We honor and pray for all deadened by war.
Gaia, Mother Earth, this May, comes green and full in Maine, New England, this weekend. It is Memorial Day Weekend.
For about thirty years I wandered,
Searching for the real Tao everywhere.
How many times did I see the trees
Grow new branches and watch the old leaves fall.
But at this moment, seeing the peach blossoms,
Suddenly there are no more doubts.
- Huang Shan-ku (1045 - 1105)
War is when human hearts and minds refuse to love. War is what hidden hate turns to when it sees itself in the mirror.
What We Want
What we want
is never simple.
We move among the things
we thought we wanted:
a face, a room, an open book
and these things bear our names --
now they want us.
But what we want appears
in dreams, wearing disguises.
We fall past,
holding out our arms
and in the morning
our arms ache.
We don't remember the dream,
but the dream remembers us.
It is there all day
as an animal is there
under the table,
as the stars are there
even in full sun.
(Poem: "What We Want," by Linda Pastan, from Carnival Evening. W.W. Norton.)
We want fairness and justice. We want those for whom war is profit and power to go away, spare us the falsity of explanation, spare us the dry darkness of their souls. We want room for peace, love, and genuine freedom.
If you refuse to love, you must remain dead;
to hate your brother is to be a murderer,
1and murderers, as you know, do not have eternal life in them.
This has taught us love --
that he gave up his life for us;
and we, too, ought to give up our lives for our brothers [and sisters].
If a man who was rich enough in this world's goods
saw that one of his brothers [or sisters] was in need,
but closed his heart to him [or her],
how could the love of God be living in him?
(from 1John 3:11-17)
This Memorial Day we need to remember the deadened among us who exist with lies, burdened with murders, with blood on hands for mayhem they've created.
We also remember the unknown dead whose lives have been erased with no remorse, no recourse, with no compassion.
We want to care. And so we do.
We say no to war.
Jamais plus la guerre!
We remember the fallen.
Stand silent for them.
Friday, May 26, 2006
All those offered half-time position as chaplain, say aye.
Aye.
Saskia and I sit with inmate Buddhist group. We bring Heart Sutra, showing them the chanting.
In the night the bells of the mountain temple
Are swung by the wind from the pines.
From my bed of stone by the wintry lamp
I can hear the flowering rain of Buddha.
- Wang Wen-lu
JJ reads poem about 4am hour of the wolf -- when our secrets cry to be told.
We converse about two words: prolepsis, and prescinding.
After Meetingbrook Conversation in prison, deputy warden wants to see me. Would I?
It's a good weekend to remember the fallen. A good stretch to mull and decide.
We each imagine a world faithful to our perspective.
When given a look, take it.
Aye.
Saskia and I sit with inmate Buddhist group. We bring Heart Sutra, showing them the chanting.
In the night the bells of the mountain temple
Are swung by the wind from the pines.
From my bed of stone by the wintry lamp
I can hear the flowering rain of Buddha.
- Wang Wen-lu
JJ reads poem about 4am hour of the wolf -- when our secrets cry to be told.
We converse about two words: prolepsis, and prescinding.
After Meetingbrook Conversation in prison, deputy warden wants to see me. Would I?
It's a good weekend to remember the fallen. A good stretch to mull and decide.
We each imagine a world faithful to our perspective.
When given a look, take it.
Thursday, May 25, 2006
Tarkovsky's "Sacrifice" moves slowly. Two nights so far and more to come.
The day was odd. Woman talking about "walk-ins" and "walk-outs." I don't understand the process of the thinking or what she described. I'm a bit uncertain about cloaked spaceships and thousand year time spent on one.
I prefer the news that Enron trial is over. The men who were in charge have been found guilty, I'll take mete of justice and sanity where found.
If you want to freely live or die, go or stay, to take off or put on your clothes, then right now recognize the one who is listening to my discourse. That one is without form, without characteristics, without root, without source, and without any dwelling place, yet is brisk and very alive. As for all manifold responsive activities, the place where they are carried on is, in fact, no place. Therefore, when you look for that one, it retreats farther and farther, when you seek that, it turns more and more the other way: this is called the "Mystery."
- Lin-chi (d.866)
We attend mass in Belfast celebrating Ascension. Breakfast muffins, eggs potatoes and toast with tea and coffee over conversation at Chase's Daily extends mystery of that which surpasses understanding. What does it mean to ascend to God?
I'm far from sure. I merely don't know. Tonight I take some rhubarb kuchen. A few squares of chocolate. Run off an essay on "Picture of Dorian Gray," for prison in morning -- and set out for bed.
I hope Jesus got home ok.
As well might we all.
The day was odd. Woman talking about "walk-ins" and "walk-outs." I don't understand the process of the thinking or what she described. I'm a bit uncertain about cloaked spaceships and thousand year time spent on one.
I prefer the news that Enron trial is over. The men who were in charge have been found guilty, I'll take mete of justice and sanity where found.
If you want to freely live or die, go or stay, to take off or put on your clothes, then right now recognize the one who is listening to my discourse. That one is without form, without characteristics, without root, without source, and without any dwelling place, yet is brisk and very alive. As for all manifold responsive activities, the place where they are carried on is, in fact, no place. Therefore, when you look for that one, it retreats farther and farther, when you seek that, it turns more and more the other way: this is called the "Mystery."
- Lin-chi (d.866)
We attend mass in Belfast celebrating Ascension. Breakfast muffins, eggs potatoes and toast with tea and coffee over conversation at Chase's Daily extends mystery of that which surpasses understanding. What does it mean to ascend to God?
I'm far from sure. I merely don't know. Tonight I take some rhubarb kuchen. A few squares of chocolate. Run off an essay on "Picture of Dorian Gray," for prison in morning -- and set out for bed.
I hope Jesus got home ok.
As well might we all.
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
Placid water. Canoeing around Curtis Island. Sunset. Cedar strip color silently alongside bell buoy clanking.
There is a meditative terrace
Left by the ancient Master Chi.
It is so high that it is always covered with white clouds.
Should the woodcutter see it, he would not recognize it; The mountain monks, however, were glad to find it.
They thought it would interest me and took me there to see it.
Throughout the night dew drops fall leisurely from the bamboos;
During the day pure breezes blow from the pine grove.
Meditation is what I used to do as the first thing;
The terrace of Master Chi inspires me even more.
- Meng Hao-jan
Mountains, sea, silence, dusk.
We are only visitors here.
Home is the passage through.
There is a meditative terrace
Left by the ancient Master Chi.
It is so high that it is always covered with white clouds.
Should the woodcutter see it, he would not recognize it; The mountain monks, however, were glad to find it.
They thought it would interest me and took me there to see it.
Throughout the night dew drops fall leisurely from the bamboos;
During the day pure breezes blow from the pine grove.
Meditation is what I used to do as the first thing;
The terrace of Master Chi inspires me even more.
- Meng Hao-jan
Mountains, sea, silence, dusk.
We are only visitors here.
Home is the passage through.
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
Wakefield got four outs in the 6th inning. There were two passed balls. Rodriguez came in on the second passed ball, he got on base after striking out to lead off. (The hour timer on radio shuts off game with men on 2nd and 3rd, 2-0 count on hitter.)
Your self-partiality is at
The root of all your illusions.
There aren’t any illusions
When you don’t have this
Preference for yourself.
- Bankei (1622-1693)
Silence is good arrival. Everything goes on somewhere else, but here silence leaves things alone.
Philosophy in Warm Weather
Now all the doors and windows
are open, and we move so easily
through the rooms. Cats roll
on the sunny rugs, and a clumsy wasp
climbs the pane, pausing
to rub a leg over her head.
All around physical life reconvenes.
The molecules of our bodies must love
to exist: they whirl in circles
and seem to begrudge us nothing.
Heat, Horatio, heat makes them
put this antic disposition on!
This year's brown spider
sways over the door as I come
and go. A single poppy shouts
from the far field, and the crow,
beyond alarm, goes right on
pulling up the corn.
(Poem: "Philosophy in Warm Weather," by Jane Kenyon, from The Boat of Quiet Hours. © Graywolf Press.)
Baseball might not be the solution to tensions in the Middle East. Whether Yankee shortstop Derek Jeter will gather another 1003 hits if he stays healthy to reach 3000 career hits seems less interesting than 2500 US military personnel killed in Iraq. Johnny Damon's four year 52 million contract seems a millionaire's idle detail in the face of the cost of the Iraq war in April 2004, starting at $134.5B and increases at a rate of $177M per day, $7.4M per hour and $122,820 per minute (as measured by the Times Square Digital Clock.)
On Jan 10, 2006 The Christian Science Monitor reported that "Reuters also reports that a Marine Corps spokeswoman, Lt. Col. Roseann Lynch, said Monday that the war is costing the US about $4.5 billion a month in military "operating costs," not including procurement of new weapons and equipment. Colonel Lynch said the war in Iraq had cost $173 billion to date.
If I never learn another detail about the game at Fenway tonight, my life would not be changed. It is a game they play there. An expensive game played by millionaires being paid to wear certain labels, sip certain drinks, drive certain cars, and sell, sell, sell their name and face to the highest bidders.
My life, however, is changed by the wars engaged in by my country. Ill-advised wars. Absurd wars. I think we have become absurd men and women with little consideration of any substantial thought or meaningful consequence.
He has put forth his strength:
he has scattered the proud and conceited,
torn princes from their thrones;
but lifted up the lowly.
He has filled the hungry with good things;
the rich he has sent away empty.
(from Canticle, Magnificat, Vespers)
How say that canticle nightly without wondering what, if anything, it means?
