Wednesday, August 24, 2016

there’s nothing to it

begin here

say what is seen and heard

what you think

and feel

cari (and) (hkyitratae suu myarr)

La mia cara famiglia in Italia, dolore per la sua perdita e il dolore
...
And in Myanmar,  saintrae aashone nhaint narkyinmhu mhar  wamnaeehkyinn
...
And in Turkey, korkunç bombalama bu geçmiş hafta sonu üzüntü

apotheosis of late August

Simply to wake up on a sunny morning is enough.


And to see a renovated church space into lovely house in Cape Breton, Nova Scotia is sufficient to recollect dreams of books and meditation cushions, tea and conversation, silence and stillness, shunyata and kenosis all in one place.

Seafarers, wayfarers, pilgrims, and sannyasa -- the whole range of inquiry, worded and wordless -- as physical space.



A passing thought of a time such thoughts refused to leave.





Anyone needing to park their resources in real estate investment, we'll be happy to 
be guest masters for travelers and weary seekers on your behalf.

Tat tvam asi!

Tuesday, August 23, 2016

yana haiku*

late august night, cool

air shoulders warm day aside --

proleptic autumn

...

      *(you are not alone? or, you are now alone?)

sun cannot help itself; it is help itself

 “The image itself is speech. The image is the word beyond formulated language.” (--Ezra Pound)

“It’s like. . . . It’s like . . . ,”

This from Richard Rohr:

Paradox

Mystery Is Endless Knowability
Tuesday, August 23, 2016

How do we live the contradictions? Live them—not just endure them or relieve ourselves from the tension by quickly resolving them. The times where we meet or reckon with our contradictions are often turning points, opportunities to enter into the deeper mystery of God or, alternatively, to evade the mystery of God. I’m deliberately using the word mystery to point to depth, an open future, immense freedom, a kind of beauty and truth that can’t be fully spoken or defined.

Many mystics speak of the God-experience as simultaneously falling into an abyss and being grounded. This sounds like a contradiction, but in fact, when you allow yourself to fall into the abyss—into hiddenness, limitlessness, unknowability, a void without boundaries—you discover it’s somehow a rich, supportive, embracing spaciousness where you don’t have to ask (or answer) the questions of whether you’re right or wrong. You’re being held and so you do not need to try to “hold” yourself together. Please reflect on that.

This might be the ultimate paradox of the God-experience: “falling into the hands of the living God” (Hebrews 10:31). When you can lend yourself to it and not fight it or explain it, falling into the abyss is ironically an experience of ground, of the rock, of the foundation. This is totally counterintuitive. Your dualistic, logical mind can’t get you there. It can only be known experientially. That’s why the mystics use magnificent metaphors—none of them adequate or perfect—for this experience. “It’s like. . . . It’s like . . . ,” they love to say.

Mystery is not something you can’t know. Mystery is endless knowability. Living inside such endless knowability is finally a comfort, a foundation of ultimate support, security, unrestricted love, and eternal care. For all of us, it takes much of our life to get there; it is what we surely mean by “growing” in faith. I can’t prove this to you. Each soul must learn on its own, hopefully aided by observing other faith-filled people.

Gateway to Silence:
Welcome what is.
Reference:
Adapted from Richard Rohr, Holding the Tension: The Power of Paradox (CAC: 2007), disc 3 (CD, MP3 download).

Monday, August 22, 2016

torrential Monday morning



Rain, rain
Stay around
'Welcome home'
Says the ground

Sunday, August 21, 2016

here, of a Sunday morning

Oremus, let us pray!

S.
 Emítte lucem tuam et veritátem tuam: ipsa me deduxérunt, et adduxérunt in montem sanctum tuum et in tabernácula tua.
M. Et introíbo ad altáre Dei: ad Deum, qui lætíficat iuventútem meam.

P. Send forth Thy light and Thy truth: they have conducted me and brought me unto Thy holy mount, and into Thy tabernacles.
S. And I will go into the altar of God: to God who giveth joy to my youth. 

It seemed clearer, more mysterious, proximate when I was a boy in Brooklyn memorizing the Latin, carrying folded surplice over handlebar down 69th to 20th over to 64th to 21st to 62nd down to small wooden church the slip into schoolyard out to 61st and back stairs to rear of altar for cassock and over to sacristy.

A freshness of possibility of another dimension from the fistfights and wrestling scorn of the lads whose fathers taught them how to battle against any perceived weakness and stomp it down.

But here was a small joy.


In nómine Patris, ☩ et Fílii, et Spíritus Sancti. Amen.
2
Beginning 
The priest, bowing down at the foot of the altar, makes the Sign of the Cross, from his forehead to his breast, and says: 
In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, ☩ and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.
  
