On the death of the Beloved

by John O'Donohue

Though we need to weep your loss,

You dwell in that safe place in our hearts,
Where no storm or might or pain can reach you.

Your love was like the dawn
Brightening over our lives
Awakening beneath the dark
A further adventure of colour.

The sound of your voice
Found for us
A new music
That brightened everything.

Whatever you enfolded in your gaze
Quickened in the joy of its being;
You placed smiles like flowers
On the altar of the heart.
Your mind always sparkled
With wonder at things.

Though your days here were brief,
Your spirit was live, awake, complete.

We look towards each other no longer
From the old distance of our names;
Now you dwell inside the rhythm of breath,
As close to us as we are to ourselves.

Though we cannot see you with outward eyes,
We know our soul's gaze is upon your face,
Smiling back at us from within everything
To which we bring our best refinement.

Let us not look for you only in memory,
Where we would grow lonely without you.
You would want us to find you in presence,
Beside us when beauty brightens,
When kindness glows
And music echoes eternal tones.

When orchids brighten the earth,
Darkest winter has turned to spring;
May this dark grief flower with hope
In every heart that loves you.

May you continue to inspire us:

To enter each day with a generous heart.
To serve the call of courage and love
Until we see your beautiful face again
In that land where there is no more separation,
Where all tears will be wiped from our mind,
And where we will never lose you again.

The Celestial Fire

Now an angel of the Lord appeared to Moses in a blazing fire --

a fire that devours fire;
a fire that burns in things dry and moist;
a fire that glows amid snow and ice;
a fire that is like a crouching lion;
a fire that reveals itself in many forms;
a fire that is, and never expires;
a fire that shines and roars;
a fire that blazes and sparkles;
a fire that flies in a storm wind;
a fire that burns without wood;
a fire that renews itself every day;
a fire that is not fanned by fire;
a fire that billows like palm branches;
a fire whose sparks are flashes of lightning;
a fire black as a raven;
a fire, curled, like the colours of the rainbow!

--Yannai

I am going on a picnic and I am not bringing Halloween.  I would love to kick Halloween and it's sweet bucket ass back out on the sidewalk. Why? It's personal.

Honoring the dead is a Beautiful tradition; a promising meditation; a Divine worship; a ceremonious Dance with the Spirits! Whether we think about it or not, Death awaits us-- buzzing patiently on the windowsill of Consciousness. Because it is that time of year, I invite the souls of my beloved to pass into the present moment. Of course, they don't really need an invitation; the come with the ease of dew and arrest the tender spaces of the body-mind. *There really is no travel to do all! It's are here now!* But anyways, at night I dream of my past Hebrew names and in the morning I can feel my Grandma rubbing the marrow in my left forearm.

This year I left the candy of my porch.  While my porch light illumines the young kids who don't even bother to dress up anymore (and take the entire stash to dump into their 'Whole Foods' bag), I sit inside by candlelight. In this womb I contemplate my inner-light. This year, I choose to not be taken by another hungry ghost, to not disconnect: Evolve, not dissolve. Tonight the veils are so thin that I would like a clear lens to see with!

Perhaps we might teach out children to never wear a mask, never hide in cloaks, never assume the posture of a wilted flower. Help our friends to WAKE UP and let the sugar coated leaves dissolve...

Please don't get me wrong--I like treats really I do! But I am desperately learning that Moderation is God. Halloween is like a national billboard that reads: 

"Grab a pixie stick and just snort diabetes strait into your brains!" "Don't honor the inevitable....go on and grasp and get..."

I'd like to see a billboard that says:

"Contemplate the Impermanence of it all!
Meanwhile...
May our Bodies be Cherished!"

Ithaca

When you set out on your journey to Ithaca,
pray that the road is long,
full of adventure, full of knowledge.
The Lestrygonians and the Cyclops,
the angry Poseidon -- do not fear them:
You will never find such as these on your path,
if your thoughts remain lofty, if a fine
emotion touches your spirit and your body.
The Lestrygonians and the Cyclops,
the fierce Poseidon you will never encounter,
if you do not carry them within your soul,
if your soul does not set them up before you.

