Tuesday, November 12, 2019

divine being with enlightened sword in hand

Justice is a sword in the hand of enlightened being.

Not of vengeance. Not of punishment.

Justice is a sword that slices the narrow seam between evil and the doer.

Separating one from the other.

Not damning the doer, but severing that which burdens him, call it evil, from the person.

It's why vengeance is mine, says the Lord.

Humans do not understand justice.

Only the Lord -- the wise gaze -- knows what to do with justice.

Humans only want retaliation, only can think of revenge.

Justice is a being that sees what is truly there and severs that which is illusory, misguided, and hateful.

Pray for justice. It is a divine being with enlightened sword in hand.

As for human solutions, cry for the sorrow they effect, cry over the tragedy they cause.

A day will come.

A day will come when we tire of stupid verdicts, despair over foolish punishing outcomes.

Pray for that day.

Sail away into that deep horizon.

Let go.

Be gone.

Monday, November 11, 2019


That you went to war — condolences.

That you made it back — congratulations.

War is a thing that brings sorrow and confusion — during, and long after.

what returns

Broken, yes, things and people easily break.

But that is one side.

On the other side, things and people find continuance, reclamation.

Two sides?


One reality, two stages, a circle of continuity.

To break is to reclaim.

To see is to be blind.

Hello is goodbye.

As birth is death.

Do you desire something?

Let it go.

Do you reject someone?

Draw them to you.

Let it come; let it go.

When you learn to do so, you've met what used to be known as God.

Let God go.

What returns is your silent joy.

Sunday, November 10, 2019

no hospitality this morning

Saskia on medical caring duty somewhere south of Thomaston.
Enjoy "the green freedom of a cockatoo" from your favorite tea-drinking window seat.  

Sunday Morning

Complacencies of the peignoir, and late 
Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair, 
And the green freedom of a cockatoo 
Upon a rug mingle to dissipate 
The holy hush of ancient sacrifice. 
She dreams a little, and she feels the dark 
Encroachment of that old catastrophe, 
As a calm darkens among water-lights. 
The pungent oranges and bright, green wings 
Seem things in some procession of the dead, 
Winding across wide water, without sound. 
The day is like wide water, without sound, 
Stilled for the passing of her dreaming feet 
Over the seas, to silent Palestine, 
Dominion of the blood and sepulchre. 


Why should she give her bounty to the dead? 
What is divinity if it can come 
Only in silent shadows and in dreams? 
Shall she not find in comforts of the sun, 
In pungent fruit and bright, green wings, or else 
In any balm or beauty of the earth, 
Things to be cherished like the thought of heaven? 
Divinity must live within herself: 
Passions of rain, or moods in falling snow; 
Grievings in loneliness, or unsubdued 
Elations when the forest blooms; gusty 
Emotions on wet roads on autumn nights; 
All pleasures and all pains, remembering 
The bough of summer and the winter branch. 
These are the measures destined for her soul. 


Jove in the clouds had his inhuman birth. 
No mother suckled him, no sweet land gave 
Large-mannered motions to his mythy mind. 
He moved among us, as a muttering king, 
Magnificent, would move among his hinds, 
Until our blood, commingling, virginal, 
With heaven, brought such requital to desire 
The very hinds discerned it, in a star. 
Shall our blood fail? Or shall it come to be 
The blood of paradise? And shall the earth 
Seem all of paradise that we shall know? 
The sky will be much friendlier then than now, 
A part of labor and a part of pain, 
And next in glory to enduring love, 
Not this dividing and indifferent blue. 


She says, “I am content when wakened birds, 
Before they fly, test the reality 
Of misty fields, by their sweet questionings; 
But when the birds are gone, and their warm fields 
Return no more, where, then, is paradise?” 
There is not any haunt of prophecy, 
Nor any old chimera of the grave, 
Neither the golden underground, nor isle 
Melodious, where spirits gat them home, 
Nor visionary south, nor cloudy palm 
Remote on heaven’s hill, that has endured 
As April’s green endures; or will endure 
Like her remembrance of awakened birds, 
Or her desire for June and evening, tipped 
By the consummation of the swallow’s wings. 


She says, “But in contentment I still feel 
The need of some imperishable bliss.” 
Death is the mother of beauty; hence from her, 
Alone, shall come fulfilment to our dreams 
And our desires. Although she strews the leaves 
Of sure obliteration on our paths, 
The path sick sorrow took, the many paths 
Where triumph rang its brassy phrase, or love 
Whispered a little out of tenderness, 
She makes the willow shiver in the sun 
For maidens who were wont to sit and gaze 
Upon the grass, relinquished to their feet. 
She causes boys to pile new plums and pears 
On disregarded plate. The maidens taste 
And stray impassioned in the littering leaves. 