Deinde, iunctis manibus ante pectus, incipit Antiphonam:
S. Introíbo ad altáre Dei. 
M. Ad Deum, qui lætíficat iuventútem meam.
Postea alternatim cum Ministris dicit sequentem:
Ps. 42, 1-5. 
S. Iúdica me, Deus, et discérne causam meam de gente non sancta: ab hómine iníquo et dolóso érue me.
M. Quia tu es, Deus, fortitudo mea: quare me reppulísti, et quare tristis incédo, dum afflígit me inimícus?
S. Emítte lucem tuam et veritátem tuam: ipsa me deduxérunt, et adduxérunt in montem sanctum tuum et in tabernácula tua.
M. Et introíbo ad altáre Dei: ad Deum, qui lætíficat iuventútem meam.
S. Confitébor tibi in cíthara, Deus, Deus meus: quare tristis es, ánima mea, et quare contúrbas me?
M. Spera in Deo, quóniam adhuc confitébor illi: salutáre vultus mei, et Deus meus.
S. Glória Patri, et Fílio, et Spirítui Sancto.
M. Sicut erat in princípio, et nunc, et semper: et in saecula sæculórum. Amen.
Sacerdos repetit Antiphonam:
S. Introíbo ad altáre Dei.
M. Ad Deum, qui lætíficat iuventútem meam.
3
Then joining his hands before his breast, he begins the Anthem:
P. I will go in unto the altar of God.
S. To God who giveth joy to my youth.
The priest alternates with the server in reciting this psalm to express his desire, joy and confidence in going to the altar of the Sacrifice.
Ps. 42, 1-5. 
P. Judge me, O God, and distinguish my cause from the nation which is not holy: deliver me from the unjust and deceitful man.
S. For Thou, O God, art my strength: why hast Thou cast me off? and why go I sorrowful whilst the enemy afflicteth me?
P. Send forth Thy light and Thy truth: they have conducted me and brought me unto Thy holy mount, and into Thy tabernacles.
S. And I will go into the altar of God: to God who giveth joy to my youth.
P. To Thee, O God, my God, I will give praise upon the harp; why art thou sad, O my soul, and why dost thou disquiet me?
S. Hope in God, for I will still give praise to Him: the salvation of my countenance and my God.
P. Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost.
S. As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end. Amen.
The priest repeats the Anthem:
P. I will go in unto the altar of God.
S. To God who giveth joy to my youth. 

What has changed?

Priests became pedaphiles. The institution became redundant. The mystery met science and turned its face away. People who thought could no longer abide bromides of authoritarian obligations of faith. The church became anachronistic, it's priests and bishops mere middle management of a declining brand.

But the young boy saw that as strings of puppeteering fell away something in the slumped body of the detached marionette began to move of itself.

Call it the marionette of sacred icon bursting through its limitations with resonant energetic movement once thought to have been the property of controlling forces but here taking on idiosyncratic self-sufficient propulsion and directionality.

Everything begins to appear of its own manifestation, an alternate operation to the side of cause and effect resembling the absurdity of love's longing for itself through another.

It is the "itself" that is longed for. 

Each itself.

As itself.

No other.

This, here, is sufficient for that young boy of a Sunday morning.

stupidity is so well armed

Maybe our first thought is ‘evil’ -- that a child would be made to be carrier of explosives intended to kill and maim.

Maybe.
ISTANBUL — The wedding had ended and the guests had started walking home when a suspected suicide bombing tore through the site of the ceremony in southeastern Turkey late Saturday, killing more than 50 people and wounding scores more, the latest in a string of attacks in the restive region in the past week. 
The deadly attack in Gaziantep was carried out by a suicide bomber between the ages of 12 and 14, President Recep Tayyip Erdogan told reporters in Istanbul on Sunday, citing police sources. He said 51 people had been killed in the attack and 69 people were receiving treatment in the hospital, with 17 people in critical condition. 
Mr. Erdogan also issued a statement earlier saying that the Islamic State was probably behind the attack and that its aim was to sow divisions among ethnic groups in the country and to “spread incitement along ethnic and religious lines.”There was no claim of responsibility immediately after the attack.  
(--Bombing at Wedding in Turkey Kills More Than 50, By CEYLAN YEGINSU AUG. 21, 2016) http://www.nytimes.com/2016/08/22/world/europe/turkey-wedding-attack-isis-blamed.html?hp&action=click&pgtype=Homepage&clickSource=story-heading&module=first-column-region&region=top-news&WT.nav=top-news
Some would say where there’s a beginning there’s an end. Some say karma. Or the suffering of innocents. Some might claim a good thing happened, one more step toward an outcome devised in a mind that does not count the cost. Others claim justification for the continuance of retaliatory violence and repression.

But what actually happened? People at wedding were celebrating. Then blast. Then death and suffering.

We don’t yet know how to think of such events. The more frequently they occur the more our thinking tries to parse and project reason on events. Defense, terrorism, counter-terrorism, and think-tanks of every political persuasion draft position papers for round table assessment. Salaries are collected. Opinion pieces carry references to the reports. Then, another murderous event takes place and fresh ink is spent right after blood spilt.

A 12 year old, they say, delivered the blast. 