American Military Casualties in Iraq
American Deaths Date: Total \ In Combat
Since war began (3/19/03): 2455 \ 1978
Since "Mission Accomplished" (5/1/03): 2318 \ 1881
Since Capture of Saddam (12/13/03): 1990 \ 1672
Since Handover (6/29/04): 1589 \ 1346
Since Election (1/31/05): 1019 \ 861
American Wounded Official \ Estimated
Total Wounded: 17648 \ 18000-48100
Latest Fatality May 21st, 2006
Page last updated 05/22/06 7:59 pm EDT
Others
Other Coalition Troops \ 214
US Military Deaths - Afghanistan \ 295
Iraqi Body Count (IBC)
minimum: 37,848
maximum: 42, 216
We approach the final out.
If you know one, say a prayer.
Your self-partiality is at
The root of all your illusions.
There aren’t any illusions
When you don’t have this
Preference for yourself.
- Bankei (1622-1693)
Silence is good arrival. Everything goes on somewhere else, but here silence leaves things alone.
Philosophy in Warm Weather
Now all the doors and windows
are open, and we move so easily
through the rooms. Cats roll
on the sunny rugs, and a clumsy wasp
climbs the pane, pausing
to rub a leg over her head.
All around physical life reconvenes.
The molecules of our bodies must love
to exist: they whirl in circles
and seem to begrudge us nothing.
Heat, Horatio, heat makes them
put this antic disposition on!
This year's brown spider
sways over the door as I come
and go. A single poppy shouts
from the far field, and the crow,
beyond alarm, goes right on
pulling up the corn.
(Poem: "Philosophy in Warm Weather," by Jane Kenyon, from The Boat of Quiet Hours. © Graywolf Press.)
Baseball might not be the solution to tensions in the Middle East. Whether Yankee shortstop Derek Jeter will gather another 1003 hits if he stays healthy to reach 3000 career hits seems less interesting than 2500 US military personnel killed in Iraq. Johnny Damon's four year 52 million contract seems a millionaire's idle detail in the face of the cost of the Iraq war in April 2004, starting at $134.5B and increases at a rate of $177M per day, $7.4M per hour and $122,820 per minute (as measured by the Times Square Digital Clock.)
On Jan 10, 2006 The Christian Science Monitor reported that "Reuters also reports that a Marine Corps spokeswoman, Lt. Col. Roseann Lynch, said Monday that the war is costing the US about $4.5 billion a month in military "operating costs," not including procurement of new weapons and equipment. Colonel Lynch said the war in Iraq had cost $173 billion to date.
If I never learn another detail about the game at Fenway tonight, my life would not be changed. It is a game they play there. An expensive game played by millionaires being paid to wear certain labels, sip certain drinks, drive certain cars, and sell, sell, sell their name and face to the highest bidders.
My life, however, is changed by the wars engaged in by my country. Ill-advised wars. Absurd wars. I think we have become absurd men and women with little consideration of any substantial thought or meaningful consequence.
He has put forth his strength:
he has scattered the proud and conceited,
torn princes from their thrones;
but lifted up the lowly.
He has filled the hungry with good things;
the rich he has sent away empty.
(from Canticle, Magnificat, Vespers)
How say that canticle nightly without wondering what, if anything, it means?
American Military Casualties in Iraq
American Deaths Date: Total \ In Combat
Since war began (3/19/03): 2455 \ 1978
Since "Mission Accomplished" (5/1/03): 2318 \ 1881
Since Capture of Saddam (12/13/03): 1990 \ 1672
Since Handover (6/29/04): 1589 \ 1346
Since Election (1/31/05): 1019 \ 861
American Wounded Official \ Estimated
Total Wounded: 17648 \ 18000-48100
Latest Fatality May 21st, 2006
Page last updated 05/22/06 7:59 pm EDT
Others
Other Coalition Troops \ 214
US Military Deaths - Afghanistan \ 295
Iraqi Body Count (IBC)
minimum: 37,848
maximum: 42, 216
We approach the final out.
If you know one, say a prayer.
Monday, May 22, 2006
Looking across to mountain -- only mountainside filling window.
Even when you are uncertain, do not use this one day wastefully. It is a rare treasure to value. Do not compare it with an enormous jewel. Do not compare it with a dragon's bright pearl. Old sages valued this one day more than their own living bodies. Reflect on this quietly. A dragon's pearl may be found. An enormous jewel may be acquired. But this one day out of a hundred years cannot be retrieved once it is lost. What skillful means can retrieve a day that is passed? No historical documents have recorded such means. Not to waste time is to contain the passage of days and months within your skin bag, without leaking. Thus sages and wise ones in olden times valued each moment, day, and month more than their own eyeballs or the nation's land. To waste the passage of time is to be confused and stained in the floating world of name and gain. Not to miss the passage of time is to be in the Way for the Way.
- Dogen (1200-1253)
Cesco walks long road to beach through woods in Owls Head. Sitting in crevice rock, ocean waves lift duck and gull.
Last two days with Bukowski and Cohen.
As
the
spirit
WANES
the
FORM
appears
(--Charles Bukowski, 1977)
A delightful emptiness drifts within. Day itself is unmooring.
Finally, the actual persona of their creator may be said to haunt these songs, although details of his private lifestyle can be only surmised. A decade ago, a teacher who called himself Shree Bhagwan Rajneesh came up with the name "Zorba the Buddha" to describe the ideal modern man: A contemplative man who maintains a strict devotional bond with cosmic energies, yet is completely at home in the physical realm. Such a man knows the value of the dharma and the value of the deutschmark, knows how much to tip a waiter in a Paris nightclub and how many times to bow in a Kyoto shrine, a man who can do business when business is necessary, allow his mind to enter a pine cone, or dance in wild abandon if moved by the tune. Refusing to shun beauty, this Zorba the Buddha finds in ripe pleasures not a contradiction but an affirmation of the spiritual self. Doesn't he sound a lot like Leonard Cohen?
(from THE MAN IN THE TOWER, by Tom Robbins, Seattle 1995, writing about Leonard Cohen)
Today's occupation is viewing young green leaves playing wind for all its sunny worth.
Even when you are uncertain, do not use this one day wastefully. It is a rare treasure to value. Do not compare it with an enormous jewel. Do not compare it with a dragon's bright pearl. Old sages valued this one day more than their own living bodies. Reflect on this quietly. A dragon's pearl may be found. An enormous jewel may be acquired. But this one day out of a hundred years cannot be retrieved once it is lost. What skillful means can retrieve a day that is passed? No historical documents have recorded such means. Not to waste time is to contain the passage of days and months within your skin bag, without leaking. Thus sages and wise ones in olden times valued each moment, day, and month more than their own eyeballs or the nation's land. To waste the passage of time is to be confused and stained in the floating world of name and gain. Not to miss the passage of time is to be in the Way for the Way.
- Dogen (1200-1253)
Cesco walks long road to beach through woods in Owls Head. Sitting in crevice rock, ocean waves lift duck and gull.
Last two days with Bukowski and Cohen.
As
the
spirit
WANES
the
FORM
appears
(--Charles Bukowski, 1977)
A delightful emptiness drifts within. Day itself is unmooring.
Finally, the actual persona of their creator may be said to haunt these songs, although details of his private lifestyle can be only surmised. A decade ago, a teacher who called himself Shree Bhagwan Rajneesh came up with the name "Zorba the Buddha" to describe the ideal modern man: A contemplative man who maintains a strict devotional bond with cosmic energies, yet is completely at home in the physical realm. Such a man knows the value of the dharma and the value of the deutschmark, knows how much to tip a waiter in a Paris nightclub and how many times to bow in a Kyoto shrine, a man who can do business when business is necessary, allow his mind to enter a pine cone, or dance in wild abandon if moved by the tune. Refusing to shun beauty, this Zorba the Buddha finds in ripe pleasures not a contradiction but an affirmation of the spiritual self. Doesn't he sound a lot like Leonard Cohen?
(from THE MAN IN THE TOWER, by Tom Robbins, Seattle 1995, writing about Leonard Cohen)
Today's occupation is viewing young green leaves playing wind for all its sunny worth.
Sunday, May 21, 2006
Some people are afraid.
They feel there are things taking place -- abuse of power, erosion of freedoms, polite patronizing of populace by police and military. It is hard figuring out to whom the insanity belongs. Some are driven mad by the subterfuge. Some are driven mad by the usurpation. The result? A mess of insane individuals passing each other like characters in Ionesco or Genet, Pinter or Beckett.
We become daffy and delusionary. Sorrier to say, we abandon trust. Suspicion and secrecy win the day. Psychological anemia replaces spiritual alertness.
Devote yourself to the Absolute Emptiness;
Contemplate earnestly in Quiescence.
All things are together in Action,
But I look into their Non-action,
For things are continuously moving, restless,
Yet each is proceeding back to its origin.
Proceeding back to the origin means Quiescence.
To be in Quiescence is to see "Being-for-itself."
- Lao tzu
The diversion is gaming power. Control seduces insecurity into flexing muscle. It is an exercise of pretending. Once we were told to pretend we're happy when we're blue -- now it is dangerous so to do.
I shall keep singing!
I shall keep singing!
Birds will pass me
On their way to Yellower Climes--
Each -- with a Robin's expectation --
I -- with my Redbreast--
And my Rhymes --
Late -- when I take my place in summer --
But -- I shall bring a fuller tune--
Vespers -- are sweeter than Matins-Signor --
Morning -- only the seed of Noon--
(Poem: "I shall keep singing!" by Emily Dickinson.)
We drip drop by drop into madness. No wonder we stay away from news. Some say it is better not to know. For others, such nescience itself is sign of touch being lost, a drifting in some region of imagined purity.
Theodore Roethke asks in his poem about a dark time:
"What's madness but nobility of soul
At odds with circumstance?"
(from "IN A DARK TIME," by Theodore Roethke)
The cost of alertness can be disillusioning. To lose illusion sobers.
The lyrics to the Nat King Cole hit suggest to us:
The little things you haven't got
Could be a lot if you pretend
Fifty years ago the song was about finding a love you can share. Today the imagined outcome has wider sweep and more grave consequence. Something seeps from the soul of a country lost in mirrors reflecting guns and drugs, martial obsession and pathetic mistrust. We have redefined certitude to mean everybody's wrong but the one stamping his will on every corner of each patch once believed inviolately personal.
