Tuesday, April 11, 2017

a somebody?








About a decade after he made his oft-quoted proclamation in Leaves of Grass — 
“Do I contradict myself? / Very well then I contradict myself, 
/ (I am large, I contain multitudes.)”
 
 — Whitman considers the cohesion of those multitudes:


There is, in sanest hours, a consciousness, a thought that rises, 
independent, lifted out from all else, calm, like the stars, shining eternal.
 
This is the thought of identity — yours for you, whoever you are, 
as mine for me. Miracle of miracles, beyond statement, most spiritual
 and vaguest of earth’s dreams, yet hardest basic fact,
 and only entrance to all facts. 
 
In such devout hours,
 in the midst of the significant wonders of heaven and earth, 
(significant only because of the Me in the centre,)
 creeds, conventions, fall away and become of no account 
before this simple idea. Under the luminousness of real vision,
 it alone takes possession, takes value. Like the shadowy dwarf in the fable,
 once liberated and look’d upon, it expands over the whole earth,
 and spreads to the roof of heaven.




~ Walt Whitman
 from the essay Democratic Vistas
Illustration by Mimmo Paladino for a rare edition of James Joyce’s Ulysses
with thanks to Brain Pickings



Sunday, April 2, 2017

looking for the face








~ Robert Lax
with thanks to louie, louie

Wednesday, March 29, 2017

a small green island






There is a small green island
where one white cow lives alone,
a meadow of an island.
 
The cow grazes till nightfall, full and fat,
but during the night she panics
and grows thin as a single hair.  "What shall I eat
tomorrow?  There's nothing left!"
 
By dawn, the grass has grown up again, waist-high.
The cow starts eating and by dark
the meadow is clipped short.
 
She's full of strength and energy, but she panics
in the dark as before, and grows 
abnormally thin overnight.
 
The cow does this over and over,
and this is all she does.
 
She never thinks, "This meadow has never failed
to grow back.  Why should I be afraid
every night that it won't?"
 
The cow is the bodily soul.
The island field is this world where
that grows lean with fear and fat with blessing,
 
lean and fat.  White cow,
don't make yourself miserable
with what's to come, or not to come.
 
 
 
~ Rumi
translation by Coleman Barks
 
 
 

Saturday, March 25, 2017

nothing?






Once upon a time there was a man who had about twelve cows, and he loved his cows.  Every morning and evening he would praise them for the amount of  milk they were giving and praise them for their beauty.  One morning he noticed that the amount of milk had lessened.  Each day for a week he noticed the same thing.  So that night he decided to stay up and see what was going on.

About midnight, he happened to look up at the stars, and he saw one star that seemed to be getting larger.  It was - and the light got stronger as the star came closer and closer to earth.  It came straight down towards his cow pasture and stopped a few feet from him in the form of a great ball of light.  Inside the light there was a luminous woman.  As soon as her toes touched the ground, the light disappeared, and she stood there like an ordinary woman.

He said to her, "Are you the one who has been stealing milk from my cows?" "Yes," she said, "my sisters and I like the milk from your cows very much."  He said, "You are very beautiful, and I'm glad that you like my cows.  And so, this is what I want to say: If you marry me, we can live together, and I will never hit you and you won't have to take care of the cows all the time.  I'll take care of them part of the time myself.  Will you marry me?"  She said slowly, "Yes, I will.  But there's one condition.  I have brought this basket with me, and I want you to agree that you will never look into this basket.  You must never look into it, no matter how long we are married.  Do you agree to that?"  "Oh, I do,"  he said.

So they were married, and they lived together very well for six or seven months.  Then one day, while she was out herding the cows, he happened to notice that basket standing in a corner of the house.  He said to himself,  "Well, you know, she is my wife, so it could be considered to be my basket.  After all, this is my house, and the basket is in my house, and so it could be considered my basket!"  After he had said this, he opened the basket and then began to laugh.  "There's absolutely nothing in the basket!  Nothing! There's nothing in the basket!"  He kept saying these words and laughing so loud that his wife eventually heard the laughter.

She came into the house and she said to him, "Have you opened the basket?"  He began laughing again.  "I did!"  he said.  "I opened the basket!  There's nothing in it! There's nothing in the basket at all!  There's absolutely nothing in the basket! Nothing is in the basket!"

She said,"I have to leave now.  I have to go back."  He cried out. "Don't go!  Don't leave me!"  She said, "I have to go back now.  What I brought with me in the basket was spirit.  It's so like human beings to think that spirit is nothing."

And she was gone.




~  An African Story
from The Soul is Here for It's Own Joy - Sacred Poems from Many Cultures
edited by Robert Bly
african rock art from Chad



 

Saturday, March 18, 2017

birds of passage







The
Classroom
Surely becomes disarrayed
When the teacher is out of sight
Because of our grand
Volcanic 
Spirits.

The 
Birds of passage
Arrive with a broken 
Wing,

Though
Are then lifted by God
So high and
"Low"

To experience the heart
Of everything.

The mind surely becomes disarrayed
When the Teacher is out
Of sight.



~ Hafiz
from The Gift
translations by Daniel Ladinisky

 

Friday, March 17, 2017

and love says






And love
Says,

"I will, I will take care of you,"

To everything that is
Near.


~ Hafiz
from The Gift
translation by Daniel Ladinsky

Saturday, March 4, 2017

chickpea to cook





A chickpea leaps almost over the rim of the pot
where it's being boiled.