Here's what I say. Enjoy the piece of toast. The small triangle of egg. A mouthful of water. These are good things. These are Eucharist for fellow humans caught in excruciating confusion as to what the meaning of life might be. For those yanked from sentience because somebody had an idea which made the victims meaningless in themselves, but only statistics to one more idiotic cause in deluded minds.

Yeah, it's war. A war between humanity and stupidity. 

Stupidity is so well armed.

when are we no one

Lies.

They are what we tell when we have withdrawn from the unconcealed and hide ourselves in who we are not.

We are often not real, not true, not ourselves.

It's where trust goes when it commits suicide.

Saturday, August 20, 2016

practice, resting

How to say it?

Practice is resting in undifferentiated suchness while moving through activity’s extended center wherein nothing is other than mere appearance absolutely encompassing the seemingly separate within awaring presence.

That’s one
way to say
it.

Friday, August 19, 2016

one and one is one

Maybe we are alone.

If we comprehended aloneness much would reveal itself.

Because we don't, so very much remains concealed.

Alone is the place reality remains within itself.

It is possible to be that place wherein, alone, one is within itself completely with another.


Thursday, August 18, 2016

cheirourgía. (Greek)

Lord,

Your people can't see
You, can’t see

Shit
No one knows whether
Nor who you are

Here's my prayer 
         for all afraid:

Be open,

Be true



Wednesday, August 17, 2016

life boats

In one dream I wander street passing familiar when I realize I’d lost track of my dog. I'm already crying bemoaning other loses the hilly cityscape morphizes as I take each labored step. I call out for him, knowing it has been a while and many miles. And there he is, just around corner, bedraggled and tired, that resigned happiness finally acknowledged at greeting rubbing embrace. But he is hurt. He has been injured. Rear quarters palpably purple cut bloody open wound. I wonder how to transport him. And where? Whisk him home? Or to a hospital?

Awake now back into this current dream  I smell his doggy presence beside bed where he’s been each night I’d slipped into the swirl writhing the dream within the dream that infection, atrial fibrillation, compromised breath, high fever, soaking sweats, dehydration, malnourishment and bland riding edge of swirl in lethargic drift over surface of other world of food smells and voices of people laughing, someone smoking cigarette over and over, the long intervals of unmoving attentiveness, heightened sensitivity that at some point, when time is right, empty stage will begin new scene and actors cross to unseen places resuming we so delicately think of as reality, but is really théâtre de l’absurd.

And I am back in 1964 attending during summer vacation from seminary a conference at St. John’s University in NY. I’m surprised by this interest, scholarly lectures, Martin Esslin, and his book. He was there. He coined the phrase ’Theatre of the Absurd.’  

Curiously it made sense, as did the very notion of taking seriously the absurd. Ludicrous!

There was a production of Ionesco’s Rhinoceros (1974). It was absurd.

The great religions are the ships,  
Poets the life boats.
Every sane person I know 
Has jumped overboard. 
                       --Hafiz

I still have the small red/multi-colored book from 1961 which includes Beckett, Genet, Ionesco, Adamov, Pinter, Frisch. Throw in names of Sartre, Camus, Anouilh, Heidegger, Miller, Bolt, and Cummings and the landscape of a decade or two of human dramaturgy,  situational poetics, conversational philosophy, temporality theology, and  senseless sentient spirituality -- and we have a weltanschaung of attempt to rectify mind.

Not Plato’s poets. Nor academia’s poets. 

But anyone who speaks words into being, or, who speaks being into words. 

Like our Confucian teachers, Mencius to Wang, the rectified mind of knowledge/act as landscape of presenting realization of correct relationship one to one another.

Tuesday, August 16, 2016

dia-logos

“...the taste of something more to arrive and realize seems to keep and contain the light of the continuum of presence where there is nowhere to go...but forward through” (woman in text, pre-surgery)
...
I like the notion that "the continuum of presence" is that "place" where "there" is "nowhere to go". 

Presence as being nowhere to go.

This is significant. If present, there is nowhere to go. If present (at death), then, the response to the inquiry as to "where" one goes, the answer is "nowhere."

"There is no there there" wrote Gertrude Stein.

We go nowhere when we are present.

We go nowhere when we die.

What are we doing here?

(Ha!)

agonizing cry for realization all around

Here is Poïesis, (making), at work.
Poïesis (Ancient Greek: ποίησις) is etymologically derived from the ancient Greek term ποιέω, which means "to make". This word, the root of our modern "poetry", was first a verb, an action that transforms and continues the world. (--Wikipedia)
The transformation on this man's whole appearance and presentation as he shifted from talking about Milwaukee disturbance to metamorphic becomes the poet proclaiming a depth of bone-nearing revelation. Below transcript is link to watch him recite poem. I was moved.

Transcript:

AMY GOODMAN: I want to—for you to end, because I know you have to go teach, with your poem. You are not only a community activist, co-founder of the organization Flood the Hood with Dreams, but you are also a poet. Can you share a poem with us today? 

MUHIBB DYER: Yes, ma’am. Yes, ma’am. And this, I hope, gives the listeners an understanding of the feeling of the despair of a young person that exists in Milwaukee.

