Saturday, May 31, 2014
Thursday, May 29, 2014
Isn't the moon dark too,
most of the time?
And doesn't the white page
without the dark stain
When God demanded light,
he didn't banish darkness.
Instead he invented
ebony and crows
and that small mole
on your left cheekbone.
Or did you mean to ask
"Why are you sad so often?"
Ask the moon.
Ask what it has witnessed.
Tuesday, May 27, 2014
Your natural self is a balanced self; it is a healthy self. Allow yourselves to understand that a preoccupation with being healthy can sometimes be an indication of holding on to a belief of disease. The self that is balanced does not think about the idea of trying to be healthy.
You do not have to try to be healed; you do not have to try to heal others. All you need do is go to your center. You do not have to “try” to go to your center; your center is who you really are. All you have to do is allow yourself to be who you are. Healing is allowing, not making, not trying, not forcing; it is allowing. You have to “try” to be away from your center. You do not have to “try” to go back to your center. Just let go; relax the expectations. Relax the resistance and you automatically glide smoothly back into center.
These ideas and suggestions can work for each and every one of you, wherever and whenever you choose to use them. Trust that your sparkling creative imagination will create the changes that are reflective of the unique individual you happen to be. Let your imagination unfold and transform these suggestions in whatever way, shape or form feels best to you. Do not resist your natural self.
Monday, May 26, 2014
The trees are coming into leaf
Like something almost being said;
The recent buds relax and spread,
Their greenness is a kind of grief.
Is it that they are born again
And we grow old? No, they die too,
Their yearly trick of looking new
Is written down in rings of grain.
Yet still the unresting castles thresh
In full grown thickness every May.
Last year is dead, they seem to say,
Begin afresh, afresh, afresh.
Sunday, May 25, 2014
When I die choose a star
and name it after me
that you may know
I have not abandoned
or forgotten you.
You were such a star to me,
following you through birth
and childhood, my hand
in your hand.When I die
choose a star and name it
after me so that I may shine
down on you, until you join
me in darkness and silence
Against the Evidence: Selected Poems 1934-1994
Saturday, May 24, 2014
For a seed to achieve its greatest expression, it must come completely undone. The shell cracks, its insides come out and everything changes.To someone who doesn’t understand growth, it would look like complete destruction.
Friday, May 23, 2014
Wrongly do the Greeks suppose that aught begins or ceases to be;
for nothing comes into being or is destroyed;
but all is an aggregation or secretion of pre-existing things
so that all becoming might more correctly be called becoming mixed, and all corruption, becoming separate.
circa 450 B.C.
Thursday, May 22, 2014
To live each day as if it might be the last
Is an injunction that Marcus Aurelius
Inscribes in his journal to remind himself
That he, too, however privileged, is mortal,
That whatever bounty is destined to reach him
Has reached him already, many times.
But if you take his maxim too literally
And devote your mornings to tinkering with your will,
Your afternoons and evenings to saying farewell
To friends and family, you’ll come to regret it.
Soon your lawyer won’t fit you into his schedule.Soon your dear ones will hide in a closetWhen they hear your heavy step on the porch.And then your house will slide into disrepair.
If this is my last day, you’ll say to yourself,Why waste time sealing drafts in the window framesOr cleaning gutters or patching the driveway?
If you don’t want your heirs to curse the dayYou first opened Marcus’s journals,Take him simply to mean you should find an hourEach day to pay a debt or forgive one,Or write a letter of thanks or apology.
No shame in leaving behind some evidenceYou were hoping to live beyond the moment.
No shame in a ticket to a concert seven months off,Or, better yet, two tickets, as if you were hopingTo meet by then someone who’d love to join you,Two seats near the front so you catch each note.
Thursday, May 15, 2014
I have a lot of things to teach you now, in case we ever meet, concerning the message that was transmitted to me under a pine tree in North Carolina on a cold winter moonlit night. It said that Nothing Ever Happened, so don't worry.
It's all like a dream. Everything is ecstasy, inside. We just don't know it because of our thinking-minds. But in our true blissful essence of mind is known that everything is alright forever and forever and forever.
Close your eyes, let your hands and nerve-ends drop, stop breathing for 3 seconds, listen to the silence inside the illusion of the world, and you will remember the lesson you forgot, which was taught in immense milky ways of cloudy innumerable worlds long ago and not even at all.
