 Rest in natural great peace Rest in natural great peace. NYOSHUL KHEN RINPOCHE | |
Friday, April 16, 2010
Sunday, April 04, 2010
When I walk beside her
i am the better man
when I look to leave her
I always stagger back again
once I built an ivory tower
so I could worship from above
and when I climbed down to be set free
she took me in again
there's a big
a big hard sun
beaten on the big people
in the big hard world
when she comes to greet me
she is mercy at my feet
when I see her pin her charm
she just throws it back again
once I sought an early grave
to find a better land
she just smiled and laughed at me
and took her blues back again
there's a big
a big hard sun
beaten on the big people
in the big hard world
when I go to cross that river
she is comfort by my side
when I try to understand
she just opens up her eyes
once I stood to lose her
when I saw what I had done
bound down and flew away the hours
of her garden and her sun
so I tried to warn her
I'll turn to see her weep
40 days and 40 nights
and it's still coming down on me
there's a big
a big hard sun
beaten on the big people
in the big hard world
-Eddie Vedder
i am the better man
when I look to leave her
I always stagger back again
once I built an ivory tower
so I could worship from above
and when I climbed down to be set free
she took me in again
there's a big
a big hard sun
beaten on the big people
in the big hard world
when she comes to greet me
she is mercy at my feet
when I see her pin her charm
she just throws it back again
once I sought an early grave
to find a better land
she just smiled and laughed at me
and took her blues back again
there's a big
a big hard sun
beaten on the big people
in the big hard world
when I go to cross that river
she is comfort by my side
when I try to understand
she just opens up her eyes
once I stood to lose her
when I saw what I had done
bound down and flew away the hours
of her garden and her sun
so I tried to warn her
I'll turn to see her weep
40 days and 40 nights
and it's still coming down on me
there's a big
a big hard sun
beaten on the big people
in the big hard world
-Eddie Vedder
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Fall in! Fall in!
Have you ever tried to enter the long black branches of other lives --
tried to imagine what the crisp fringes, full of honey, hanging
from the branches of the young locust trees, in early morning, feel like?
Do you think this world was only an entertainment for you?
Never to enter the sea and notice how the water divides
with perfect courtesy, to let you in!
Never to lie down on the grass, as though you were the grass!
Never to leap to the air as you open your wings over the dark acorn of your heart!
No wonder we hear, in your mournful voice, the complaint
that something is missing from your life!
Who can open the door who does not reach for the latch?
Who can travel the miles who does not put one foot
in front of the other, all attentive to what presents itself
continually?
Who will behold the inner chamber who has not observed
with admiration, even with rapture, the outer stone?
Well, there is time left --
fields everywhere invite you into them.
And who will care, who will chide you if you wander away
from wherever you are, to look for your soul?
Quickly, then, get up, put on your coat, leave your desk!
To put one's foot into the door of the grass, which is
the mystery, which is death as well as life, and
not be afraid!
To set one's foot in the door of death, and be overcome
with amazement!
To sit down in front of the weeds, and imagine
god the ten-fingered, sailing out of his house of straw,
nodding this way and that way, to the flowers of the
present hour,
to the song falling out of the mockingbird's pink mouth,
to the tippets of the honeysuckle, that have opened
in the night
To sit down, like a weed among weeds, and rustle in the wind!
Listen, are you breathing just a little, and calling it a life?
While the soul, after all, is only a window,
and the opening of the window no more difficult
than the wakening from a little sleep.
Only last week I went out among the thorns and said
to the wild roses:
deny me not, but suffer my devotion.
Then, all afternoon, I sat among them. Maybe
I even heard a curl or tow of music, damp and rouge red,
hurrying from their stubby buds, from their delicate watery bodies.
For how long will you continue to listen to those dark shouters,
caution and prudence?
Fall in! Fall in!
A woman standing in the weeds.
A small boat flounders in the deep waves, and what's coming next
is coming with its own heave and grace.
Meanwhile, once in a while, I have chanced, among the quick things,
upon the immutable.
What more could one ask?
And I would touch the faces of the daises,
and I would bow down
to think about it.
That was then, which hasn't ended yet.
Now the sun begins to swing down. Under the peach-light,
I cross the fields and the dunes, I follow the ocean's edge.
I climb, I backtrack.
I float.
I ramble my way home.
tried to imagine what the crisp fringes, full of honey, hanging
from the branches of the young locust trees, in early morning, feel like?
Do you think this world was only an entertainment for you?