I want you to see beyond the bottles being thrown.
I want you to see beyond the anger
and see a young man on his hands and knees
looking up to the heavens
not knowing if God exists
on a street called Burleigh in Milwaukee.

And he says, "It’s like I’m sitting in a jail cell,
Lord, listen to me.
It’s like I’m sitting in a jail cell,
God, listen to me.
It’s like I’m sitting in a jail cell,
Lord, with invisible bars
waiting on death row
counting down the days
because I know they’re coming.
You see, I know they’re coming.
Them police, them jealous dudes and chicks
they’re all coming.
And it wasn’t supposed to be like this.

“You see, Lord, they never told me you were in me.
They never told me you were always there.
So, in turn, I believed what I saw.
And what I saw was a daddy that was never around
and a mama that was always crying
because we were always broke
when there was money outside,
and rats and roaches and pissy mattresses
me and my brother slept on
when there was money outside,
and teachers that told me
I had to wait 12 years to get paid.
You see, my teachers told me
I had to wait 12 years to get paid
while all of them got paid off of me right now
whether I learned or not
when there was money outside.
And what else was I supposed to do?

“They never told me you were in me, God.
They never told me you were always there.
And how was I supposed to know
that being created in your image and your likeness
meant that if you made the Earth, Lord,
I can make my own business,
and if you made the sun,
I could make more than just babies
more than just babies
but buildings and networks
and that busting guns wasn’t the only way
to get access to your power, Lord,
and shaking these dudes down on the block
for this dope money was not the only way
to get access to your power, Lord?
How was I supposed to know?
And how was I supposed to know
that downing shots of Hennessy and smoking weed
wasn’t the only way to accept this and get to heaven,
that I could have gotten down on all fours and talked to you, Lord?

“They never told me you were in me.
They never told me you were always there.
And how was I supposed to know
that every time mama was like
’Stay in school, baby,
stay off those streets,’
that was you, Lord,
and every misdemeanor charge I ever beat,
that was you, Lord,
every felony charge I ever beat,
that was you, Lord,
and when those bullets missed me
when I was on the block doing wrong,
that was you, Lord,
and when my boy laid in that casket
cold and lifeless,
that that was like you was trying to tell me
he would be me if I didn’t change?

“And now I’ve fallen.
My time is up.
I know they’re coming.
And I don’t even know
if you listen to kids like us, Lord.
Do you even care about kids like us, Lord?
But I know now what I should have known then.
And it took me to fall to see the light.
You were always in me.
You were always there.
Forgive me, Lord,
for I knew not what I was doing to myself.
Please, send me somebody
a voice
maybe from across the nation
a sympathetic voice
that understands
that I need to be taught
something that I’ve never been taught before.
Please, send me someone
anybody in humanity
that can teach me to love me
teach me to love me
teach me to love me."

Thank you.

AMY GOODMAN: Muhibb Dyer, I want to thank you for being with us, community activist, poet, co-founder of the organization Flood the Hood with Dreams, speaking to us from his hometown, that went up in flames this weekend after police killed an African-American man on Saturday night, speaking to us from Milwaukee, one of the most segregated cities in the country.
. . .
(--From transcript, Democracy Now, 15Aug2015)

(Segment with Muhibb Dyer begins at 16:33. His recitation of his poem begins 28:38. This is a remarkable experience of transformative maker reaching into depth of insight with agonizing cry for realization all around.)

something to think about when not in ER for 5 hours until dawn with intravenous heart meds being pushed

No Path 
       ~by David Whyte

     There is no path that goes all the way.
                                    (--Han Shan)

Not that it stops us looking
for the full continuation.

The one line in the poem
we can start and follow
straight to the end.

The fixed belief we can hold,

facing a stranger that saves
us the trouble
of a real conversation.

But one day you are not
just imagining an empty chair

where your loved one sat.
You are not just telling a story

where the bridge is down and there’s
nowhere to cross.

You are not just trying
to pray to a God you imagined
would keep you safe.

No you’ve come to the place
where nothing you’ve done

will impress and nothing you
can promise will avert

the silent confrontation,
the place where

your body already seems to know
the way having kept

to the last its own secret
reconnaissance.

But still, there is no path
that goes all the way

one conversation leads
to another

one breath to the next
until

there’s no breath at all

just
the inevitable
final release
of the burden.

And then
your life will
have to start
all over again
for you to know
even a little
of who you had been.


~David Whyte

Sunday, August 14, 2016

invent ora

Let’s see:

breath? check.

gaze? check.

body?

body?