Is there no change of death in paradise? 
Does ripe fruit never fall? Or do the boughs 
Hang always heavy in that perfect sky, 
Unchanging, yet so like our perishing earth, 
With rivers like our own that seek for seas 
They never find, the same receding shores 
That never touch with inarticulate pang? 
Why set the pear upon those river-banks 
Or spice the shores with odors of the plum? 
Alas, that they should wear our colors there, 
The silken weavings of our afternoons, 
And pick the strings of our insipid lutes! 
Death is the mother of beauty, mystical, 
Within whose burning bosom we devise 
Our earthly mothers waiting, sleeplessly. 


Supple and turbulent, a ring of men 
Shall chant in orgy on a summer morn 
Their boisterous devotion to the sun, 
Not as a god, but as a god might be, 
Naked among them, like a savage source. 
Their chant shall be a chant of paradise, 
Out of their blood, returning to the sky; 
And in their chant shall enter, voice by voice, 
The windy lake wherein their lord delights, 
The trees, like serafin, and echoing hills, 
That choir among themselves long afterward. 
They shall know well the heavenly fellowship 
Of men that perish and of summer morn. 
And whence they came and whither they shall go 
The dew upon their feet shall manifest. 


She hears, upon that water without sound, 
A voice that cries, “The tomb in Palestine 
Is not the porch of spirits lingering. 
It is the grave of Jesus, where he lay.” 
We live in an old chaos of the sun, 
Or old dependency of day and night, 
Or island solitude, unsponsored, free, 
Of that wide water, inescapable. 
Deer walk upon our mountains, and the quail 
Whistle about us their spontaneous cries; 
Sweet berries ripen in the wilderness; 
And, in the isolation of the sky, 
At evening, casual flocks of pigeons make 
Ambiguous undulations as they sink, 
Downward to darkness, on extended wings.
This is the later and more definitive version of “Sunday Morning.” To read the first published version of this poem, which appeared in Poetry magazine, click here. In 1915, editor Harriet Monroe asked Stevens to cut several stanzas for Poetry, and Stevens would later restore these cut stanzas when he published the poem in book form in 1923.

this also can be...love

Wanna talk?

What about?


Just a conversation.

I don't know what to say.

That's ok. I don't know what I'll hear.

(Nescience abounds!)

How lucky

Are we?

Saturday, November 09, 2019

room 2


Man with brain tumor

To one


many arrivals

God is origin of expression.

When what is seen is not yet apparent.

What is being conceived is not yet revealed.

This is what God will be when light and sound initiate and instantiate what is realizing itself as itself moving toward what is coming to be.

Step into this


Friday, November 08, 2019

holons within holon

Self dissolution

Where what is not

Solves itself

with singular



...   ...   ...

Ish, together with its plural form anashím (which at times also serves as the plural of enósh), has primarily the thought of “man,” or a person, an individual. It has no such overtones as human, mortal or able-bodied, although inherent in it is the thought of strength as of a male. The word ish does not appear in the Scriptures until after the word for woman, ishsháh—a man with a womb—appears, for in the strictest sense of the word only then did an ish become apparent; before that he was called the human, adám.
Ish, with its emphasis on the person, the individual, is the choice of Bible writers when writing about a “man of God,” and a “man of discernment.” When Nathan confronted King David with his sin, Nathan used this word. Did he say, “You yourself are the”—mortal? human? able-bodied man? No, but, “You yourself are [the one] the man!”—Josh. 14:6; Prov. 10:23; 2 Sam. 12:7.(--The word 'Man' in Hebrew - An Examination of the Hebrew Words 'Ish', 'Adám', 'Enósh' and 'Geber'

Thursday, November 07, 2019

hmmm...so much to be reminded of

Could be I needed a reminder of my first name.

Or that I lived in DC as an undergraduate at the Catholic University of America.

But that was long ago.

Perhaps I wish to be reminded of Shaddai. Of the Shema.

Hebrew Shin / SinEdit

Orthographic variants
Various print fonts
Hebrew letter Shin handwriting.svg
Hebrew letter Shin Rashi.png
Hebrew spelling: שִׁיןThe Hebrew /s/ version according to the reconstruction shown above is descended from Proto-Semitic *ś, a phoneme thought to correspond to a voiceless alveolar lateral fricative  /ɬ/, similar to Welsh Ll in "Llandudno".