Pray that the road is long.
That the summer mornings are many, when,
with such pleasure, with such joy
you will enter ports seen for the first time;
stop at Phoenician markets,
and purchase fine merchandise,
mother-of-pearl and coral, amber, and ebony,
and sensual perfumes of all kinds,
as many sensual perfumes as you can;
visit many Egyptian cities,
to learn and learn from scholars.

Always keep Ithaca on your mind.
To arrive there is your ultimate goal.
But do not hurry the voyage at all.
It is better to let it last for many years;
and to anchor at the island when you are old,
rich with all you have gained on the way,
not expecting that Ithaca will offer you riches.

Ithaca has given you the beautiful voyage.
Without her you would have never set out on the road.
She has nothing more to give you.

And if you find her poor, Ithaca has not deceived you.
Wise as you have become, with so much experience,
you must already have understood what these Ithacas mean.

Constantine P. Cavafy 

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  Don't seek, don't search, don't ask, don't knock, don't demand - relax. If you relax, it comes. If you relax, it is there. If you relax, you start vibrating with it.

Osho

Imagine the brain, that shiny mound of being, that mouse-gray parliament of cells, that dream factory, that petit tyrant inside a ball of bone, that huddle of neurons calling all the plays, that little everywhere, that fickle pleasuredome, that wrinkled wardrobe of selves stuffed into the skull like too many clothes in a gym bag.

-Diane Ackerman

According to Dzogchen, the entire range of all possible appearances, and all possible phenomena in all the different realities, whether samsara or nirvana, all of these without exception have always been and will always be perfect and complete, within the vast and boundless expanse of the nature of mind. Yet, even though the essence of everything is empty and "pure from the very beginning," its nature is rich in noble qualities, pregnant with every possibility, a limitless, incessantly and dynamically creative field that is always spontaneously perfect.

अन्तोनिया मचाडो

I
The eye you see is not
an eye because you see it;
it is an eye because it sees you.

II
To talk with someone,
ask a question first,
then -- listen.

III
Narcissism
is an ugly fault,
and now it's a boring fault too.

IV
But look in your mirror for the other one,
the other one who walks by your side.

V
Between living and dreaming
there is a third thing.
Guess it.

VI
This Narcissus of ours
can't see his face in the mirror
because he has become the mirror.

VII
New century? Still
firing up the same forge?
Is the water still going along in its bed?

VIII
Every instant is Still.

IX
The sun in Aries. My window
is open to the cool air.
Oh the sound of the water far off!
The evening awakens the river.

On Resurrection Day, the sun and moon are released from service:
and the eye beholds the Source of their radiance,
then it discerns the permanent possession from the loan,
and this passing caravan from the abiding home.
If for a while a wet nurse is needed,
Mother, quickly return us to your breast.
I don't want a nurse; my Mother is more fair.
I am like Moses whose nurse and Mother were the very same।

Rumi

The drop dies in the river
of its joy
pain goes so far it cures itself

in the spring after the heavy rain the cloud
disappears
that was nothing but tears

in the spring the mirror turns green
holding a miracle
Change the shining wind

the rose led us to our eyes

let whatever is be open

-Mirza Ghalib

The spirit of poetry came to me and said
"You poor thing. You don't know how to listen.
Listen to me.
Listen."

When I began to listen to poetry is when I began to listen to stones,
and I began to listen to what the clouds had to say,
and I began to listen to others.

And what is most important for all of us, is to learn to listen to the soul,
the soul of yourself,
in here,
but which is also the soul of everyone else.

- The Native American poet Joy Harjo on PBS

God Pursues Me Everywhere
God pursues me everywhere, Enmeshes me in glances, And blinds my sightless back like flaming sun. God, like a forest dense, pursues me. My lips are ever tender, mute, so amazed, So like a child lost in an ancient sacred grove. God pursues me like a silent shudder. I wish for tranquility and rest -- He urges; come! And see -- how visions walk like the homeless on the streets. My thoughts walk about like a vagrant mystery -- Walks through the world's long corridor. At times I see God's featureless face hovering over me. God pursues me in the streetcars and cafes Every shining apple is my crystal sphere to see How mysteries are born and vision came to be. - from "Human, God's Ineffable Name," by Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel, freely rendered by Rabbi Zalman M. Schacter-Shalomi. Available from the Reb Zalman Legacy Project

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops,
Weakened by my soulful cries?