(oh dear!)

something simple and ok


New York Times Magazige adds to my viewing and reading with “Fractured Lands: How the Arab World Came Apart”, by Scott Anderson, Photographs by Paolo Pellegrin, 14Aug2016, 
http://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2016/08/11/magazine/isis-middle-east-arab-spring-fractured-lands.html?rref=collection%2Fsectioncollection%2Fmagazine&action=click&contentCollection=magazine&region=rank&module=package&version=highlights&contentPlacement=1&pgtype=sectionfront

Seems time for ignorant kids from Brooklyn to learn some history, and care about it.
Seen in this light, the 2011 suicide of Mohamed Bouazizi seems less the catalyst for the Arab Spring than a culmination of tensions and contradictions that had been simmering under the surface of Arab society for a long time. Indeed, throughout the Arab world, residents are far more likely to point to a different event, one that occurred eight years before Bouazizi’s death, as the moment when the process of disintegration began: the American invasion of Iraq. Many even point to a singular image that embodied that upheaval. It came on the afternoon of April 9, 2003, in the Firdos Square of downtown Baghdad, when, with the help of a winch and an American M88 armored recovery vehicle, a towering statue of the Iraqi dictator, Saddam Hussein, was pulled to the ground.
While today that image is remembered in the Arab world with resentment — the symbolism of this latest Western intervention in their region was quite inescapable — at the time it spurred something far more nuanced. For the first time in their lives, what Syrians and Libyans and other Arabs just as much as Iraqis saw was that a figure as seemingly immovable as Saddam Hussein could be cast aside, that the political and social paralysis that had so long held their collective lands might actually be broken. Not nearly so apparent was that these strongmen had actually exerted considerable energy to bind up their nations, and in their absence the ancient forces of tribalism and sectarianism would begin to exert their own centrifugal pull. Even less apparent was how these forces would both attract and repel the United States, damaging its power and prestige in the region to an extent from which it might never recover.
At least one man saw this quite clearly. For much of 2002, the Bush administration had laid the groundwork for the Iraq invasion by accusing Saddam Hussein of pursuing a weapons-of-mass-destruction program and obliquely linking him to the Sept. 11 attacks. In October 2002, six months before Firdos Square, I had a long interview with Muammar el-Qaddafi, and I asked him who would benefit if the Iraq invasion actually occurred. The Libyan dictator had a habit of theatrically pondering before answering my questions, but his reply to that one was instantaneous. “Bin Laden,” he said. “There is no doubt about that. And Iraq could end up becoming the staging ground for Al Qaeda, because if the Saddam government collapses, it will be anarchy in Iraq. If that happens, actions against Americans will be considered jihad.” (--Anderson)
The Arab world suffers with the inner and the outer portrayal of struggle and conflict.

So do individuals.

This from the biography of Robert Lax:
What Lax didn’t realize, not yet, was that the self he had killed was only his public self. The self that longed for identity in the world. The feeling of being lost and alone went to the center of his being, but he was only twenty-six and deep in his heart he still believed in two things: that there is a God whose presence is love and that it is possible to live a life of simple truth. In another entry filled with ellipses, these four lines reveal a bedrock resolve:
I am sick of all arguments 
I want to do something simple and ok 
Nobody can tell me this is not possible 
Lot of people do it all the time
He would spend the years ahead looking for that simple something, moving from place to place without a permanent residence or job. He would search and ponder life and love, faith and peace, until the wandering and wondering became his life. 
(--pp. 116-117, in Pure Act, The Uncommon Life of Robert Lax, by Michael N. McGregor c.2015)
As auguries of diminished time for continued learning manifest themselves,  the Spanish philosopher’s warning rings true -- without learning from history, we’re condemned to repeat it. And so we seem to be doing.

As with Lax, I, too, am sick of all arguments.

Arabs, Jews, Americans, Russians, Politicians, and ten-dollars-a-word pundits -- are all tedious and insufferable.

But, I managed a slice of toast and cup of chamomile tea for my daily sustinance. Life in this hermit’s cell welcomes illness. Losing weight the easy way.

Why not?

Saturday, August 13, 2016

dreaming across the water a bright path.

The Secret History of ISIS, a Frontline Documentary, May 2016, http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/frontline/film/the-secret-history-of-isis/

With wet cloth on head, deep chills, self imposed quarantine, aspirin, kombucha, two triscuits as meal, getting updated on Middle East sorrow and tragedy,

It is possible that terror and clashes of cultures have become steady state in a world gone unsteady in its spinning.

In the USA the politics of upcoming elections play out like a television reality show between two damaged candidates. In the background, organizations such as CIA, FBI, NSA, Military Intelligence Agencies, and local clairvoyants either don't see anything useful, or, seeing it, cannot share well with others to arrive at meaningful activity.

It is a hard time for the world. Our leaders have not been impressive with their decisions -- from Bush and Cheney to Obama and their cabinets and councils.

One of the benefits of not feeling well is a latitude for discouragement. And yet it seems that petty, personal, bourgeois fixations on the cult of personality and celebrity -- to even the smallest degree -- is a bland treachery of disproportionate ignorance as to what and how being in the world might possible mean. To see the bombs, beheadings, and blowhards masquerading as business as usual is disappointing.

I'm tired of all the God talk. It falls flat on my ears.