The words of the song take on a darker tone once seen through dual lens of deprivation and rapaciousness :
And if you sing this melody
You'll be pretending just like me
The world is mine, it can be yours, my friend
So why don't you pretend?
("Pretend" -- Words and Music by Lew Douglas, Cliff Parman, and Frank Lavere, 1953)
No need to submit to insanity. See the tormenter for what the tormenter is -- afraid.
Practice no-mind. Have no fear.
See your way clear -- no pretending -- the world belongs to itself, no one else.
Leave behind anything they can use.
Take nothing with you.
Then let that go.
As well.
They feel there are things taking place -- abuse of power, erosion of freedoms, polite patronizing of populace by police and military. It is hard figuring out to whom the insanity belongs. Some are driven mad by the subterfuge. Some are driven mad by the usurpation. The result? A mess of insane individuals passing each other like characters in Ionesco or Genet, Pinter or Beckett.
We become daffy and delusionary. Sorrier to say, we abandon trust. Suspicion and secrecy win the day. Psychological anemia replaces spiritual alertness.
Devote yourself to the Absolute Emptiness;
Contemplate earnestly in Quiescence.
All things are together in Action,
But I look into their Non-action,
For things are continuously moving, restless,
Yet each is proceeding back to its origin.
Proceeding back to the origin means Quiescence.
To be in Quiescence is to see "Being-for-itself."
- Lao tzu
The diversion is gaming power. Control seduces insecurity into flexing muscle. It is an exercise of pretending. Once we were told to pretend we're happy when we're blue -- now it is dangerous so to do.
I shall keep singing!
I shall keep singing!
Birds will pass me
On their way to Yellower Climes--
Each -- with a Robin's expectation --
I -- with my Redbreast--
And my Rhymes --
Late -- when I take my place in summer --
But -- I shall bring a fuller tune--
Vespers -- are sweeter than Matins-Signor --
Morning -- only the seed of Noon--
(Poem: "I shall keep singing!" by Emily Dickinson.)
We drip drop by drop into madness. No wonder we stay away from news. Some say it is better not to know. For others, such nescience itself is sign of touch being lost, a drifting in some region of imagined purity.
Theodore Roethke asks in his poem about a dark time:
"What's madness but nobility of soul
At odds with circumstance?"
(from "IN A DARK TIME," by Theodore Roethke)
The cost of alertness can be disillusioning. To lose illusion sobers.
The lyrics to the Nat King Cole hit suggest to us:
The little things you haven't got
Could be a lot if you pretend
Fifty years ago the song was about finding a love you can share. Today the imagined outcome has wider sweep and more grave consequence. Something seeps from the soul of a country lost in mirrors reflecting guns and drugs, martial obsession and pathetic mistrust. We have redefined certitude to mean everybody's wrong but the one stamping his will on every corner of each patch once believed inviolately personal.
The words of the song take on a darker tone once seen through dual lens of deprivation and rapaciousness :
And if you sing this melody
You'll be pretending just like me
The world is mine, it can be yours, my friend
So why don't you pretend?
("Pretend" -- Words and Music by Lew Douglas, Cliff Parman, and Frank Lavere, 1953)
No need to submit to insanity. See the tormenter for what the tormenter is -- afraid.
Practice no-mind. Have no fear.
See your way clear -- no pretending -- the world belongs to itself, no one else.
Leave behind anything they can use.
Take nothing with you.
Then let that go.
As well.
Saturday, May 20, 2006
Birds sing in Saturday morning sunshine. After so long a rain, blue sky.
We live until we die. And then? Do we get up and do it again? Or does everything return to the way it is?
I'm twenty seven years
And always sought the Way.
Well, this morning we passed
Like strangers on the road.
- Kokuin (10th century)
The way it is -- a phrase many remember from a newscaster in the 20th century, it was his signature valedictory at end of half-hour news -- is equally a meditation on the ground of human experience and being.
Somewhere in the center of the moving world, the center of what is in-itself, there is the way it is. The "way" of each one of us is more likely our experience of riddle, koan, or mystery. We say, "That's just his way," or "The way she's going she'll be exhausted," or "I am the way, the truth, and the life."
The Tao Te Ching (The Way and Its Power) begins with the following:
1
The tao that can be told
is not the eternal Tao
The name that can be named
is not the eternal Name.
The unnamable is the eternally real.
Naming is the origin
of all particular things.
Free from desire, you realize the mystery.
Caught in desire, you see only the manifestations.
Yet mystery and manifestations
arise from the same source.
This source is called darkness.
Darkness within darkness.
The gateway to all understanding.
(Written by Lao-tzu, From a translation by S. Mitchell)
Buddhists might say: "The source is called emptiness."
Christians might say: "Calling emptiness is the way each appears as itself."
This morning we might say: "When we hear the call in emptiness we respond through emptiness as we are the way it is."
This call and this response is all there is. What else is there?
"Dialogue... is a conversation with a center, not sides. It is a way of taking the energy of our differences and channeling it toward something that has never been created before. It lifts us out of polarization and into a greater common sense, and is thereby a means for accessing the intelligence and coordinated power of groups of people."
(-- William Issacs, Dialogue and the Art of Thinking Together)
This is our way -- a conversation with a center.
Poet Charles Olsen wrote:
There is no intelligence
the equal of
the situation.
There are only
two ways:
create the situation
(and this is love)
or avoid it.
This also can be
Love.
(from poem, "Love" by Charles Olsen, in his book Archaeologist of Morning, c.1973)
In the shop this afternoon two men talk about steering wheel salutes on islands. (The lifting of one hand from wheel, fingers extended, to each passing car.) Now it is the stock market. Now it is being freaked out by psy-ops. The sky darkens with intimation of rain.
It is necessary to remain aware so that we do not miss patterns.
Heidegger says we are not yet thinking. Authentic thinking would mean we are seeing our way through.
Our way, for each one, is through.
Passing through the way it is, it is as though there is no way.
That's the way it is.
We live until we die. And then? Do we get up and do it again? Or does everything return to the way it is?
I'm twenty seven years
And always sought the Way.
Well, this morning we passed
Like strangers on the road.
- Kokuin (10th century)
The way it is -- a phrase many remember from a newscaster in the 20th century, it was his signature valedictory at end of half-hour news -- is equally a meditation on the ground of human experience and being.
Somewhere in the center of the moving world, the center of what is in-itself, there is the way it is. The "way" of each one of us is more likely our experience of riddle, koan, or mystery. We say, "That's just his way," or "The way she's going she'll be exhausted," or "I am the way, the truth, and the life."
The Tao Te Ching (The Way and Its Power) begins with the following:
1
The tao that can be told
is not the eternal Tao
The name that can be named
is not the eternal Name.
The unnamable is the eternally real.
Naming is the origin
of all particular things.
Free from desire, you realize the mystery.
Caught in desire, you see only the manifestations.
Yet mystery and manifestations
arise from the same source.
This source is called darkness.
Darkness within darkness.
The gateway to all understanding.
(Written by Lao-tzu, From a translation by S. Mitchell)
Buddhists might say: "The source is called emptiness."
Christians might say: "Calling emptiness is the way each appears as itself."
This morning we might say: "When we hear the call in emptiness we respond through emptiness as we are the way it is."
This call and this response is all there is. What else is there?
"Dialogue... is a conversation with a center, not sides. It is a way of taking the energy of our differences and channeling it toward something that has never been created before. It lifts us out of polarization and into a greater common sense, and is thereby a means for accessing the intelligence and coordinated power of groups of people."
(-- William Issacs, Dialogue and the Art of Thinking Together)
This is our way -- a conversation with a center.
Poet Charles Olsen wrote:
There is no intelligence
the equal of
the situation.
There are only
two ways:
create the situation
(and this is love)
or avoid it.
This also can be
Love.
(from poem, "Love" by Charles Olsen, in his book Archaeologist of Morning, c.1973)
In the shop this afternoon two men talk about steering wheel salutes on islands. (The lifting of one hand from wheel, fingers extended, to each passing car.) Now it is the stock market. Now it is being freaked out by psy-ops. The sky darkens with intimation of rain.
It is necessary to remain aware so that we do not miss patterns.
Heidegger says we are not yet thinking. Authentic thinking would mean we are seeing our way through.
Our way, for each one, is through.
Passing through the way it is, it is as though there is no way.
That's the way it is.
Friday, May 19, 2006
All those not chosen for chaplain position in prison, say aye.
Aye.
If your mind is fixed on a certain spot,
It will be seized by that spot and
No activities can be performed efficiently.
Not to fix your mind anywhere is essential.
Not fixed anywhere,
The mind is everywhere.
The Original Mind is like water which flows freely,
Whereas the deluded mind is like ice.
There is a passage in the Diamond Sutra that says:
"The mind should operate without abiding anywhere."
- Takuan (1573-1645)
I give talk to lifetime recovery group in prison this morning. I say it is all about home. Poet David Wagoner says it is about "Here," that we are not lost. Central to the word "home" is "OM" the sacred syllable, the original sound of creation.
If the original sound of creation is not reverberating within us, we have abandoned our true home -- integrity and wholeness become exploitable and exploited.
"I believe that there will ultimately be a clash between the oppressed and those that do the oppressing. I believe that there will be a clash between those who want freedom, justice and equality for everyone and those who want to continue the systems of exploitation."
(Malcolm X, 1925-1965)
"OM" sounds close to I AM."
So many of us are lost. The sound practice of spirituality will assist being found.
Spirituality is aware practice of what is revealing itself in our midst.
Of course we are intimidated by the realization we've not seen into truth because mind has been taking bows and throwing confetti in perfect diversion and subterfuge.
Freedom, justice, and equality are wonderful words.
The time nears when any attempt to violate the wonderful will result in shocking, fruitless insanity.