In JudaismEdit

Shin also stands for the word Shaddai, a name for God. Because of this, a kohen (priest) forms the letter Shin with his hands as he recites the Priestly Blessing. In the mid 1960s, actor Leonard Nimoy used a single-handed version of this gesture to create the Vulcan hand salute for his character, Mr. Spock, on Star Trek.[7][8]The letter Shin is often inscribed on the case containing a mezuzah, a scroll of parchment with Biblical text written on it. The text contained in the mezuzah is the Shema Yisraelprayer, which calls the Israelites to love their God with all their heart, soul and strength. The mezuzah is situated upon all the doorframes in a home or establishment. Sometimes the whole word Shaddai will be written.
The Shema Yisrael prayer also commands the Israelites to write God's commandments on their hearts (Deut. 6:6); the shape of the letter Shin mimics the structure of the human heart: the lower, larger left ventricle (which supplies the full body) and the smaller right ventricle (which supplies the lungs) are positioned like the lines of the letter Shin.
A religious significance has been applied to the fact that there are three valleys that comprise the city of Jerusalem's geography: the Valley of Ben Hinnom, Tyropoeon Valley, and Kidron Valley, and that these valleys converge to also form the shape of the letter shin, and that the Temple in Jerusalem is located where the dagesh (horizontal line) is. This is seen as a fulfillment of passages such as Deuteronomy 16:2 that instructs Jews to celebrate the Pasach at "the place the LORD will choose as a dwelling for his Name" (NIV).
In the Sefer Yetzirah the letter Shin is King over Fire, Formed Heaven in the Universe, Hot in the Year, and the Head in the Soul.
The 13th-century Kabbalistic text Sefer HaTemunah, holds that a single letter of unknown pronunciation, held by some to be the four-pronged shin on one side of the teffilin box, is missing from the current alphabet. The world's flaws, the book teaches, are related to the absence of this letter, the eventual revelation of which will repair the universe.
cf. Vulcan Salute, “live long and prosper”  

Let us repair


An inner / outer


poem, september 27, 1971, by daniel berrigan


A Chinese ideogram
shows someone
by his word.
Fidelity. Freedom
on the accepted
necessity of
walking where
one’s word
Hebrew prophets and
singers also
struck the theme;
bodies belong
where words
though the com-
mon run of exper-
ience be
that stature
shrinks as
the word
The synthesis;
no matter what (or
better) never                                                                                    
the less.  

    (--Daniel Berrigan in, And the Risen Bread: Selected Poems, 1957-1997)

Wednesday, November 06, 2019

madre mía

Are the Tibetans right? Has every sentient being been my mother in one of millions of prior incarnations? How do I begin to think of such a thing?
There’s a saying in Tibetan Buddhism that while we might start off with a personal teacher, at some point the entire phenomenal world becomes our guru. 
This adage expresses the idea that all internal and external phenomena can be a catalyst for awakening. But it’s also true that nature, in particular, is a great teacher. The natural world continually arises as a vivid and ephemeral display. By tuning in to it through our sense perceptions—by hearing, seeing, smelling, tasting, and feeling the natural world fully—we discover a connection with a deeper and more awake dimension of our being, one that is free from the usual overlay of our conceptual thoughts. As guru, the natural world reveals that being present with things as they are can be a transformative experience.
(—In Lion’s Rohr, The Natural World as a Powerful TeacherBY 
Thank you mom, and mom, and mom! 

Tuesday, November 05, 2019

standing by one’s word, fidelity

All in all, I have nothing to say.

God is the origin of expression.

Let it be so...

Monday, November 04, 2019

what you are

We think — the mind cannot grasp such enormity.
There are 2 trillion galaxies in the observable universe, each containing billions of stars. (Phys.org)
More likely, the mind is that enormity.

There is nothing to grasp.

That which is looking is that which is being looked through by that which is, itself, that which sees no-other.

Pray for one another.

Look alive!

One of the most fundamental questions in astronomy is that of just how many galaxies the Universe contains. The Hubble Deep Field images, captured in the mid 1990s, gave the first real insight into this. Myriad faint galaxies were revealed, and it was estimated that the observable Universe contains about 100 billion galaxies. Now, an international team, led by Christopher Conselice from the University of Nottingham, UK, have shown that this figure is at least ten times too low.  
Take the next step.

See the surround.

Love what you are.

Sunday, November 03, 2019

nothing else seems to make sense

Prayer today.

Prayer tomorrow.

For one another.

a poem is being written

The rest of the article will wait upon Cardinal’s line.
“Creation is a poem.” (—Ernesto Cardinal, Cosmic Canticle)
Lead quote in Richard  Kearney’s God making, An essay in theopoetic imagination

Friday, November 01, 2019

ich kann dich hören

Watched "American Son" in solitude of a Friday Evening while, downstairs, conversation goes on in Wohnküche.

Dem ist nichts mehr hinzuzufügen.

one human sadness

Thank you to all who are, or have been, saints!

“To be a saint is to will the one thing.” Soren Kierkegaard

“Ultimately there is only one human sadness: that of not being a saint.” Leon Bloy (French philosopher who helped bring Jacques and Raissa Maritain to the faith)

“The saints are the only really happy people on earth.” Fr. John Hardon, S.J.

