If there was nothing else, would this day, this life, this world be enough?

There is one thing here. From the beginning it is clear and bright and divine. It has never appeared nor has it ever disappeared. Its name cannot be obtained nor can its shape by obtained.
- Sosan (1564-1579)

Don't ask!

It is enough.

Jack misspoke 'superficial' pronouncing instead the word "superfessible." It went by, corrected, quickly.

Luckily, I heard the half-submerged cry of a semi-emerged neo-phonetic. My maieutic attention retrieved it from an obscure aphasic premature stillbirth graveyard of the edited preconscious.

I suspect if you fess up big time you supersede and are thereby superfessible.

That might be a superficial reading of the word, but I'd never say so.

There's a right to remain silent.

Admit it. Concede. Qui tacet consentire!

Practice this consent. Practice what is right.

To those in Wohnkuche,  over coffee and tea this morning, from the liturgical household wood stove to the palms of hands: Remember your mortality; live your life with kindness and truth!

Today is

a good day

to make

an ash

of your

‘self.’

(--wfh, Ash Wednesday, 9Mar2011)

 

And pray to God to have mercy upon us
And pray that I may forget
These matters that with myself I too much discuss
Too much explain
Because I do not hope to turn again
Let these words answer
For what is done, not to be done again
May the judgement not be too heavy upon us

Because these wings are no longer wings to fly
But merely vans to beat the air
The air which is now thoroughly small and dry
Smaller and dryer than the will
Teach us to care and not to care Teach us to sit still.

Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death
Pray for us now and at the hour of our death.   

(--from poem, Ash Wednesday, by T.S. Eliot)

 

Blessèd sister, holy mother, spirit of the fountain, spirit
of the garden,
Suffer us not to mock ourselves with falsehood
Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still
Even among these rocks,
Our peace in His will
And even among these rocks
Sister, mother
And spirit of the river, spirit of the sea,
Suffer me not to be separated

And let my cry come unto Thee.
(-- T.S. Eliot, Ibid) 

May we, too, find ourselves in the same place (ibidem) of non-separation, now and at the hour of our death!

God is here with us.

But why does Jesus, considered by Christians to be God enfleshed, die on a cross?

The diverse forms in the universe
Are fundamentally empty
So what meaning would there be in
Pointing at space?
A withered tree standing on a rock
Feels neither hot nor cold.
In spring, flowers bloom;
In autumn, fruits are born.

- Kusan Sunim (1909-1983)

Because Jesus is considered to be God, he dies to be no other.

When I die will I be no other?

I like the idea that God is here with us.

I don't know what they are doing, those who taunt and bully others. Killing, robbing, defrauding, bankrupting -- these are curious actions.

I wonder if they think no one notices, or cares, or, perhaps, that God will not recognize that something is very wrong.

But who cares about or believes in God anymore?

Whether Perfect Ones appear in the world, or whether Perfect Ones do not appear in the world, it remains a condition, an immutable fact and fixed law, that all formations are impermanent, that all formations are subject to suffering, and that everything is without a self.
- Anguttara Nikaya

I think God is the original creative energy continually making its way through matter and man, tree and dog, sky and river -- moving through everything with reflection and resonance of caring compassion and attentive presence.

To not believe in God is to remain outside this movement -- to think that the ego self is the impetus and cause of action, especially that action focused on securing and defense of my and mine and me.

Individuals and groups ignore God. Companies and countries ignore God.

God wonders our lives. God wanders our lives. God windows our lives.

Don't believe me. I'm still foolishly trying to gradually become a fool.

Believe the wind. It has always been what it is.

As it goes on.

Formless.

Without self.

Here’s a card in memory of Peter Theriault, who died unexpectedly of a heart attack Wednesday in Florida.

http://www.jacquielawson.com/viewcard.asp?code=2788475968923&source=jl999

We liked Peter -- his music, his kindness, and his easy company.

Some days seem happier. Or, I seem happier. Maybe less discomfort, fewer doubts, or even a sense of focus that exceeds normal aimless wandering.

Its been that kind of three days. But, as the Irish say, ‘It’ll pass!”

Happy in the morning

I open my cottage door; 

A clear breeze blowing

Comes straight in. 

The first sun

Lights the leafy trees; 

The shadows it casts

Are crystal clear. 

Serene, 

In accord with my heart, 

Everything merges

In one harmony. 

Gain and loss

Are not my concern; 

This way is enough

To the end of my days. 

--Wen-siang (1210-1280) 

At Quaker Meeting five instances of silence.

Water dripped from roof in staccato syncopation.  Tea and coffee cake, muffins, and toast followed.

(Mu-ge practices non-violent trust)

I cannot calm Libya. But I can sit in silence and becalm the distance between myself and Libya and what both of us long for.

I long for a way to move through turmoil into an arena of peace and good will.

No bullets pass through me in that place so far this day.

(Rokie, not to be outdone, also practices non-violent trust.)

So too, I send a blessing of non-violence to places throughout the world -- those places most likely only  two inches to my right and left, fore and aft, below and above.

As rain falls and winter wanes.