There's a tutorial taking place in our nation's corporations, capital, and curriculum. It teaches diminishment of wonder. Without authentic education we learn hate and patronizing intolerance.
Poet Derek Walcott wrote: "You will love again the stranger who was your self." (In poem "Love After Love")
We will remember. Our self. With no separation. The sacred sounds of interior solace.
We'll feast, the poet says, on our life.
Sit.
With.
No other.
Aye.
If your mind is fixed on a certain spot,
It will be seized by that spot and
No activities can be performed efficiently.
Not to fix your mind anywhere is essential.
Not fixed anywhere,
The mind is everywhere.
The Original Mind is like water which flows freely,
Whereas the deluded mind is like ice.
There is a passage in the Diamond Sutra that says:
"The mind should operate without abiding anywhere."
- Takuan (1573-1645)
I give talk to lifetime recovery group in prison this morning. I say it is all about home. Poet David Wagoner says it is about "Here," that we are not lost. Central to the word "home" is "OM" the sacred syllable, the original sound of creation.
If the original sound of creation is not reverberating within us, we have abandoned our true home -- integrity and wholeness become exploitable and exploited.
"I believe that there will ultimately be a clash between the oppressed and those that do the oppressing. I believe that there will be a clash between those who want freedom, justice and equality for everyone and those who want to continue the systems of exploitation."
(Malcolm X, 1925-1965)
"OM" sounds close to I AM."
So many of us are lost. The sound practice of spirituality will assist being found.
Spirituality is aware practice of what is revealing itself in our midst.
Of course we are intimidated by the realization we've not seen into truth because mind has been taking bows and throwing confetti in perfect diversion and subterfuge.
Freedom, justice, and equality are wonderful words.
The time nears when any attempt to violate the wonderful will result in shocking, fruitless insanity.
There's a tutorial taking place in our nation's corporations, capital, and curriculum. It teaches diminishment of wonder. Without authentic education we learn hate and patronizing intolerance.
Poet Derek Walcott wrote: "You will love again the stranger who was your self." (In poem "Love After Love")
We will remember. Our self. With no separation. The sacred sounds of interior solace.
We'll feast, the poet says, on our life.
Sit.
With.
No other.
Thursday, May 18, 2006
God is what is happening. We don't see God because we do not accept what is happening as it is happening. So it is we miss God. We want our idea, our image of God -- not God as God is. We want what is taking place to be different.
Buddha ancestors have said since ancient times, "Living for one hundred years without encountering a buddha does not compare with living for one day and arousing determination for the way."
- Dogen (1200-1253)
If the way for each one of us is the truth of our life -- it becomes imperative we dwell authentically our way, truth, and life.
"Peace is the dream of the wise. War is the history of man." (Philippe Paul, French General and historian of the 1800s). The French ethics student rounds out the quote with his: "Ethics is the dream of the wise, politics is the history of man." (R.P., May 2006). There is a split, he says, between the moral standards of ordinary people and the the ethical behavior of those in power. So why, he asks, cultivate moral standards so easily violated by rulers?
Easter Morning
On Easter morning all over America
the peasants are frying potatoes in bacon grease.
We're not supposed to have "peasants"
but there are tens of millions of them
frying potatoes on Easter morning,
cheap and delicious with catsup.
If Jesus were here this morning he might
be eating fried potatoes with my friend
who has a '51 Dodge and a '72 Pontiac.
When his kids ask why they don't have
a new car he says, "these cars were new once
and now they are experienced."
He can fix anything and when rich folks
call to get a toilet repaired he pauses
extra hours so that they can further
learn what we're made of.
I told him that in Mexico the poor say
that when there's lightning the rich
think that God is taking their picture.
He laughed.
Like peasants everywhere in the history
of the world ours can't figure out why
they're getting poorer. Their sons join
the army to get work being shot at.
Your ideals are invisible clouds
so try not to suffocate the poor,
the peasants, with your sympathies.
They know that you're staring at them.
(Poem: "Easter Morning," by Jim Harrison.)
The humble person sees and faces the truth.
We know the difference between distant stare and loving gaze.
Practice seeing what is happening.
As it is happening.
Engage wholeheartedly.
Buddha ancestors have said since ancient times, "Living for one hundred years without encountering a buddha does not compare with living for one day and arousing determination for the way."
- Dogen (1200-1253)
If the way for each one of us is the truth of our life -- it becomes imperative we dwell authentically our way, truth, and life.
"Peace is the dream of the wise. War is the history of man." (Philippe Paul, French General and historian of the 1800s). The French ethics student rounds out the quote with his: "Ethics is the dream of the wise, politics is the history of man." (R.P., May 2006). There is a split, he says, between the moral standards of ordinary people and the the ethical behavior of those in power. So why, he asks, cultivate moral standards so easily violated by rulers?
Easter Morning
On Easter morning all over America
the peasants are frying potatoes in bacon grease.
We're not supposed to have "peasants"
but there are tens of millions of them
frying potatoes on Easter morning,
cheap and delicious with catsup.
If Jesus were here this morning he might
be eating fried potatoes with my friend
who has a '51 Dodge and a '72 Pontiac.
When his kids ask why they don't have
a new car he says, "these cars were new once
and now they are experienced."
He can fix anything and when rich folks
call to get a toilet repaired he pauses
extra hours so that they can further
learn what we're made of.
I told him that in Mexico the poor say
that when there's lightning the rich
think that God is taking their picture.
He laughed.
Like peasants everywhere in the history
of the world ours can't figure out why
they're getting poorer. Their sons join
the army to get work being shot at.
Your ideals are invisible clouds
so try not to suffocate the poor,
the peasants, with your sympathies.
They know that you're staring at them.
(Poem: "Easter Morning," by Jim Harrison.)
The humble person sees and faces the truth.
We know the difference between distant stare and loving gaze.
Practice seeing what is happening.
As it is happening.
Engage wholeheartedly.
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
Giving up isolating individual identity, you might realize a wisdom and presence far beyond any definition carved out by small mind.
The true person is
Not anyone in particular
But
Like the limitless deep blue sky,
It is everywhere, and everyone in the world.
(Dogen Zenji)
The mind of Christ sees through our cultivated separation. Threading insight. Interweaving longing. And thatching true dwelling between delight and despair. Our everyday human path -- shreded plans, frayed dreams.
You are pruned already,
by means of the word that I have spoken to you.
Make your home in me, as I make mine in you.
(from John 15:1-8)
Soon, as soon as this next breath, it will dawn on us the great loveliness of existence side by side with one another.
Soon, this very blink of the eye, clears away whatever keeps us from seeing what is true among us.
Soon, ah! -- just now, did you feel it?
You are free to be yourself.
Beyond definition.
Great awareness.
Clear through.
Re-minding.
Love.
The true person is
Not anyone in particular
But
Like the limitless deep blue sky,
It is everywhere, and everyone in the world.
(Dogen Zenji)
The mind of Christ sees through our cultivated separation. Threading insight. Interweaving longing. And thatching true dwelling between delight and despair. Our everyday human path -- shreded plans, frayed dreams.
You are pruned already,
by means of the word that I have spoken to you.
Make your home in me, as I make mine in you.
(from John 15:1-8)
Soon, as soon as this next breath, it will dawn on us the great loveliness of existence side by side with one another.
Soon, this very blink of the eye, clears away whatever keeps us from seeing what is true among us.
Soon, ah! -- just now, did you feel it?
You are free to be yourself.
Beyond definition.
Great awareness.
Clear through.
Re-minding.
Love.
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
Stanley Kunitz knew where to look.
"Poetry is ultimately mythology, the telling of stories of the soul," he wrote. "The old myths, the old gods, the old heroes have never died. They are only sleeping at the bottom of our minds, waiting for our call. We have need of them, for in their sum they epitomize the wisdom and experience of the race."
(-- Poet Stanley Kunitz, quoted in NYTimes, 16May2006, on his death 5/14/06 at age 100)
There is so much to read.
However deep your knowledge of the scriptures,
It is no more than a strand of hair
In the vastness of space;
However important seeming your worldly experience,
It is but a drop of water in a deep ravine.
- Tokusan
So much to embody.
The Long Boat
When his boat snapped loose
from its mooring, under
the screaking of the gulls,
he tried at first to wave
to his dear ones on shore,
but in the rolling fog
they had already lost their faces.
Too tired even to choose
between jumping and calling,
somehow he felt absolved and free
of his burdens, those mottoes
stamped on his name-tag:
conscience, ambition, and all
that caring.
He was content to lie down
with the family ghosts
in the slop of his cradle,
buffeted by the storm,
endlessly drifting.
Peace! Peace!
To be rocked by the Infinite!
As if it didn't matter
which way was home;
as if he didn't know
he loved the earth so much
he wanted to stay forever.
(Poem by Stanley Kunitz, from The Wild Braid: A Poet Reflects on a Century in the Garden by Stanley Kunitz with Genine Lentine, W.W. Norton & Co., 2005.)
So much to let go.
With what purpose, Lord, do you stay away, hide yourself in time of need and trouble?
The wicked in their pride persecute the weak, trap them in the plots they have devised.
The sinner glories in his desires, the miser congratulates himself.
The sinner in his arrogance rejects the Lord: “there is no God, no retribution”.
This is what he thinks – and all goes well for him.
Your judgements are far beyond his comprehension: he despises all who stand against him.
The sinner says to himself: “I will stand firm; nothing can touch me, from generation to generation”.
His mouth is full of malice and deceit, under his tongue hide trouble and distress.
He lies in ambush by the villages, he kills the innocent in some secret place.
He watches the weak, he hides like a lion in its lair, and makes plans.
He plans to rob the weak, lure him to his trap and rob him.
He rushes in, makes a dive, and the poor victim is caught.
For he has said to himself, “God has forgotten. He is not watching, he will never see”.
(from Psalm 10)
I'd trade one Kunitz for any world leader, especially today.