“My key to heaven is that I loved Jesus in the night." Mother Teresa

“The great saint may be said to mix all his thoughts with thanks. All goods look better when they look like gifts.” St. Francis of Assisi

Thursday, October 31, 2019

meditation beads

On street of Camden Maine, between Congo church and Walgreens, I stop Tibetan monk, ask him to bless string of green 108 beads just acquired from sales table where sand mandala is near completion.

He takes them in his hands and chants over them for four minutes. Gives them back. I thank him. We walk on.

The Geshe tells Saskia to pray for her recently departed dog after talk on impermanence at shambhala center in Rockland.

I think president trump is angling for deep violent divisions in the country.

I’ll need the beads.


‎I know the name of the whistleblower. I  encourage Republicans  to out him. His name is Emeth (אֶמֶת) Alétheia (ἀλήθεια), aka, truth truth. It will be for them a risky and dangerous precedent bringing him to light.

sprechen sie wohl

We are what we say.
Man acts as though he were the shaper and master of language, while in fact language remains the master of man.
(--Martin Heidegger)
What are you being said?

Wednesday, October 30, 2019

that's it

Washington Nationals


World Series...

(time to sleep)

sit down, take a load off

And on the eighth day, after all the preliminary creations were in place and considered very good, God created the pièce de résistance — game day of game 7 of the World Series!

O holy preparations!

Monday, October 28, 2019

someone I loved to listen facilitate the law

What they have now is different, and some would say poorer, but to Pam it is in some ways purer. Everything superfluous has gone away — all posturing and ego; the petty resentments common to all marriages, leaving a connection deeper and truer than language.
“It feels like I love him more now,” she said one day this fall.
In the park, the wind was rising, the silvery sun no longer burning through the clouds. Sirens passed, above the chirp of crickets, as Pam asked Charles if it was time to go and find the car. No, came his unspoken answer, as he kept on walking; he was not ready yet to stop.
They turned back into the park together. She put her arm in his as they headed uphill.

this poem by robert creeley

A Full Cup

  Age knows little other than its own complaints.

Times past are not to be recovered ever.

The old man and woman are left to themselves.

  When I was young, there seemed little time.

I hurried from day to day as if pursued.

Each thing I discovered, another came to possess me.

  Love I could ask no questions of, it was nothing

I ever anticipated, ever thought would be mine.

Even now I wonder if it will escape me.

  What I did, I did finally because I had to,

whether from need of my own or that of others.

It is finally impossible to live and work only for pay.

  I do not know where I’ve come from or where I am going.

Life is like a river, a river without beginning or end.

It’s been my company all my life, its wetness, its insistent movement.

The only wisdom I have is what someone must have told me,

neither to take nor to give more than can be simply managed.

A full cup carried from the well.

(—from: "The Collected Poems of Robert Creeley, 1975–2005" by Robert Creeley. Scribd)

Sunday, October 27, 2019

no sunday evening practice tonight

Stay home.

Sit well.

Pray for one another.

Good health!

Then, of course, there’s this:

The idea that language and thought are intertwined is ancient. Plato argued against sophist thinkers such as Gorgias of Leontini, who held that the physical world cannot be experienced except through language; this made the question of truth dependent on aesthetic preferences or functional consequences. Plato held instead that the world consisted of eternal ideas and that language should reflect these ideas as accurately as possible.[10] Following Plato, St. Augustine, for example, held the view that language was merely labels applied to already existing concepts. This view remained prevalent throughout the Middle Ages.[11] Roger Bacon held the opinion that language was but a veil covering up eternal truths, hiding them from human experience. For Immanuel Kant, language was but one of several tools used by humans to experience the world. (—from, Linguistic Relativity, Wikipedia) 

what has happened will, what will happen has

time goes nowhere

looking both ways, it steps

into itself at once

Saturday, October 26, 2019

coughing before sleep

There’s nothing wrong with being awake middle-night.

Hot tea with honey. The woman fears pneumonia.

For me, it doesn’t matter. Astros beat Nationals in game three. Game 4 later in D.C.

The Honorable Elijah Cummings was lauded and prayed for in Baltimore funeral service Friday. A reminder to us.

Time narrows for antithetical dishonorable obliquely referenced in passing.

I no longer care if I live or die. Pressing hands together, eye to eye.


Coming and going


Friday, October 25, 2019

nomine domini

Not yet.

Not yet.

Nōn nōbīs, Domine, nōn nōbīs, sed nōminī tuō dā glōriam (KJV: ps 115)

Thursday, October 24, 2019

paradox and confusion guard truth

“The foolish reject what they see and not what they think; the wise reject what they think and not what they see.” (Huang Po, d.850)

The thing about being sick is the expectation that it will break.

Just like that.

It will come.