"Why are you doing this to me?"

The cook knocks him down with the ladle.

"Don't you try to jump out.
You think I'm torturing you.
I'm giving you flavor,
so you can mix with spices and rice
and be the lovely vitality of a human being.

Remember when you drank rain in the garden.
That was for this."

Grace first. Sexual pleasure,
then a boiling new life begins,
and the Friend has something good to eat.

Eventually the chickpea 
will say to the cook,
 "Boil me some more.
Hit me with the skimming spoon.
I can't do this be myself.

I'm like an elephant that dreams of gardens
back in Hindustan and doesn't pay attention
to his driver.  You're my cook, my driver,
my way into existence. I love cooking."

The cook says, "I was once like you,
fresh from the ground,  Then I boiled in time,
and boiled in the body, two fierce boilings.

My animal soul grew powerful.
I controlled it with practices,
and boiled some more, and boiled once beyond that,
and become your teacher."




~ Rumi
from The essential Rumi
translations by Coleman Barks and John Moyne



Macarius and the pony


.


.
People in a village
At the desert's edge
Had a daughter
Who was changed (they thought)
By magic arts
Into a pony.

At first they berated her
"Why do you have to be a horse?"
She could think of no reply.

So they led her out with a halter 
Into the hot waste land
Where there was a saint
Called Macarius
Living in a cell.

"Father" they said
"This young mare here
Is, or was, our daughter.
Enemies, wicked men,
Magicians, have made her
The animal you see.
Now by your prayers to God
Change her back
Into the girl she used to be."

"My prayers" said Macarius,
"Will change nothing,
For I see no mare.
Why do you call this good child
An animal?"

But he led her into his cell
With her parents:
There he spoke to God 
Anointing the girl with oil;
And when they saw with what love 
He placed his hand upon her head
They realized, at once.
She was no animal.
She had never changed.
She had been a girl from the beginning.

"Your own eyes
(said Macarius)
Are your enemies.
Your own crooked thoughts
(said the anchorite)
Change people around you
Into birds and animals.
Your own ill-will
(said the clear-eyed one)
Peoples the world with specters."


.
~ Thomas Merton
from  The Collected Poems


.

Friday, February 24, 2017

sweater






What is asked of one is not what is asked of another.
A sweater takes on the shape of its wearer,
a coffee cup sits to the left or the right of the workspace,
making its pale Saturn rings of now and before.
Lucky the one who rises to sit at a table,
day after day spilling coffee sweet with sugar, whitened with milk.
Lucky the one who writes in a book of spiral-bound mornings
a future in ink, who writes hand unshaking, warmed by thick wool.
Lucky still, the one who writes later, shaking.  Acrobatic at last, the 
sweater,
elastic as breath that enters what shape it is asked to. 
Patient the table;  unjudging, the ample, refillable cup.
Irrefusable, the shape the sweater is given,
stretched in the shoulders, sleeves lengthened by unmetaphysical
pullings on.





~ Jane Hirshfield
from Come, Thief 


Friday, February 10, 2017

the "I" experience









~ Alan Watts



Sunday, January 29, 2017

simple acceptance







The everyday practice is simply to develop 
a complete acceptance and openness to all 
situations and emotions, and to all people,
 experiencing everything totally 
without mental reservations and blockages, 
so that one never withdraws
 or centralizes into oneself.



~ Trungpa Rinpoche




Wednesday, January 25, 2017

thank you


.


Meditation enables them to go
Deeper and deeper into consciousness,
From the world of words to the world of thoughts,
Then beyond thoughts to wisdom in the Self.
...
Sharp like a razor's edge, the sages say,
Is the path, difficult to traverse.


~ Katha Upanishad



This is the passage from which the title of Somerset Maugham's book The Razor's Edge was taken. His story traces the spiritual journey of an American fighter pilot traumatized by WWI. The book is apparently based on the life of Guy Hague who had spent time with Ramana Maharshi in Tamil Nadu, India, as did Maugham himself.
William Somerset Maugham was born on this day in 1874 in Paris. He was trained as a doctor and work on the front as a Red Cross volunteer during WWI. He became famous with his semi- autobiographical novel Of Human Bondage in 1915. Maugham's novels seem to make apparent the beauty of and intricacy of the fabric of life in-which we are all entwined.



Happy Birthday Mr. Maugham and thank you.



Wednesday, January 11, 2017

the thing with feathers






"Hope" is the thing with feathers—
That perches in the soul—
And sings the tune without the words—
And never stops—at all—

And sweetest—in the Gale—is heard—
And sore must be the storm—
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm—

I've heard it in the chillest land—
And on the strangest Sea—
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb—of Me.


~ Emily Dickinson

from The Poems of Emily Dickinson, Edited by R. W. Franklin
 with thanks to Love is a Place

Saturday, December 17, 2016

the bridge








Between now and now,
between I am and you are,
the word bridge.

Entering it
you enter yourself:
the world connects
and closes like a ring.

From one bank to another,
there is always
a body stretched:
a rainbow.
I’ll sleep beneath its arches.


~ Octavio Paz
from The Collected Poems of Octavio Paz 1957-1987



Sunday, December 11, 2016

in the heart of the night






In the heart of the night,
The moonlight framing
A small boat drifting,
Tossed not by the waves
Nor swayed by the breeze.


~ Dogen
from Zen poetry of Dogen