Master And Mistress
As if I were composed of dust and air,
The shape confronting me upon the stair
(Athlete of shadow, lighted by a stain
On its disjunctive breast--I saw it plain--)
Moved through my middle flesh. I turned around,
Shaken and it was marching without sound
Beyond the door; and when my hand was taken
From my mouth to beat the standing heart, I cried
My distant name, thinking myself had died.
One moment I was entered; one moment then
I knew a total century of pain
Between the twinkling of two thoughts. The ghost
Knocked on my ribs, demanding, "Host! Host!
I am diseased with motion. Give me bread
Before I quickly go. Shall I be fed?"
Yielding, I begged of him: "Partake of me.
Whatever runneth from the artery,
This body and its unfamiliar wine,
Stored in whatever dark of love, are thine."
But he denied me, saying, "Every part
of thee is given, yea, thy flesh, thy heart."
(Poem by Stanley Kunitz)
So much to poetry.
"Poetry is ultimately mythology, the telling of stories of the soul," he wrote. "The old myths, the old gods, the old heroes have never died. They are only sleeping at the bottom of our minds, waiting for our call. We have need of them, for in their sum they epitomize the wisdom and experience of the race."
(-- Poet Stanley Kunitz, quoted in NYTimes, 16May2006, on his death 5/14/06 at age 100)
There is so much to read.
However deep your knowledge of the scriptures,
It is no more than a strand of hair
In the vastness of space;
However important seeming your worldly experience,
It is but a drop of water in a deep ravine.
- Tokusan
So much to embody.
The Long Boat
When his boat snapped loose
from its mooring, under
the screaking of the gulls,
he tried at first to wave
to his dear ones on shore,
but in the rolling fog
they had already lost their faces.
Too tired even to choose
between jumping and calling,
somehow he felt absolved and free
of his burdens, those mottoes
stamped on his name-tag:
conscience, ambition, and all
that caring.
He was content to lie down
with the family ghosts
in the slop of his cradle,
buffeted by the storm,
endlessly drifting.
Peace! Peace!
To be rocked by the Infinite!
As if it didn't matter
which way was home;
as if he didn't know
he loved the earth so much
he wanted to stay forever.
(Poem by Stanley Kunitz, from The Wild Braid: A Poet Reflects on a Century in the Garden by Stanley Kunitz with Genine Lentine, W.W. Norton & Co., 2005.)
So much to let go.
With what purpose, Lord, do you stay away, hide yourself in time of need and trouble?
The wicked in their pride persecute the weak, trap them in the plots they have devised.
The sinner glories in his desires, the miser congratulates himself.
The sinner in his arrogance rejects the Lord: “there is no God, no retribution”.
This is what he thinks – and all goes well for him.
Your judgements are far beyond his comprehension: he despises all who stand against him.
The sinner says to himself: “I will stand firm; nothing can touch me, from generation to generation”.
His mouth is full of malice and deceit, under his tongue hide trouble and distress.
He lies in ambush by the villages, he kills the innocent in some secret place.
He watches the weak, he hides like a lion in its lair, and makes plans.
He plans to rob the weak, lure him to his trap and rob him.
He rushes in, makes a dive, and the poor victim is caught.
For he has said to himself, “God has forgotten. He is not watching, he will never see”.
(from Psalm 10)
I'd trade one Kunitz for any world leader, especially today.
Master And Mistress
As if I were composed of dust and air,
The shape confronting me upon the stair
(Athlete of shadow, lighted by a stain
On its disjunctive breast--I saw it plain--)
Moved through my middle flesh. I turned around,
Shaken and it was marching without sound
Beyond the door; and when my hand was taken
From my mouth to beat the standing heart, I cried
My distant name, thinking myself had died.
One moment I was entered; one moment then
I knew a total century of pain
Between the twinkling of two thoughts. The ghost
Knocked on my ribs, demanding, "Host! Host!
I am diseased with motion. Give me bread
Before I quickly go. Shall I be fed?"
Yielding, I begged of him: "Partake of me.
Whatever runneth from the artery,
This body and its unfamiliar wine,
Stored in whatever dark of love, are thine."
But he denied me, saying, "Every part
of thee is given, yea, thy flesh, thy heart."
(Poem by Stanley Kunitz)
So much to poetry.
Sunday, May 14, 2006
Every act done with compassion is a mothering act. Happy mothering day!
What is of all things most yielding
Can overcome that which is most hard,
Being substanceless, it can enter in
Even where there is no crevice.
That is how I know the value
Of action which is actionless.
But that there can be teaching without words,
Value in action which is actionless
Few indeed can understand.
- Lao Tzu (5th century BC)
Lao Tzu might have been angling for water in response. We might add: compassion.
If you remain in me
and my words remain in you,
you may ask what you will
and you shall get it.
John 15:1-8
If we remain in sight of ourselves -- as one another -- just as Jesus suggested to those looking for what he saw, we are the response to our request. We get it sooner or later that communion of all being begins with communion one with another in the spirit of compassion.
Our breath is within and without. The voice of being, the voice of compassion, is within and without.
In the shop today a woman was not sure she liked the idea that hell wasn't a place to be consigned to forever. She didn't know what to think about the notion that Jesus (according to the teaching of her religion) took away the separation between God and everything which is of God -- traditionally known as taking away the sin(s) of the world. Jesus, one might say, died revealing the presence of God here (inside and outside) and now (no-time, just-this-and-nothing-else).
Is it, as David Whyte suggests, a terrible revelation to our troubled and divisive thinking.
Revelation Must Be Terrible
Revelation must be
terrible with no time left
to say goodbye.
Imagine that moment
staring at the still waters
with only the brief tremor
of your body to say
you are leaving everything
and everyone you know behind.
Being far from home is hard, but you know,
at least we are exiled together.
When you open your eyes to the world
you are on your own for
the first time. No one is
even interested in saving you now
and the world steps in
to test the calm fluidity of your body
from moment to moment
as if it believed you could join
its vibrant dance
of fire and calmness and final stillness.
As if you were meant to be exactly
where you are, as if
like the dark branch of a desert river
you could flow on without a speck
of guilt and everything
everywhere would still be just as it should be.
As if your place in the world mattered
and the world could
neither speak nor hear the fullness of
its own bitter and beautiful cry
without the deep well
of your body resonating in the echo.
Knowing that it takes only
that one, terrible
word to make the circle complete,
revelation must be terrible
knowing you can
never hide your voice again.
(Poem by David Whyte)
One mothers one another in this revelation.
A beloving beauty beyond our thinking, a wondrous compassion transcending our exacting calculus, and a slow silencing sacredness appears -- within and without -- of a sudden.
A blessed mothering.
On each of us.
This day,
What is of all things most yielding
Can overcome that which is most hard,
Being substanceless, it can enter in
Even where there is no crevice.
That is how I know the value
Of action which is actionless.
But that there can be teaching without words,
Value in action which is actionless
Few indeed can understand.
- Lao Tzu (5th century BC)
Lao Tzu might have been angling for water in response. We might add: compassion.
If you remain in me
and my words remain in you,
you may ask what you will
and you shall get it.
John 15:1-8
If we remain in sight of ourselves -- as one another -- just as Jesus suggested to those looking for what he saw, we are the response to our request. We get it sooner or later that communion of all being begins with communion one with another in the spirit of compassion.
Our breath is within and without. The voice of being, the voice of compassion, is within and without.
In the shop today a woman was not sure she liked the idea that hell wasn't a place to be consigned to forever. She didn't know what to think about the notion that Jesus (according to the teaching of her religion) took away the separation between God and everything which is of God -- traditionally known as taking away the sin(s) of the world. Jesus, one might say, died revealing the presence of God here (inside and outside) and now (no-time, just-this-and-nothing-else).
Is it, as David Whyte suggests, a terrible revelation to our troubled and divisive thinking.
Revelation Must Be Terrible
Revelation must be
terrible with no time left
to say goodbye.
Imagine that moment
staring at the still waters
with only the brief tremor
of your body to say
you are leaving everything
and everyone you know behind.
Being far from home is hard, but you know,
at least we are exiled together.
When you open your eyes to the world
you are on your own for
the first time. No one is
even interested in saving you now
and the world steps in
to test the calm fluidity of your body
from moment to moment
as if it believed you could join
its vibrant dance
of fire and calmness and final stillness.
As if you were meant to be exactly
where you are, as if
like the dark branch of a desert river
you could flow on without a speck
of guilt and everything
everywhere would still be just as it should be.
As if your place in the world mattered
and the world could
neither speak nor hear the fullness of
its own bitter and beautiful cry
without the deep well
of your body resonating in the echo.
Knowing that it takes only
that one, terrible
word to make the circle complete,
revelation must be terrible
knowing you can
never hide your voice again.
(Poem by David Whyte)
One mothers one another in this revelation.
A beloving beauty beyond our thinking, a wondrous compassion transcending our exacting calculus, and a slow silencing sacredness appears -- within and without -- of a sudden.
A blessed mothering.
On each of us.
This day,
Saturday, May 13, 2006
Each word and act is either creative genesis or destructive analysis. The mind you bring is the reality you find.
Enter a room with disappointment at who and how many are there -- you have an insufficient, dissatisfied mind and a disappointing reality. Enter that same room with appreciation for what and who is there -- begins an engaging and originary entrance into present moment. So too, takes shape an embodying, emerging revelation of creation itself. That's what we settled on at Friday Evening Conversation as fire in fireplace warmed inquiry. The ever-present energy of creative "wording/doing" & "breathing" (Hebrew: "Dabhar" & "Ruah") is omni-present and profoundly willing to originate manifesting life.