I turn to an O'Donough poem:
Swanlight
— John O’Donohue © 2001 
If it could say itself January
Might brighten its syllables on the frost
Of these first New Year days whose cold is blue. 
Meanwhile in this corner of its silence
A weak winter sun lowers down behind
The moor that rises away from the lake. 
Beyond reach of light, the shadowed water
Succumbs to this darkening of spirit
That would deny the bog today’s twilight. 
All of a sudden something else breaks through
To appear at the far end of the lake
In two diagrams of white, uneven light. 
I have never seen white so absolute
And alone, glistening in awkward form
Dreaming across the water a bright path. 
As it stirs and changes I see what it is:
Two swans have found the mirror in the lake
Where a V of horizon lets light through 
To make them light-source and light-shape in one.
Now they swim and fade through windows of reed
And disrobe the lake of apparition. 
I look and look into their vanishing
See nothing. Departing that perfect ground
I knew I had been hungry for a blessing.
                             (--Poem by John O’Donohue) 
We have need for a blessing.

I can’t quite fathom what that might look like.

men at war

Danish film, Krigen.

A war.

The complexity.

hard telling

Watching, during quarantine of weakened sudden bodily discomfort, several programs on Afghanistan, Egypt, Pakistan, and the escalation of terror from the 70s to current.
“The writers task...is based on two commitments: the refusal to lie about what one knows; and resistance to oppression.” (--Albert Camus)
Shallow breaths and constant naps carry through 3 days of "what the heck is this?"

As for Afghanistan and Pakistan, a larger regimen of shallow breathing and more frequent naps should help moderate the belief that non Islam people should be killed.

Thursday, August 11, 2016

Chiara


Grazie per essere un amico di Francesco.

Wednesday, August 10, 2016

creare ex nihilo alius

Yes

Tucked inside a several hour conversation she said, "consciousness corresponds with reality."

We'd exhausted the medical data, the complications and head scratching intricacies of possible solutions that crashed up against current knowledge base and mechanical contrivance capable of immediate implementation by even the most skillful hands on the delicate anatomy of compromised skeletal neck stem slippage.

Over the mysterious hundreds of miles allowing a conversation with no wires, only tumbersaulting nonlocal arising of words and sounds up east coast corridor assembling into the phrase -- consciousness corresponds with reality.

The limits of consciousness often dead end into belief. We are more used to the understanding that consciousness grasps reality, and makes of it something useful to the structures of society wherein the  grasper/maker has residence. In this case "reality" is circumscribed and fashioned into the operative thought structure of those grasping it.

But is there another way to see this?

What if what is calling to us is, not a grasping, but a corresponding?

Instead of setting reality into the current strictures of known experience, consciousness is invited -- called --  to ride with reality beyond current formulation, to co-respond, as the human mind, material elements, and creating imagination journey an unforeseen and unforeseeable continuing new emergence of knowledge and act, theoria et praxis, comparable and corresponding to the unveiling nature of creare ex nihilo alius (bringing forth out of nothing other).

To bring forth, or to create, is to correspond with what-is. It is to move through, move beyond, transcend, overcome, ascend, and allow the unknowing mind to engage a way of being in the world that calls for an interrelationality that cannot be grasped.

This creare ex nihilo alius (bringing forth out of nothing other) has implications for a whole bevy of disciplines. In theology, we don't try to grasp God. Rather we correspond with God. We learn with God, as God with us.

Overall, there is no separate anything. Everything is interrelational correspondence.

We go on.

We don't know how, we don't know why. We go on.

This not-knowing going on is a kind of trust that what will emerge in authentic interrelational correspondence will be sufficient for both the moment and the moving through the moment.

We have not yet.

We have not yet seen.

We have not yet seen what is emerging into our seeing.

We have not yet seen what is emerging into our seeing and (let's say it) loving correspondence with that which is nothing other.

Tuesday, August 09, 2016

at Sunday evening practice, the thought: is this my life

Views from various cushions, that is, before, eyes are lowered for Shikantaza.


In reality

there
is no

one
here



We sit to sit.

Breathe to breathe.



This is my life.

time moving

there it was

now

not

Monday, August 08, 2016

small flame in red glass

candle

suggests light

cares about birth

continuing through night

8.8

Katherine and Francis made it possible to say this: Katherine and Francis made it possible to say this.

With gassho I bow in their direction.

Which is, as we know, every which way looking over fingertips.


We've got 

to look 

out

after one 

another

Sunday, August 07, 2016

what needs be said

White dog wanders into front room. Nestles between two chairs.


Package on sun porch says save one until Monday. New York bagels wait for cream cheese and lox and white fish in fridge.

Coffee made, two canisters and black machine.

Then I remember, everyone's away, no one is coming this morning.


Now that it is August it is more civilized. Breeze feels fresher. Brooks are bone dry. Sun is hot.

Visitors to Maine arrive at coast for swan song to summer, or so it seems..


Where do things go when they disappear?
“Almost nothing need be said when you have eyes.” (― Tarjei VesaasThe Boat in the Evening)
It is summer.

Nothing need be said.