Never to enter the sea and notice how the water divides
with perfect courtesy, to let you in!
Never to lie down on the grass, as though you were the grass!
Never to leap to the air as you open your wings over the dark acorn of your heart!
No wonder we hear, in your mournful voice, the complaint
that something is missing from your life!
Who can open the door who does not reach for the latch?
Who can travel the miles who does not put one foot
in front of the other, all attentive to what presents itself
continually?
Who will behold the inner chamber who has not observed
with admiration, even with rapture, the outer stone?
Well, there is time left --
fields everywhere invite you into them.
And who will care, who will chide you if you wander away
from wherever you are, to look for your soul?
Quickly, then, get up, put on your coat, leave your desk!
To put one's foot into the door of the grass, which is
the mystery, which is death as well as life, and
not be afraid!
To set one's foot in the door of death, and be overcome
with amazement!
To sit down in front of the weeds, and imagine
god the ten-fingered, sailing out of his house of straw,
nodding this way and that way, to the flowers of the
present hour,
to the song falling out of the mockingbird's pink mouth,
to the tippets of the honeysuckle, that have opened
in the night
To sit down, like a weed among weeds, and rustle in the wind!
Listen, are you breathing just a little, and calling it a life?
While the soul, after all, is only a window,
and the opening of the window no more difficult
than the wakening from a little sleep.
Only last week I went out among the thorns and said
to the wild roses:
deny me not, but suffer my devotion.
Then, all afternoon, I sat among them. Maybe
I even heard a curl or tow of music, damp and rouge red,
hurrying from their stubby buds, from their delicate watery bodies.
For how long will you continue to listen to those dark shouters,
caution and prudence?
Fall in! Fall in!
A woman standing in the weeds.
A small boat flounders in the deep waves, and what's coming next
is coming with its own heave and grace.
Meanwhile, once in a while, I have chanced, among the quick things,
upon the immutable.
What more could one ask?
And I would touch the faces of the daises,
and I would bow down
to think about it.
That was then, which hasn't ended yet.
Now the sun begins to swing down. Under the peach-light,
I cross the fields and the dunes, I follow the ocean's edge.
I climb, I backtrack.
I float.
I ramble my way home.
~Mary Oliver
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
The obliteration of your isolation
the complete explosion
of you fondest notion
This disintegration
is your elevation
It's a grand illusion, it's a grand illusion
You're crying,you're trying so hard now
You'll be laughing
a hundred thousand years
There is only one day
and tonight is the night
It's a grand illusion
The devastation of your separation,
the disillusion of
your constitution,
It's exhilaration,it's your liberation
It's a grand illusion,it's a grand illusion
You're crying,you're trying so hard now
You'll be laughing a hundred
thousand years
There is only one day
and tonight is the night
It's a grand illusion
-Joan Osborne, from her album Righteous Love
the complete explosion
of you fondest notion
This disintegration
is your elevation
It's a grand illusion, it's a grand illusion
You're crying,you're trying so hard now
You'll be laughing
a hundred thousand years
There is only one day
and tonight is the night
It's a grand illusion
The devastation of your separation,
the disillusion of
your constitution,
It's exhilaration,it's your liberation
It's a grand illusion,it's a grand illusion
You're crying,you're trying so hard now
You'll be laughing a hundred
thousand years
There is only one day
and tonight is the night
It's a grand illusion
-Joan Osborne, from her album Righteous Love
Monday, March 01, 2010
O sweet everlasting Voices, be still;
Go to the guards of the heavenly fold
And bid them wander obeying your will,
Flame under flame, till Time be no more;
Have you not heard that our hearts are old,
That you call in birds, in wind on the hill,
In shaken boughs, in tide on the shore?
O sweet everlasting Voices, be still.
Go to the guards of the heavenly fold
And bid them wander obeying your will,
Flame under flame, till Time be no more;
Have you not heard that our hearts are old,
That you call in birds, in wind on the hill,
In shaken boughs, in tide on the shore?
O sweet everlasting Voices, be still.
-W B Yeats
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
November 7, 1997
"New York City"
"I would like to throw caution into the wind and experience life fully in each moment. No longer postponing life, allowing for all the possibilities...Letting desire have its satisfaction. Seeing the true nature of wanting and inquiring deeply into the intention of each action. I am uncovering that which has been lying beneath the surface of awareness and beginning to see more clearly in the light of conscious living and the investigation of the deathless."
Noah Levine; Dharma Punx: A memoir
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Seeing a man who was tilling the earth,
a fool, unable to control himself, cried out,
"Why are you ruining this soil?"