The Aramaic wording of one section of the "Our Father" opens this:
Nehwey tzevyanach aykanna d'bwashmaya aph b'arha ("Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven") can be considered the heart of Jesus' prayer. The "will" referred to here connotes a deep desire causing one's whole being to move toward a goal with the certainty that the effort will bear fruit. In some sense, it is living as though God's vision were already a reality. "Earth" (arha) carries a strong feeling of solidity and support; it is something that is fully materialized. Here, then, we pray that the sense of "I can" expressed in the line above be put fully into action. The phrase in its entirety could be: "Let each of our actions bear fruit in accordance with your desire." or "Moving to the heartbeat of your purpose, make us the embodiment of your compassion." In essence, we pray that all we do be an act of co-creation with God.
(from The Aramaic Prayer of Jesus, An Introduction by Mark Hathaway,
http://www.visioncraft.org/aramaic/intro.htm)
There's no need to pretend all is well. All is well. It is not a matter of mind trying to put an optimistic spin on whatever happens, rather mind is what is happening. Mind is less an interpreter of reality than originator of it. So much depends on how we see what is seen. (Thus the problem of "thinking.")
Our original mind includes everything within itself. It is always rich and sufficient within itself. You should not lose your self-sufficient state of mind. This does not mean a closed mind, but actually an empty mind and a ready mind. If your mind is empty, it is always ready for anything; it is open to everything. In the beginner's mind there are many possibilities; in the expert's mind there are few.
- Shunryu Suzuki (1905-1971)
Out of emptiness emerges practice of origin and light.
Origin and light practice emptiness.
We emerge embodying what is found in this practice.
Enter a room. Walk the mountain. Chew fruit on layer of vanilla yogurt. Sip tea. Bite raisin toast with trappist jam. Ride exercise cycle. Talk to prisoners. Watch film. Listen to news. Write poem. Trust oneself. Smile with compassion. Forgive everything for being exactly what each is -- forgive yourself for misperception that we are separate.
Spring
Nothing is so beautiful as spring --
--When weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush;
--Thrush's eggs look little low heavens, and thrush
Through the echoing timber does so rinse and wring
The ear, it strikes like lightings to hear him sing;
--The glassy peartree leaves and blooms, they brush
--The descending blue; that blue is all in a rush
With richness; the racing lambs too have fair their fling.
What is all this juice and all this joy?
--A strain of the earth's sweet being in the beginning
In Eden garden. -- Have, get, before it cloy,
--Before it cloud, Christ, lord, and sour with sinning,
Innocent mind and Mayday in girl and boy,
--Most, O maid's child, thy choice and worthy the winning.
(Poem: "Spring" by Gerard Manley Hopkins.)
Everything.
(The troubling way we think. The lovely way we see.)
Worthy.
God's vision.
{All ready! Already?}
Reality.
Enter a room with disappointment at who and how many are there -- you have an insufficient, dissatisfied mind and a disappointing reality. Enter that same room with appreciation for what and who is there -- begins an engaging and originary entrance into present moment. So too, takes shape an embodying, emerging revelation of creation itself. That's what we settled on at Friday Evening Conversation as fire in fireplace warmed inquiry. The ever-present energy of creative "wording/doing" & "breathing" (Hebrew: "Dabhar" & "Ruah") is omni-present and profoundly willing to originate manifesting life.
The Aramaic wording of one section of the "Our Father" opens this:
Nehwey tzevyanach aykanna d'bwashmaya aph b'arha ("Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven") can be considered the heart of Jesus' prayer. The "will" referred to here connotes a deep desire causing one's whole being to move toward a goal with the certainty that the effort will bear fruit. In some sense, it is living as though God's vision were already a reality. "Earth" (arha) carries a strong feeling of solidity and support; it is something that is fully materialized. Here, then, we pray that the sense of "I can" expressed in the line above be put fully into action. The phrase in its entirety could be: "Let each of our actions bear fruit in accordance with your desire." or "Moving to the heartbeat of your purpose, make us the embodiment of your compassion." In essence, we pray that all we do be an act of co-creation with God.
(from The Aramaic Prayer of Jesus, An Introduction by Mark Hathaway,
http://www.visioncraft.org/aramaic/intro.htm)
There's no need to pretend all is well. All is well. It is not a matter of mind trying to put an optimistic spin on whatever happens, rather mind is what is happening. Mind is less an interpreter of reality than originator of it. So much depends on how we see what is seen. (Thus the problem of "thinking.")
Our original mind includes everything within itself. It is always rich and sufficient within itself. You should not lose your self-sufficient state of mind. This does not mean a closed mind, but actually an empty mind and a ready mind. If your mind is empty, it is always ready for anything; it is open to everything. In the beginner's mind there are many possibilities; in the expert's mind there are few.
- Shunryu Suzuki (1905-1971)
Out of emptiness emerges practice of origin and light.
Origin and light practice emptiness.
We emerge embodying what is found in this practice.
Enter a room. Walk the mountain. Chew fruit on layer of vanilla yogurt. Sip tea. Bite raisin toast with trappist jam. Ride exercise cycle. Talk to prisoners. Watch film. Listen to news. Write poem. Trust oneself. Smile with compassion. Forgive everything for being exactly what each is -- forgive yourself for misperception that we are separate.
Spring
Nothing is so beautiful as spring --
--When weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush;
--Thrush's eggs look little low heavens, and thrush
Through the echoing timber does so rinse and wring
The ear, it strikes like lightings to hear him sing;
--The glassy peartree leaves and blooms, they brush
--The descending blue; that blue is all in a rush
With richness; the racing lambs too have fair their fling.
What is all this juice and all this joy?
--A strain of the earth's sweet being in the beginning
In Eden garden. -- Have, get, before it cloy,
--Before it cloud, Christ, lord, and sour with sinning,
Innocent mind and Mayday in girl and boy,
--Most, O maid's child, thy choice and worthy the winning.
(Poem: "Spring" by Gerard Manley Hopkins.)
Everything.
(The troubling way we think. The lovely way we see.)
Worthy.
God's vision.
{All ready! Already?}
Reality.
Friday, May 12, 2006
The Red Sox first baseman said, "You fail so much. It's a game of failure." He might have been talking about life, and not his line drive hit right at 2nd baseman. Dogen Zenji's, "My life is one continuous mistake", is additional wisdom to that of the infielder turned philosopher.
Meditation will not carry you to another world, but it will reveal the most profound and awesome dimensions of the world in which you already live. Calmly contemplating these dimensions and bringing them into the service of compassion and kindness is the right way to make rapid gains in meditation as well as in life.
- Hsing Yun
Even when you hit the sweet spot on the bat, when you find yourself walking down an empty road in carnival celebration of spring flowering, or turning in a room, becoming aware of processions and walking meditations or meanderings in good company of living beings beyond immediate registry -- even then, amid the exuberance, the realization that sleeping dream and waking reality are interchangeable, no clear differentiation, no pin-point placement defined by time or space -- we live our lives in trusting practice one footstep will follow into this very next footstep to unknown, but necessary, destination.
Mother Night
When you wake at three AM you don't think
of your age or sex and rarely your name
or the plot of your life which has never
broken itself down into logical pieces.
At three AM you have the gift of incomprehension
wherein the galaxies make more sense
than your job or the government. Jesus at the well
with Mary Magdalene is much more vivid
than your car. You can clearly see the bear
climb to heaven on a golden rope in the children's
story no one ever wrote. Your childhood horse
named June still stomps the ground for an apple.
What is morning and what if it doesn't arrive?
One morning Mother dropped an egg and asked
me if God was the same species as we are?
Smear of light at five AM. Sound of Webber's
sheep flock and sandhill cranes across the road,
burble of irrigation ditch beneath my window.
She said, "Only lunatics save newspapers
and magazines," fried me two eggs, then said,
"If you want to understand mortality look at birds."
Blue moon, two full moons this month,
which I conclude are two full moons. In what
direction do the dead fly off the earth?
Rising sun. A thousand blackbirds pronounce day.
(Poem: "Mother Night" by Jim Harrison from Saving Daylight. Copper Canyon Press.)
A hundred thousand raindrops carry light into Friday morning in Maine. Windchimes are toll collectors of falling currents. Birdsong weaves through arriving dawn. Everything we've ever done is wrong -- but all is well, and right. Once on one's own path, we are alone itself -- and never apart from community of beings and Being.
Kevin Youkilis came up, the Sox still behind, 3-2. He crushed one but right at second baseman Robinson Cano. Youkilis, in anger and disbelief, clutched his helmet with both hands and yelled.
''Pretty self-explanatory," he said, when asked what he was thinking at that moment. ''You fail so much. It's a game of failure. To do everything perfect, hit the ball hard, and it's right at him, nothing to show for it."
(from story in Boston Globe, RED SOX 5, YANKEES 3, "Rescue club" --Red Sox strand 15 but survive to take 2 of 3 in New York, By Chris Snow, Globe Staff, May 12, 2006)
There is, as he says, nothing to show for it, even when there is.
Many saints and martyrs died forgotten, and intercede for us anonymously in Heaven: we shall not know them until the day of judgement. Others are one degree less anonymous: we know their names, and we know that people whose judgement we trust regarded them as saints, but that is all. Such are Saints Nereus and Achilleus...(their deaths [were] early in the fourth century.) (http://www.universalis.com/)
One foot in front of another. One day following another. One breath and then another.
So much depends on how we regard one another.
Simple appreciation; simple realization.
Soon enough -- no step, no day, no breath.
Simple surrender.
Simple joy.
Showing.
Itself.
Meditation will not carry you to another world, but it will reveal the most profound and awesome dimensions of the world in which you already live. Calmly contemplating these dimensions and bringing them into the service of compassion and kindness is the right way to make rapid gains in meditation as well as in life.
- Hsing Yun
Even when you hit the sweet spot on the bat, when you find yourself walking down an empty road in carnival celebration of spring flowering, or turning in a room, becoming aware of processions and walking meditations or meanderings in good company of living beings beyond immediate registry -- even then, amid the exuberance, the realization that sleeping dream and waking reality are interchangeable, no clear differentiation, no pin-point placement defined by time or space -- we live our lives in trusting practice one footstep will follow into this very next footstep to unknown, but necessary, destination.