Saturday, August 06, 2016

A bright cloud covering them. The gospel of Hiroshima, the bombing of Christ

A woman calls from Maryland. Says there's no Gideon Bible in her hotel room. We think about this. Surely, some revelation is at hand!
Matthew 17New International Version (NIV) The Transfiguration 
17 After six days Jesus took with him Peter, James and John the brother of James, and led them up a high mountain by themselves. There he was transfigured before them. His face shone like the sun, and his clothes became as white as the light. Just then there appeared before them Moses and Elijah, talking with Jesus.Peter said to Jesus, “Lord, it is good for us to be here. If you wish, I will put up three shelters—one for you, one for Moses and one for Elijah.”While he was still speaking, a bright cloud covered them, and a voice from the cloud said, “This is my Son, whom I love; with him I am well pleased. Listen to him!”When the disciples heard this, they fell facedown to the ground, terrified. But Jesus came and touched them. “Get up,” he said. “Don’t be afraid.” When they looked up, they saw no one except Jesus.As they were coming down the mountain, Jesus instructed them, “Don’t tell anyone what you have seen, until the Son of Man has been raised from the dead.”
10 The disciples asked him, “Why then do the teachers of the law say that Elijah must come first?”11 Jesus replied, “To be sure, Elijah comes and will restore all things. 12 But I tell you, Elijah has already come, and they did not recognize him, but have done to him everything they wished. In the same way the Son of Man is going to suffer at their hands.” 13 Then the disciples understood that he was talking to them about John the Baptist.
 She says she'll go digital. From words on paper to words in pixels.

Christianity died on 6Aug1945. What took its place was mickey/mouse (military industrial complex killing everything, you,  / misplacing original understanding, sympathy & equanimity)

The supposedly Christian nation of the United States chose to blow civilians of Japan to smithereens in order to show Russia the new toy on the planet. This had nothing to do with ending Japanese fighting recalcitrance.

Christ wept.

Is yet weeping.

Transfiguring into a more peaceful host body, a more tranquil feeling heart.


As the United States tries to ignore its actions, it tries to pretend its two children attempting to gain control of its nuclear trigger aren't, in their own ways, damaged by the sublimated horror of their childhood household.

Domestic violence against human family.

The children are disturbed.

Like Elijah or John, those who've come to show us the way through our insanity, are not recognized.

Jesus is saying 'transfigure.'

We answer with ignorance, 'disfigure.'

Friday, August 05, 2016

considering the choice

"One may be optimistic, but one can't exactly be joyful at the prospect before us."  (Kenneth Clark, final sentence, Civilization)

Sentiment, exactly, about upcoming election.

Buddha lived, Christ lived, and, for now, we live

The audio loop plays om mane padme hum. It is Friday morning. Prison day.


Accustom yourself to believing that death is nothing to us, for good and evil imply the capacity for sensation, and death is the privation of all sentience; therefore a correct understanding that death is nothing to us makes the mortality of life enjoyable, not by adding to life a limitless time, but by taking away the yearning after immortality. For life has no terrors for him who has thoroughly understood that there are no terrors for him in ceasing to live. Foolish, therefore, is the man who says that he fears death, not because it will pain when it comes, but because it pains in the prospect. Whatever causes no annoyance when it is present, causes only a groundless pain in the expectation. Death, therefore, the most awful of evils, is nothing to us, seeing that, when we are, death is not come, and, when death is come, we are not. It is nothing, then, either to the living or to the dead, for with the living it is not and the dead exist no longer. 
(--from Letter to Menoeceus, by Epicurus, 341-270 bce) http://www.epicurus.net/en/menoeceus.html


It seems simple to me. You live until you die. 

Gregorian chant now plays from wohnkuche. 

It is something we do, life. 

When we don't do it any more, it is done.

Why not love what we do?

Thursday, August 04, 2016

caw, caw, caw; what is 'to be'

Yes

Soon, sun above hill.


From the rising of the sun to its setting, the name of the lord is 

to be

praised!

Wednesday, August 03, 2016

susurration*

Forty eight years ago I was 24 and my lottery number was 48.

I was in graduate school studying Lao Tzu, the Upanishads, Tolstoy, Berdyaev, Jesus, Gandhi, and the troubling war meditation, the Bhagavad Gita.

1968 had been heartbreaking -- the murders of King and Kennedy, a good buddy's death there by land mine, the 16,899 American deaths in Vietnam, the highest year-count (http://www.archives.gov/research/military/vietnam-war/casualty-statistics.html), and the un-body-counted civilian and soldier deaths of the Vietnamese which was a factor of so many more.

The psychological toll on the American psyche was deep and disturbing.

A rift in fabric of American culture was jagged and unmendable.

And there we remained.

Whatever happened and whoever caused it, September 11th 2001 became the new reissue of the book of Genesis this time called the look of genocide. The Middle East, Afghanistan and Iraq, black young men and women, become the enemies of a new wave of cleansing what we don't understand from the landscape. Done in the name of freedom and decency, democracy, law and order, militaristic forces fight back against whatever happened and whoever caused it with unrelenting pride and power seeking to purify the world of different opinions as to whom the world actually belongs.

