Here of a Sunday Morning, with Chris Whent, plays from WBAI, NYC via the mysterious teleportation of internet radio. How do
waves carry sound so faithful to composer’s work?
In summertime on Bredon
The bells they sound so clear;
Round both the shires they ring them
In steeples far and near,
A happy noise to hear.
Here of a Sunday morning
My love and I would lie,
And see the coloured counties,
And hear the larks so high
About us in the sky.
The bells would ring to call her
In valleys miles away:
"Come all to church, good people;
Good people, come and pray."
But here my love would stay.
And I would turn and answer
Among the springing thyme,
"Oh, peal upon our wedding,
And we will hear the chime,
And come to church in time."
But when the snows at Christmas
On Bredon top were strown,
My love rose up so early
And stole out unbeknown
And went to church alone.
They tolled the one bell only,
Groom there was none to see,
The mourners followed after,
And so to church went she,
And would not wait for me.
The bells they sound on Bredon
And still the steeples hum.
"Come all to church, good people,"--
Oh, noisy bells, be dumb;
I hear you, I will come.
 Pronounced Breedon.
(--Poem by A.E. Housman)
Sunday Morning Collation included Christian liturgical readings and #64 from Dao De Jing.
Wuwei. Don’t try. Be the free-swimming fish. Leave the nets behind. There’s nothing to catch. Let each go their own way. With attentive, prayerful, loving watchfulness.
After John had been arrested, Jesus went into Galilee. There he proclaimed the Good News from God. ‘The time has come’ he said ‘and the kingdom of God is close at hand. Repent, and believe the Good News.’
As he was walking along by the Sea of Galilee he saw Simon and his brother Andrew casting a net in the lake – for they were fishermen. And Jesus said to them, ‘Follow me and I will make you into fishers of men.’ And at once they left their nets and followed him
Going on a little further, he saw James son of Zebedee and his brother John; they too were in their boat, mending their nets. He called them at once and, leaving their father Zebedee in the boat with the men he employed, they went after him. (--from Universalis)
During silent sitting, the thought: Brahman is breath; Atman is breathing. Inseparability. God the Father is Being; Holy Spirit is breath; Christ is breathing act.
The bell tolls at four in the morning. I stand by the window,barefoot on the cool floor. The garden is still dark. I wait for the mountains and rivers to reclaim their shapes.
There is no light in the deepest hours of the night. Yet, I know you are therein the depth of the night, the immeasurable world of the mind. You, the known, have been there ever since the knower has been.
The dawn will come soon,and you will see that you and the rosy horizon are within my two eyes. It is for me that the horizon is rosy and the sky blue.
Looking at your image in the clear stream, you answer the question by your very presence. Life is humming the song of the non-dual marvel. I suddenly find myself smiling in the presence of this immaculate night. I know because I am here that you are there, and your being has returned to show itself in the wonder of tonight’s smile.
In the quiet stream, I swim gently. The murmur of the water lulls my heart. A wave serves as a pillow I look up and see a white cloud against the blue sky, the sound of Autumn leaves, the fragrance of hay -- each one a sign of eternity. A bright star helps me find my way back to myself.
I know because you are there that I am here. The stretching arm of cognition in a lightning flash, joining together a million eons of distance, joining together birth and death, joining together the known and the knower.
In the depth of the night, as in the immeasurable realm of consciousness, the garden of life and I remain each other’s objects. The flower of being is singing the song of emptiness.
The night is still immaculate, but sounds and images from you have returned and fill the pure night. I feel their presence. By the window, with my bare feet on the cool floor, I know I am here for you to be.
This poem is from “Call Me By My True Names” The Collected Poems of Thich Nhat Hanh [note: the prose-poem layout look is not the original layout. wfh]
My Sunday morning submission is not only to The-One-Who-Is, but also to the New York Times:
ama nesciri, camden, maine
I like this Pope. He’s the Barack Obama of Vatican City. He seems real enough and good with expressing obliquely what he wants to say. Congress, the Curia, and assorted cranky professional opposers then attempt to tamp down and reframe what has been said while muttering maligning innuendo.
But the Pope and the President, outsiders both, stand for something new and exciting. They are not the background nay-sayers. They are speakers of important language. Their words are heard, if not acted on. And despite what we might think, words, especially good words, matter.