"Fool," said the man, "leave me alone:
try to recognize the difference
between tending the soil and wasting it.
How will this soil become a rose garden
until it is disturbed and overturned?"
Rumi
Sunday, February 07, 2010
To know Tao
meditate
and still the mind.
Knowledge comes with perseverance.
The Way is neither full nor empty;
a modest and quiet nature understands this.
The empty vessel, the uncarved block;
nothing is more mysterious.
When enlightenment arrives
don't talk too much about it;
just live it in your own way.
With humility and depth, rewards come naturally.
The fragrance of blossoms soon passes;
the ripeness of fruit is gone in a twinkling.
Our time in this world is so short,
better to avoid regret:
Miss no opportunity to savor the ineffable.
Like a golden beacon signaling on a moonless night,
Tao guides our passage through this transitory realm.
In moments of darkness and pain
remember all is cyclical.
Sit quietly behind your wooden door:
Spring will come again.
meditate
and still the mind.
Knowledge comes with perseverance.
The Way is neither full nor empty;
a modest and quiet nature understands this.
The empty vessel, the uncarved block;
nothing is more mysterious.
When enlightenment arrives
don't talk too much about it;
just live it in your own way.
With humility and depth, rewards come naturally.
The fragrance of blossoms soon passes;
the ripeness of fruit is gone in a twinkling.
Our time in this world is so short,
better to avoid regret:
Miss no opportunity to savor the ineffable.
Like a golden beacon signaling on a moonless night,
Tao guides our passage through this transitory realm.
In moments of darkness and pain
remember all is cyclical.
Sit quietly behind your wooden door:
Spring will come again.
~Loy Ching-Yuen
Wednesday, February 03, 2010
~sogyal rinpoche~
 A wave in the sea, seen in one way, seems to have a distinct identity, an end and a beginning, a birth and a death. Seen in another way, the wave itself doesn't really exist but is just the behavior of water, "empty" of any separate identity but "full" of water. So when you really think about the wave, you come to realize that it is something that has been made temporarily possible by wind and water, and is dependent on a set of constantly changing circumstances. You also realize that every wave is related to every other wave. | ||
Thursday, January 28, 2010
— Marya Hornbacher (Wasted: A Memoir of Anorexia and Bulimia)
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Walt Whitman
Has anyone supposed it lucky to be born?
I hasten to inform him or her it is just as lucky to die, and I know it.
I pass death with the dying and birth with the new-washed babe, and am not contained between my hat and boots,
And peruse manifold objects, no two alike and everyone good,
The earth good and the stars good, and their adjuncts all good.
I am not an earth nor an adjunct of the earth,
I am the mate and companion of people, all just as immortal and fathomless as myself,
(They do not know how immortal, but I know.)
Every kind for itself and its own, for me mine male and female,
For me those that have been boys and that love women,
For me the man that is proud and feels how it stings to be slighted,
For me the sweetheart and the old maid, for me mothers and the mothers of mothers,
For me lips that have smiled, eyes that have shed tears,
For me children and the begetters of children.
Undrape! you are not guilty to me, nor stale nor discarded,
I see through the broadcloth and gingham whether or no,
And am around, tenacious, acquisitive, tireless, and cannot be shaken away.
I hasten to inform him or her it is just as lucky to die, and I know it.
I pass death with the dying and birth with the new-washed babe, and am not contained between my hat and boots,
And peruse manifold objects, no two alike and everyone good,
The earth good and the stars good, and their adjuncts all good.
I am not an earth nor an adjunct of the earth,
I am the mate and companion of people, all just as immortal and fathomless as myself,
(They do not know how immortal, but I know.)
Every kind for itself and its own, for me mine male and female,
For me those that have been boys and that love women,
For me the man that is proud and feels how it stings to be slighted,
For me the sweetheart and the old maid, for me mothers and the mothers of mothers,
For me lips that have smiled, eyes that have shed tears,
For me children and the begetters of children.
Undrape! you are not guilty to me, nor stale nor discarded,
I see through the broadcloth and gingham whether or no,
And am around, tenacious, acquisitive, tireless, and cannot be shaken away.