Mother Night
When you wake at three AM you don't think
of your age or sex and rarely your name
or the plot of your life which has never
broken itself down into logical pieces.
At three AM you have the gift of incomprehension
wherein the galaxies make more sense
than your job or the government. Jesus at the well
with Mary Magdalene is much more vivid
than your car. You can clearly see the bear
climb to heaven on a golden rope in the children's
story no one ever wrote. Your childhood horse
named June still stomps the ground for an apple.
What is morning and what if it doesn't arrive?
One morning Mother dropped an egg and asked
me if God was the same species as we are?
Smear of light at five AM. Sound of Webber's
sheep flock and sandhill cranes across the road,
burble of irrigation ditch beneath my window.
She said, "Only lunatics save newspapers
and magazines," fried me two eggs, then said,
"If you want to understand mortality look at birds."
Blue moon, two full moons this month,
which I conclude are two full moons. In what
direction do the dead fly off the earth?
Rising sun. A thousand blackbirds pronounce day.
(Poem: "Mother Night" by Jim Harrison from Saving Daylight. Copper Canyon Press.)
A hundred thousand raindrops carry light into Friday morning in Maine. Windchimes are toll collectors of falling currents. Birdsong weaves through arriving dawn. Everything we've ever done is wrong -- but all is well, and right. Once on one's own path, we are alone itself -- and never apart from community of beings and Being.
Kevin Youkilis came up, the Sox still behind, 3-2. He crushed one but right at second baseman Robinson Cano. Youkilis, in anger and disbelief, clutched his helmet with both hands and yelled.
''Pretty self-explanatory," he said, when asked what he was thinking at that moment. ''You fail so much. It's a game of failure. To do everything perfect, hit the ball hard, and it's right at him, nothing to show for it."
(from story in Boston Globe, RED SOX 5, YANKEES 3, "Rescue club" --Red Sox strand 15 but survive to take 2 of 3 in New York, By Chris Snow, Globe Staff, May 12, 2006)
There is, as he says, nothing to show for it, even when there is.
Many saints and martyrs died forgotten, and intercede for us anonymously in Heaven: we shall not know them until the day of judgement. Others are one degree less anonymous: we know their names, and we know that people whose judgement we trust regarded them as saints, but that is all. Such are Saints Nereus and Achilleus...(their deaths [were] early in the fourth century.) (http://www.universalis.com/)
One foot in front of another. One day following another. One breath and then another.
So much depends on how we regard one another.
Simple appreciation; simple realization.
Soon enough -- no step, no day, no breath.
Simple surrender.
Simple joy.
Showing.
Itself.
Thursday, May 11, 2006
It is a joy to walk down Bayview Street through fine drizzle in May.
It is the lightness of something completed. Final class, final student interview, final finalist interview with warden and deputy warden. (The fragrance of barbecued hotdogs sneaking through security into corridor.) It was an occasion and inquiry not to be ignored.
This is the Mind-seal of not one thing.
What is "not one thing?"
Mountains fresh and green,
Water clear and flowing.
- Yamaoka Tesshu (1830)
Beads of water cling to screen in harbour room. The non-violent communication group will arrive for meeting in a few minutes. Saskia's gone to meeting for friend recently diagnosed with brain tumor and short days. The bay is shrouded with early evening fog and rain obscuring islands many will swear are still there.
On blackboard downstairs, chalk lettering: "no one here."
It is the lightness of something completed. Final class, final student interview, final finalist interview with warden and deputy warden. (The fragrance of barbecued hotdogs sneaking through security into corridor.) It was an occasion and inquiry not to be ignored.
This is the Mind-seal of not one thing.
What is "not one thing?"
Mountains fresh and green,
Water clear and flowing.
- Yamaoka Tesshu (1830)
Beads of water cling to screen in harbour room. The non-violent communication group will arrive for meeting in a few minutes. Saskia's gone to meeting for friend recently diagnosed with brain tumor and short days. The bay is shrouded with early evening fog and rain obscuring islands many will swear are still there.
On blackboard downstairs, chalk lettering: "no one here."
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
Exactly where does God dwell?
Tonight it rains.
If you did not attain enlightenment in the past,
Do so now.
Liberate this body
That is the culmination of many lifetimes.
Before enlightenment,
Ancient buddhas were like us.
When enlightened, we will be like those of old.
- Longya
A long, wet, rain.
If the Word has truly been made flesh and we in very truth receive the Word made flesh as food from the Lord, are we not bound to believe that he abides in us naturally?
(from A tract on the Trinity by Saint Hilary, bishop)
Christians cannot pretend God away from God's dwelling place. They can only deny themselves.
Tomorrow there's an interview at one of the houses of God.
The warden will decide.
One only hopes.
Well.
Tonight it rains.
If you did not attain enlightenment in the past,
Do so now.
Liberate this body
That is the culmination of many lifetimes.
Before enlightenment,
Ancient buddhas were like us.
When enlightened, we will be like those of old.
- Longya
A long, wet, rain.
If the Word has truly been made flesh and we in very truth receive the Word made flesh as food from the Lord, are we not bound to believe that he abides in us naturally?
(from A tract on the Trinity by Saint Hilary, bishop)
Christians cannot pretend God away from God's dwelling place. They can only deny themselves.
Tomorrow there's an interview at one of the houses of God.
The warden will decide.
One only hopes.
Well.
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
Walking Ragged with Cesco after returning from Belgrade Lakes with cedar canoe, basking in mountain's beauty.
This mountain has neither ugly rocks nor clumsy trees.
It raises itself ten thousand feet towards the cold heaven.
Even a stray cloud does not cling around the mountain.
Only the moon showers its pale light abundantly over the summit.
- Jakushitsu (1290--1368)
It is hard to know why men go to war. There's no beauty there.
There's a word in Farsi that has no proper translation into English but that every Iranian knows the meaning of: ta'arouf. Ta'arouf is social convention in Iran; it can be nothing but small talk, or frustratingly incomprehensible back-and-forth niceties uttered in any social encounter. It can be a long-winded prelude to what is actually the matter at hand, whether the matter be a serious negotiation or just ordering dinner. It can also be polite entreaties, or overtures, and on all counts Mr. Ahmadinejad just made ta'arouf to Mr. Bush. For Mr. Bush to refuse to counter-ta'arouf may, to the Iranians, seem extremely rude, but Americans need not be concerned with that. What Americans need to be concerned with is whether there is anything, and I mean anything, that will change the minds of the men who want to go to war.
(Hooman Majd, Blog, 05.08.2006, on Huffington Post, "Why We Are Going to Go to War, Part II" http://www.huffingtonpost.com/hooman-majd/why-we-are-going-to-go-to_b_20643.html Hooman Majd was born in 1957 in Tehran, Iran, and was educated in England and the United States)
I cried in the car hearing two more members of the Maine Nationall Guard were killed in Iraq. The Noah bell we hung from overhead console rang one, two, three times in the ensuing quiet once radio was turned off.
Peace and compassion are beautiful.
Why not reside there.
And chat a while.
This mountain has neither ugly rocks nor clumsy trees.
It raises itself ten thousand feet towards the cold heaven.
Even a stray cloud does not cling around the mountain.
Only the moon showers its pale light abundantly over the summit.
- Jakushitsu (1290--1368)
It is hard to know why men go to war. There's no beauty there.
There's a word in Farsi that has no proper translation into English but that every Iranian knows the meaning of: ta'arouf. Ta'arouf is social convention in Iran; it can be nothing but small talk, or frustratingly incomprehensible back-and-forth niceties uttered in any social encounter. It can be a long-winded prelude to what is actually the matter at hand, whether the matter be a serious negotiation or just ordering dinner. It can also be polite entreaties, or overtures, and on all counts Mr. Ahmadinejad just made ta'arouf to Mr. Bush. For Mr. Bush to refuse to counter-ta'arouf may, to the Iranians, seem extremely rude, but Americans need not be concerned with that. What Americans need to be concerned with is whether there is anything, and I mean anything, that will change the minds of the men who want to go to war.
(Hooman Majd, Blog, 05.08.2006, on Huffington Post, "Why We Are Going to Go to War, Part II" http://www.huffingtonpost.com/hooman-majd/why-we-are-going-to-go-to_b_20643.html Hooman Majd was born in 1957 in Tehran, Iran, and was educated in England and the United States)
I cried in the car hearing two more members of the Maine Nationall Guard were killed in Iraq. The Noah bell we hung from overhead console rang one, two, three times in the ensuing quiet once radio was turned off.
Peace and compassion are beautiful.
Why not reside there.
And chat a while.
Monday, May 08, 2006
This morning at church I wondered about "hoc" within symbolic letters IHS "In hoc signo." I like the notion that "this" is the sign. Constantine's vision and the belief he would conquer in the sign of the cross in early 4th century sky -- or Chi Rho (two Greek letters beginning "Christ") or iota, eta, and sigma (three Greek letters -- H being capital letter of e, for iesous), -- notwithstanding, the sign we seek is "this."
I like that a Zen master when asked for a definition of truth that would still be true in 500 years said, "Truth -- is just like this." We often stumble on "this" and prefer rather "that." Is "this" too near? Is this too intimate? Is this all there is?
Annie was confirmed and took communion officially as a Catholic yesterday. I told Sam he was a CBA now -- Catholic by association -- as he looked at me, warily shaking my hand, waiting for some release from tight pew and unusual Sunday morning, as I hug his long-time associate.
As soon as you arouse aspiration for enlightenment, even if you transmigrate in the six realms and four forms of birth, transmigration itself will be your practice of enlightenment. Although you may have wasted time so far, you should vow immediately, before this present life ends: "Together with all sentient beings, may I hear the true dharma from this birth on throughout future births."