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own backyard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.

Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.

-Maya Angelou

The Moment

And not once,
but many times over,
again and again,
how we disappeared
into that deep well
of darkness, shuddering beneath that load of silence,
clinging to our narrow ledge.

Yet the darkness, sometimes,
unfolded as light.
Our atoms dissolved in it,
each separate molecule opening
into a radiant disk of feeling.

How still we became,
witness and thing seen,
spectacle and observer,
each point admitting an untrammeled flood.

~Dorothy Walters

The Ocean cannot stay alone
and so the notion of wave is created.
When waves rise Ocean loses nothing
and when waves fall Ocean gains nothing.
Samsara, the illusion, Maya, the play,
is the wave on the Ocean of Nirvana.

Waves are not separate from the Ocean,
rays are not separate from the Sun,
You are not separate from
Existence-Consciousness-Bliss.
This is a reflection of That.


Sri H. W. L. Poonja: author of This

Pablo Neruda:

Too Many Names
Mondays are meshed with Tuesdays and the week with the whole year. Time cannot be cut with your weary scissors, and all the names of the day are washed out by the waters of night. No one can claim the name of Pedro, nobody is Rosa or Maria, all of us are dust or sand, all of us are rain under rain. They have spoken to me of Venezuelas, of Chiles and of Paraguays; I have no idea what they are saying. I know only the skin of the earth and I know it is without a name. When I lived amongst the roots they pleased me more than flowers did, and when I spoke to a stone it rang like a bell. It is so long, the spring which goes on all winter. Time lost its shoes. A year is four centuries. When I sleep every night, what am I called or not called? And when I wake, who am I if I was not while I slept? This means to say that scarcely have we landed into life than we come as if new-born; let us not fill our mouths with so many faltering names, with so many sad formalities, with so many pompous letters, with so much of yours and mine, with so much of signing of papers. I have a mind to confuse things, unite them, bring them to birth, mix them up, undress them, until the light of the world has the oneness of the ocean, a generous, vast wholeness, a crepitant fragrance.

I came into the unknown

I came into the unknown
and stayed there unknowing
rising beyond all science.

I did not know the door
but when I found the way,
unknowing where I was,
I learned enormous things,
but what I felt I cannot say,
for I remained unknowing,
rising beyond all science.

It was the perfect realm
of holiness and peace.
In deepest solitude
I found the narrow way:
a secret giving such release
that I was stunned and stammering,
rising beyond all science.

I was so far inside,
so dazed and far away
my senses were released
from feelings of my own.
My mind had found a surer way:
a knowledge of unknowing,
rising beyond all science.

And he who does arrive
collapses as in sleep,
for all he knew before
now seems a lowly thing,
and so his knowledge grows so deep
that he remains unknowing,
rising beyond all science.

The higher he ascends
the darker is the wood;
it is the shadowy cloud
that clarified the night,
and so the one who understood
remains always unknowing,
rising beyond all science.

This knowledge by unknowing
is such a soaring force
that scholars argue long
but never leave the ground.
Their knowledge always fails the source:
to understand unknowing,
rising beyond all science.

This knowledge is supreme
crossing a blazing height;
though formal reason tries
it crumbles in the dark,
but one who would control the night
by knowledge of unknowing
will rise beyond all science.

And if you wish to hear:
the highest science leads
to an ecstatic feeling
of the most holy Being;
and from his mercy comes his deed:
to let us stay unknowing,
rising beyond all science.


John of the Cross

Once upon a time... the organs of the body like eyes, ears, limbs became jealous of the tongue, saying that they make all efforts for securing food, but the tongue enjoys this. They stopped working and never sent any food. Tongue is the one that tastes the food and passes only palatable items of food inside, which is converted by the internal organs into energy giving blood. The tongue does not retain it. But for this vital part played by the tongue, the other organs would not be able to function at all. When the other organs became jealous of the tongue and stopped sending food with a view to harm it, they spelt their own ruin by such action, as they could not function when there was no food and consequently no supply of energy for these organs to function. Similarly, jealousy on the part of a person ultimately results in his own ruin.

He who binds to himself a Joy,
Does the winged life destroy;
He who kisses the Joy as it flies,
Lives in Eternity's sunrise.

WILLIAM BLAKE