Tuesday, January 05, 2010
Umar Ibn al-Farid: from the Poem of the Sufi Way
| Whispering, then listening close from the vision of one casting away his all, instantly, out of an omnipotent hand. Thus I read the knowledge of the scholars in a single word, and I reveal all the worlds to me with a simple glance. I hear the many voices of those who pray in every tongue in a space of time shorter than a flash. And I bring before me what before had been too far away to bear, in a blink of my eye. I inhale the bouquet of gardens and the sweet scents clinging to the skirts of the four winds, in a simple breath. I survey the far horizons round me in a momentary thought, and cross the seven heavens with a single step. |
Monday, December 28, 2009
Friday, December 18, 2009
Little Tiger By Kelsang Gyatso (1708 - 1757)
The honey bee, a little tiger,
is not addicted to the taste of sugar;
his nature is to extract the juice
from the sweet lotus flower!
Dakinis, above, below, and on earth,
unimpeded by closeness and distance,
will surely extract the blissful essence
when the yogins bound by pledges gather.
The sun, the king of illumination,
is not inflated by self-importance;
by the karma of sentient beings,
it shines resplendent in the sky.
When the sun perfect in skill and wisdom
dawns in the sky of the illuminated mind,
without conceit, you beautify
and crown the beings of all three realms.
The smiling faces of the radiant moon
are not addicted to hide and seek;
by its relations with the sun,
the moon takes waning and waxing forms.
Though my gurus, embodiment of all refuge,
are free of all fluctuation and of faults,
through their flux-ridden karma the disciples perceive
that the guru's three secrets display all kinds of effulgence.
Constellations of stars adorning the sky
are not competing in a race of speed;
due to the force of energy's pull,
the twelve planets move clockwise with ease.
Guru, deity, and dakini -- my refuge --
though not partial toward the faithful,
unfailingly you appear to guard
those with fortunate karma blessed.
The white clouds hovering above on high
are not so light that they arise from nowhere;
it is the meeting of moisture and heat
that makes the patches of mist in the sky.
Those striving for good karma
are not greedy in self-interest;
by the meeting of good conditions
they become unrivaled as they rise higher.
The clear expanse of the autumn sky
is not engaged in the act of cleansing;
yet being devoid of all obscuration,
its pure vision bejewels the eyes.
The groundless sphere of all phenomena
is not created fresh by a discursive mind;
yet when the face of ever-presence is known,
all concreteness spontaneously fades away.
Rainbows radiating colors freely
are not obsessed by attractive costumes;
by the force of dependent conditions,
they appear distinct and clearly.
This vivid appearance of the external world,
though not a self-projected image,
through the play of fluctuating thought and mind,
appears as paintings of real things.
is not addicted to the taste of sugar;
his nature is to extract the juice
from the sweet lotus flower!
Dakinis, above, below, and on earth,
unimpeded by closeness and distance,
will surely extract the blissful essence
when the yogins bound by pledges gather.
The sun, the king of illumination,
is not inflated by self-importance;
by the karma of sentient beings,
it shines resplendent in the sky.
When the sun perfect in skill and wisdom
dawns in the sky of the illuminated mind,
without conceit, you beautify
and crown the beings of all three realms.
The smiling faces of the radiant moon
are not addicted to hide and seek;
by its relations with the sun,
the moon takes waning and waxing forms.
Though my gurus, embodiment of all refuge,
are free of all fluctuation and of faults,
through their flux-ridden karma the disciples perceive
that the guru's three secrets display all kinds of effulgence.
Constellations of stars adorning the sky
are not competing in a race of speed;
due to the force of energy's pull,
the twelve planets move clockwise with ease.
Guru, deity, and dakini -- my refuge --
though not partial toward the faithful,
unfailingly you appear to guard
those with fortunate karma blessed.
The white clouds hovering above on high
are not so light that they arise from nowhere;
it is the meeting of moisture and heat
that makes the patches of mist in the sky.
Those striving for good karma
are not greedy in self-interest;
by the meeting of good conditions
they become unrivaled as they rise higher.
The clear expanse of the autumn sky
is not engaged in the act of cleansing;
yet being devoid of all obscuration,
its pure vision bejewels the eyes.
The groundless sphere of all phenomena
is not created fresh by a discursive mind;
yet when the face of ever-presence is known,
all concreteness spontaneously fades away.
Rainbows radiating colors freely
are not obsessed by attractive costumes;
by the force of dependent conditions,
they appear distinct and clearly.
This vivid appearance of the external world,
though not a self-projected image,
through the play of fluctuating thought and mind,
appears as paintings of real things.
Friday, December 04, 2009
Sunday, November 29, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
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!
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
Sunday, November 01, 2009
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!"
Meanwhile...
May our Bodies be Cherished!"
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
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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