When you hear the true dharma, do not doubt or distrust it. When you encounter the true dharma, relinquish ordinary affairs and uphold the buddha-dharma. Thus you realize the way together with the great earth and all sentient beings. This vow is the ground for genuine aspiration. Do not slacken in this determination.
- Dogen (1200-1253)
We read Shantideva at table during practice last evening -- about exchanging self with others. He writes:
But what need is there to say more?
The childish work for their own benefit,
The Buddhas work for the benefit of others.
Just look at the difference between them!
(In "Guide to the Bodhisattva's Way of Life," Shantideva)
There is no "own benefit" but this -- and "this" belongs to others as oneself. What we do, ever and anywhere, is for everyone. This is what "this" means -- this is who, this is what, we are.
My heart was sore, my being was troubled --
I was a fool, I knew nothing;
I was like a dumb beast before you.
But still I stay with you:
you hold my right hand.
You lead me according to your counsel,
until you raise me up in glory.
For who else is for me, in heaven?
On earth, I want nothing when I am with you.
My flesh and heart are failing,
but it is God that I love:
God is my portion for ever.
(from Psalm 73)
God-Life, behind and beyond what is, is this moment all there is.
And we -- we will not be content with what is not true.
Science
It was one of those mornings utterly distorted by the night's dreams.
Why go to court to change my name to Gaspar de la Nuit in order to
avoid thinking of myself as a silly, fat old man? At midmorning I
looked at the dogs as possibilities for something different in my life.
I was dogsitting both daughters' dogs plus our own: Lily, Grace, Pearl,
Harry, Rose and Mary. I shook the biscuit box and they assembled in
the living room on a very cold windy morning when no one wanted
to go outside except for a quick pee and a bark at the mailman. I sang,
"He's got the whole world in his hands," as they waited for their snack.
Harry was embarrassed and furtive and tried to leave the room but I
called him back. I tried, "Yes, we have no bananas, we have no bananas
today," and Lily, the largest of the dogs, became angry at the others
who looked away intimidated. I tried something religious, "The Old
Rugged Cross," to no particular response except that Mary leapt up
at the biscuit box in irritation. I realized decisively that dogs don't care
about music and religion and thus have written up this report. This
scarcely makes me the Father of the A-bomb, I thought as I flung the
contents of the full box of biscuits around the room with the dogs
scrambling wildly on the hard maple floor. Let there be happy chaos.
(Poem: "Science" by Jim Harrison from Saving Daylight. Copper Canyon Press.)
Beginning this -- is life.
Happy chaos -- at end.
We muddle through middle way.
Interim joy.
Hic, haec, hoc.
I like that a Zen master when asked for a definition of truth that would still be true in 500 years said, "Truth -- is just like this." We often stumble on "this" and prefer rather "that." Is "this" too near? Is this too intimate? Is this all there is?
Annie was confirmed and took communion officially as a Catholic yesterday. I told Sam he was a CBA now -- Catholic by association -- as he looked at me, warily shaking my hand, waiting for some release from tight pew and unusual Sunday morning, as I hug his long-time associate.
As soon as you arouse aspiration for enlightenment, even if you transmigrate in the six realms and four forms of birth, transmigration itself will be your practice of enlightenment. Although you may have wasted time so far, you should vow immediately, before this present life ends: "Together with all sentient beings, may I hear the true dharma from this birth on throughout future births."
When you hear the true dharma, do not doubt or distrust it. When you encounter the true dharma, relinquish ordinary affairs and uphold the buddha-dharma. Thus you realize the way together with the great earth and all sentient beings. This vow is the ground for genuine aspiration. Do not slacken in this determination.
- Dogen (1200-1253)
We read Shantideva at table during practice last evening -- about exchanging self with others. He writes:
But what need is there to say more?
The childish work for their own benefit,
The Buddhas work for the benefit of others.
Just look at the difference between them!
(In "Guide to the Bodhisattva's Way of Life," Shantideva)
There is no "own benefit" but this -- and "this" belongs to others as oneself. What we do, ever and anywhere, is for everyone. This is what "this" means -- this is who, this is what, we are.
My heart was sore, my being was troubled --
I was a fool, I knew nothing;
I was like a dumb beast before you.
But still I stay with you:
you hold my right hand.
You lead me according to your counsel,
until you raise me up in glory.
For who else is for me, in heaven?
On earth, I want nothing when I am with you.
My flesh and heart are failing,
but it is God that I love:
God is my portion for ever.
(from Psalm 73)
God-Life, behind and beyond what is, is this moment all there is.
And we -- we will not be content with what is not true.
Science
It was one of those mornings utterly distorted by the night's dreams.
Why go to court to change my name to Gaspar de la Nuit in order to
avoid thinking of myself as a silly, fat old man? At midmorning I
looked at the dogs as possibilities for something different in my life.
I was dogsitting both daughters' dogs plus our own: Lily, Grace, Pearl,
Harry, Rose and Mary. I shook the biscuit box and they assembled in
the living room on a very cold windy morning when no one wanted
to go outside except for a quick pee and a bark at the mailman. I sang,
"He's got the whole world in his hands," as they waited for their snack.
Harry was embarrassed and furtive and tried to leave the room but I
called him back. I tried, "Yes, we have no bananas, we have no bananas
today," and Lily, the largest of the dogs, became angry at the others
who looked away intimidated. I tried something religious, "The Old
Rugged Cross," to no particular response except that Mary leapt up
at the biscuit box in irritation. I realized decisively that dogs don't care
about music and religion and thus have written up this report. This
scarcely makes me the Father of the A-bomb, I thought as I flung the
contents of the full box of biscuits around the room with the dogs
scrambling wildly on the hard maple floor. Let there be happy chaos.
(Poem: "Science" by Jim Harrison from Saving Daylight. Copper Canyon Press.)
Beginning this -- is life.
Happy chaos -- at end.
We muddle through middle way.
Interim joy.
Hic, haec, hoc.
Sunday, May 07, 2006
Sitting on footbridge over brook, afternoon sun tumbling between stone-wash, the sweet openness of just watching.
What is sitting meditation? To remove ourselves from all external distractions and quiet the mind is called "sitting." To observe the inner nature in perfect calmness is called "meditation."
- Hui-neng
Cat in cabin dreaming sounds in wall on white blanket at southeasterly floor window to stone wall. Dog under shrub by barn where wood-horse stands ankle deep in sawdust.
praise god, though he's no place in any
praise god, though he's no place in any
astronomic seating plan,
sing still his might for still he can
wreak havoc on the race of man.
----he still can shrug the earth a bit
----to make your standing towers sit
----and quite destroy your joules and volts
----with mediocre thunder-bolts.
----he still can tear your towns apart
----while his surrealistic art
----grows grass where hitler's moustache grows
----and ferns from hirohito's toes
----fills frank sinatra's mouth with ashes
----and springs a toad from garbo's lashes
----and with some slight celestial mayhem
----destroys the shrines of martha graham
----and porter cole and coward noel
----and splits the earth from pole to pole,
----or with some ray you haven't found
----sink dante's hell-shaft under-ground.
sing still his might for still he can
wreak havoc on the race of man.
(Poem: "praise god, though he's no place in any" by Robert Lax from Tertium Quid. Stride.)
Man says he doesn't need God any longer -- not for destruction, thank you -- that is easily done with our imitation of willful arrogance and mindless disconnection so rife in failure of feeling and compassion. When our foot hurts does the hand say "What's it to me?"
We are of a piece. I find it consoling to posit that we each feel one another's pain, one another's joy. But, in an odd acrobatic deflection, we make up reasons why not to engage the reality before us. Our natural communication is immediate empathy. The unnatural distancing and separation we fabricate is a result of invented reasons why to not attend to what is actually felt.
There's not much need to know prayers. When someone wishes to pray, ask them how they pray. When we long to pray, ask the spirit of prayer how to pray. Their revelation in our presence is prayer. Our realization of their presence is when prayer becomes gift.
Presence is the prayer of God. Even the experience of absence is prayer.
No place in any.
Place itself.
Veilless.
What is sitting meditation? To remove ourselves from all external distractions and quiet the mind is called "sitting." To observe the inner nature in perfect calmness is called "meditation."
- Hui-neng
Cat in cabin dreaming sounds in wall on white blanket at southeasterly floor window to stone wall. Dog under shrub by barn where wood-horse stands ankle deep in sawdust.
praise god, though he's no place in any
praise god, though he's no place in any
astronomic seating plan,
sing still his might for still he can
wreak havoc on the race of man.
----he still can shrug the earth a bit
----to make your standing towers sit
----and quite destroy your joules and volts
----with mediocre thunder-bolts.
----he still can tear your towns apart
----while his surrealistic art
----grows grass where hitler's moustache grows
----and ferns from hirohito's toes
----fills frank sinatra's mouth with ashes
----and springs a toad from garbo's lashes
----and with some slight celestial mayhem
----destroys the shrines of martha graham
----and porter cole and coward noel
----and splits the earth from pole to pole,
----or with some ray you haven't found
----sink dante's hell-shaft under-ground.
sing still his might for still he can
wreak havoc on the race of man.
(Poem: "praise god, though he's no place in any" by Robert Lax from Tertium Quid. Stride.)
Man says he doesn't need God any longer -- not for destruction, thank you -- that is easily done with our imitation of willful arrogance and mindless disconnection so rife in failure of feeling and compassion. When our foot hurts does the hand say "What's it to me?"
We are of a piece. I find it consoling to posit that we each feel one another's pain, one another's joy. But, in an odd acrobatic deflection, we make up reasons why not to engage the reality before us. Our natural communication is immediate empathy. The unnatural distancing and separation we fabricate is a result of invented reasons why to not attend to what is actually felt.
There's not much need to know prayers. When someone wishes to pray, ask them how they pray. When we long to pray, ask the spirit of prayer how to pray. Their revelation in our presence is prayer. Our realization of their presence is when prayer becomes gift.
Presence is the prayer of God. Even the experience of absence is prayer.
No place in any.
Place itself.
Veilless.
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