It is, as the phrase so often used today suggests, not surprising. It seems no one is surprised anymore, about anything. "I knew that," is the PhD mantra of every person told anything. We know everything. 

Here's what I don't know: where is justice hiding?

Without justice there's no peace. Without peace there's no freedom. Without freedom there's no hope, no faith, no love.

And there we are, back at the starting gate, high-spirited dogs ready to dash in circles chasing mechanical bait toward a finish line where betting frantic people wage on winners to fatten wallets and feed their appetites. It's corporations, banks, and defense contractors lining up at payoff window to be counted in dollar by millions of dollars for doing the hard work of speculating whose exhaustive labored will yield the biggest payday.

But wait. Wait!

Off to the side, thousands of thoughts and millions of miles away, there are a few people who are... (what? praying?)

(Is this your pivot? From mendacity and militarism -- to meditation and mendicancy?) 

They pray for justice, peace, freedom, hope, faith and love. And their prayer is action so quiet and unnoticed that not even they hear or know that what they are doing is what is being done.

The gap between knowledge and action is erased in their very being, not that they know or that they have done it.

No, what is happening is beyond intentional accomplishment. Beyond plan or initiative. Beyond anything that can be conceived of or speculated about.

It is grace, the grace of existence itself bypassing mind and might, effort and mission statement, congratulations and awards.



grace1— noun 
  1. elegance or beauty of form, manner, motion, or action: We watched her skate with effortless grace across the ice. Synonyms: attractiveness, charm, gracefulness, comeliness, ease, lissomeness, fluidity. Antonyms: stiffness, ugliness, awkwardness, clumsiness; klutziness. 
  2. a pleasing or attractive quality or endowment: He lacked the manly graces. 
  3. favor or goodwill. Synonyms: kindness, kindliness, love, benignity; condescension. 
  4. a manifestation of favor, especially by a superior: It was only through the dean's grace that I wasn't expelled from school. Synonyms: forgiveness, charity, mercifulness. Antonyms: animosity, enmity, disfavor. 
  5. mercy; clemency; pardon: He was saved by an act of grace from the governor. Synonyms: lenity, leniency, reprieve. Antonyms: harshness. 
  6. favor shown in granting a delay or temporary immunity. 
  7. an allowance of time after a debt or bill has become payable granted to the debtor before suit can be brought against him or her or a penalty applied: The life insurance premium is due today, but we have 31 days' grace before the policy lapses. Compare grace period
Theology 
  1.   the freely given, unmerited favor and love of God. 
  2. the influence or spirit of God operating in humans to regenerate or strengthen them. 
  3. a virtue or excellence of divine origin: the Christian graces. 
  4. Also called state of grace. the condition of being in God's favor or one of the elect. 
  5. moral strength: the grace to perform a duty. 
  6. a short prayer before or after a meal, in which a blessing is asked and thanks are given: Grandfather will now say grace. 
  7. usually initial capital letter ) a formal title used in addressing or mentioning a duke, duchess, or archbishop, and formerly also a sovereign (usually preceded by your, his, etc.). 
  8. Graces, Classical Mythology . the goddesses of beauty, daughters of Zeus and Eurynome, worshiped in Greece as the Charities and in Rome as the Gratiae. 
  Music. grace note
— verb (used with object), graced, gracing. 

  1. to lend or add grace to; adorn: Many fine paintings graced the rooms of the house. Synonyms: embellish, beautify, deck, decorate, ornament; enhance, honor. Antonyms: disfigure, desecrate, demean. 
  2. to favor or honor: to grace an occasion with one's presence. Synonyms: glorify, elevate, exalt. Antonyms: disrespect, dishonor. 
— Idioms  
  • but for the grace of God, under less fortunate circumstances: But for the grace of God, the brick that just fell from the roof would have hit me on the head!   
  • by the grace of God, thankfully; fortunately: By the grace of God, I won't have to deal with tax returns for another year.  
  • fall from grace, 
  • Theology . to relapse into sin or disfavor.  b to lose favor; be discredited: He fell from grace when the boss found out he had lied.   
  • have the grace to, to be so kind as to: Would you have the grace to help, please?  -- in someone's good / bad graces, regarded with favor (or disfavor) by someone: It is a wonder that I have managed to stay in her good graces this long.  
  • with bad grace, reluctantly; grudgingly: He apologized, but did so with bad grace. 
  • Also, with a bad grace.  -- with good grace, willingly; ungrudgingly: She took on the extra work with good grace.            (--Dictionary.com) 

What else is this grace?

It is being given.

It is being received.

No giver; no receiver.

Nothing given; nothing received.

It is nothing else. 

An eloquent expressive silence dwelling in moving stillness surrounding invisible breath, a susurrus of intimate awaring presence, pure gaze full of feeling, nothing else.

. . .

* A soft murmur or rustling sound; whisper.