It is all one vast awakened thing. I call it the golden eternity. It is perfect. We were never really born, we will never really die. It has nothing to do with the imaginary idea of a personal self, other selves, many selves everywhere, or one universal self. Self is only an idea, a mortal idea.
That which passes through everything, is one thing. It's a dream already ended. There's nothing to be afraid of and nothing to be glad about. I know this from staring at mountains months on end. They never show any expression, they are like empty space. Do you think the emptiness of space will ever crumble away? Mountains will crumble, but the emptiness of space, which is the one universal essence of mind, the one vast awakenerhood, empty and awake, will never crumble away because it was never born.
The world you see is just a movie in your mind.
Your eternal old man,
The Portable Jack Kerouac
Wednesday, May 14, 2014
There is another way to enter an apple:
a worm’s way.
The small, round door
closes behind her. The world
and all its necessities
ripen around her like a room.
In the sweet marrow of a bone,
the maggot does not remember
of the mother, the green
shine of her body, nor even
the last breath of the dying deer.
I, too, have forgotten
how I came here, breathing
this sweet wind, drinking rain,
encased by the limits
of what I can imagine
and by a husk of stars.
Tuesday, May 13, 2014
You have wakened not out of sleep,
but into a prior dream,
and that dream lies within another, and so on,
to infinity, which is the number of grains of sand.The path that you are to take is endless,
and you will die before you have truly awakened.
–Jorge Luis Borges
Monday, May 12, 2014
Saturday, May 10, 2014
Creatures rise and creatures vanish;
I alone am real, Arjuna,
looking out, amused, from deep
Within the eyes of every creature.
I am the object of all knowledge,
Father of the world, its mother,
Source of all things, of impure and
Pure, of holiness and horror.
I am the goal, the root, the witness,
Home and refuge, dearest friend,
Creation and annihilation,
Everlasting seed and treasure.
I am the radiance of the sun, I
Open or withhold the rainclouds,
I am Immortality and
Death, am being and non-being.
I am the Self, Arjuna, seated
in the heart of every creature.
I am the origin, the middle,
And the end that all must come to.
–The Bhagavad Gita
Stephen Mitchell translation
Friday, May 9, 2014
Thursday, May 8, 2014
When the heartIs cut or cracked or brokenDo not clutch itLet the wound lie open
Let the wind
From the good old sea blow in
To bathe the wound with salt
And let it stingLet a stray dog lick it
Let a bird lean in the hole and sing
A simple song like a tiny bell
And let it ring
Wednesday, May 7, 2014
Tuesday, May 6, 2014
Where sunless rivers weep
Their waves into the deep,
She sleeps a charmed sleep:
Awake her not.
Led by a single star,
She came from very far
To seek where shadows are
Her pleasant lot.
She left the rosy morn,
She left the fields of corn,
For twilight cold and lorn
And water springs.
Through sleep, as through a veil,
She sees the sky look pale,
And hears the nightingale
That sadly sings.
Rest, rest, a perfect rest
Shed over brow and breast;
Her face is toward the west,
The purple land.
She cannot see the grain
Ripening on hill and plain;
She cannot feel the rain
Upon her hand.
Rest, rest, for evermore
Upon a mossy shore;
Rest, rest at the heart’s core
Till time shall cease:
Sleep that no pain shall wake;
Night that no morn shall break
Till joy shall overtake
Her perfect peace.
Sunday, May 4, 2014
Saturday, May 3, 2014
The gods envy us. They envy us because we’re mortal, because any moment may be our last. Everything is more beautiful because we’re doomed.
You will never be lovelier than you are now.
We will never be here again.
Friday, May 2, 2014
Horseback on Sunday morning,
harvest over, we taste persimmon
and wild grape, sharp sweet
of summer's end. In time's maze
over the fall fields, we name names
that went west from here, names
that rest on graves. We open
a persimmon seed to find the tree
that stands in promise,
pale, in the seed's marrow.
Geese appear high over us,
pass, and the sky closes. Abandon,
as in love or sleep, holds
them to their way, clear,
in the ancient faith: what we need
is here. And we pray, not
for new earth or heaven, but to be
quiet in heart, and in eye
clear. What we need is here.