of pure (almost pure)
response to that insouciant life:
cloud, bird, fox, the flow of light, the dancing
pilgrimage of water, vast stillness
of spellbound ephemerae on a lit windowpane,
animal voices, mineral hum, wind
conversing with rain, ocean with rock, stuttering
of fire to coal--then something tethered
in us, hobbled like a donkey on its patch
of gnawed grass and thistles, breaks free.
No one discovers
just where we've been, when we're caught up again
into our own sphere (where we must
return, indeed, to evolve our destinies)
–but we have changed, a little.







~ Denise Levertov
from Sands of the Well








Grace Note






It is at last any morning
not answering to a name
I wake before there is light
hearing once more that same
music without repetition 
or beginning playing 
away into itself
in silence like a wave
a unison in its own
key that I seem
to have heard before I 
was listening but by the time
I hear it now it is gone
as when on a morning
alive with sunlight
almost at the year's end
a feathered breath a bird
flies in at the open window
then vanishes leaving me
believing what I do not see





~  W. S. Merwin
art by Van Gogh



suffering brings me so close to God











~ Jack Kornfield
Ram Dass
Trudy Goodman
Krishna Das and others 




Sunday, May 10, 2020

that is home








For me, trees have always been the most penetrating preachers.

 I revere them when they live in tribes and families, in forests and groves.
 And even more I revere them when they stand alone. They are like lonely persons.
 Not like hermits who have stolen away out of some weakness, but like great,
 solitary men, like Beethoven and Nietzsche. In their highest boughs the world rustles,
 their roots rest in infinity; but they do not lose themselves there, they struggle 
with all the force of their lives for one thing only: to fulfill themselves
 according to their own laws, to build up their own form, to represent themselves. 
Nothing is holier, nothing is more exemplary than a beautiful, strong tree.
 When a tree is cut down and reveals its naked death-wound to the sun, 
one can read its whole history in the luminous, inscribed disk of its trunk:
 in the rings of its years, its scars, all the struggle, all the suffering, all the sickness, 
all the happiness and prosperity stand truly written, the narrow years
 and the luxurious years, the attacks withstood, the storms endured. 
And every young farm boy knows that the hardest and noblest wood
 has the narrowest rings, that high on the mountains and in continuing danger
 the most indestructible, the strongest,
 the ideal trees grow.

Trees are sanctuaries. Whoever knows how to speak to them, 

whoever knows how to listen to them, can learn the truth.
 They do not preach learning and precepts, they preach, undeterred
 by particulars, the ancient law of life.

A tree says: A kernel is hidden in me, a spark, a thought, I am life from eternal life. 

The attempt and the risk that the eternal mother took with me is unique, 
unique the form and veins of my skin, unique the smallest play of leaves
 in my branches and the smallest scar on my bark. I was made to form
 and reveal the eternal in my smallest special detail.

A tree says: My strength is trust. I know nothing about my fathers, 

I know nothing about the thousand children that every year spring out of me.
 I live out the secret of my seed to the very end, and I care for nothing else. 
I trust that God is in me. I trust that my labor is holy. 
Out of this trust I live.

When we are stricken and cannot bear our lives any longer, 

then a tree has something to say to us: Be still! Be still! Look at me! 
Life is not easy, life is not difficult. Those are childish thoughts… 
Home is neither here nor there. Home is within you,
 or home is nowhere at all.

A longing to wander tears my heart when I hear trees rustling in the wind at evening.

 If one listens to them silently for a long time, this longing reveals its kernel,
 its meaning. It is not so much a matter of escaping from one’s suffering, 
though it may seem to be so. It is a longing for home, for a memory of the mother,
 for new metaphors for life. It leads home. Every path leads homeward, 
every step is birth, every step is death, every grave is mother.

So the tree rustles in the evening, when we stand uneasy before our own childish thoughts: 

Trees have long thoughts, long-breathing and restful, just as they have longer lives than ours.
 They are wiser than we are, as long as we do not listen to them. 
But when we have learned how to listen to trees, then the brevity and the quickness
 and the childlike hastiness of our thoughts achieve an incomparable joy.
 Whoever has learned how to listen to trees no longer wants to be a tree. 
He wants to be nothing except what he is. 
That is home. That is happiness.





~ Hermann Hesse
with thanks to brainpickings 





door posts









~ Ram Dass



Saturday, May 9, 2020

fasting









There’s hidden sweetness in the stomach’s emptiness.
We are lutes, no more, no less. If the soundbox
is stuffed full of anything, no music.

If the brain and belly are burning clean
with fasting, every moment a new song comes out of the fire.
The fog clears, and new energy makes you
run up the steps in front of you.

Be emptier and cry like reed instruments cry.
Emptier, write secrets with the reed pen.

When you’re full of food and drink, Satan sits
where your spirit should, an ugly metal statue
in place of the Kaaba. 


When you fast,
good habits gather like friends who want to help.
Fasting is Solomon’s ring. Don’t give it
to some illusion and lose your power,

but even if you have, if you've lost all will and control,
they come back when you fast, like soldiers appearing
out of the ground, pennants flying above them.
A table descends to your tents,

Jesus’ table.
Expect to see it, when you fast, this table
spread with other food, better than the broth of cabbages.




~ Rumi 
translated by Coleman Barks




to drift









He wanted to drift on the river not so much to see where it went 
as to be one with it, to go with it as virtually a part of it.  
He wished perhaps to live out a kind of parable.  


One cannot drift by intention - 
or at least, in intending to drift and in drifting, 
one must accept a severe limitation upon one's intentions.  
But in giving oneself to the currents, 
in thus subordination one's intentions, 
one becomes eligible for unintended goods, 
unwished -for gifts - 
and often these goods and gifts surpass 
those that one has intended or wished for.


 And so a drifter subscribes necessarily to a kind of faith 
that is identical both to the absolute trust of migrating birds 
and to the scripture that bids us to lose our lives in order to find them.  
Harlan stated it in 1932 with characteristic simplicity: 
"I believe that whatever we need is at hand."




~ Wendell Berry
from "Harlan Hubbard - Life and Work"
photo by Ansel Adams