Aug 16 2017

Meng Hao-jan – Master I’s Chamber in the Ta-yu Temple

Published by under Poetry

Master I’s Chamber in the Ta-yu Temple
by Meng Hao-jan

English version by J. P. Seaton

I-Kung’s place to practice Ch’an:
a hut in an empty grove.

Outside the door, a single pretty peak.
Before the stair, deep valleys.

Sunset confused in footprints of the rain.
Blue of the void in the shade of the court.

Look, and see the lotus blossom’s purity:
know then that nothing taints this heart.

— from The Poetry of Zen: (Shambhala Library), Edited by Sam Hamill / Edited by J. P. Seaton


/ Image by toehk /

The first several lines of this poem paint for us serene, somewhat lonely images:

a meditation hut in an empty grove…
a mountain peak spied through the doorway…
stairs descending into valleys…
rain puddles reflecting the sunset…
space enclosed by a shaded court…

(By the way, isn’t that a wonderful phrase, “footprints of the rain”? As if the rain — or some spirit of the natural world — is walking toward us in reflections upon the earth…)

Besides the peace and stillness suggested by these images, what else do you notice? These are human spaces at the edge of the natural world… but there is no human presence here.

These are all images of meditation: harmony, simplicity, nature, and no agitated ego there to stir up the dust.

That last couple of lines–

Look, and see the lotus blossom’s purity:
know then that nothing taints this heart.

The purity of the lotus blossom is an important esoteric theme in the poetry of both Hinduism and Buddhism. Picture a lotus flower for a moment. The lotus rises through the murky waters of ponds and lakes yet, when it blooms, it floats upon the surface, its petals shining and untainted by the mud from which it emerged. In the scriptural language and sacred poetry of Hinduism and Buddhism, the lotus perfectly embodies the soul, rising up through the murkiness of worldly experience until it reaches the surface of the spiritual realm and blooms, vibrant and pure, free from all taint and attachment.

This is why Meng Hao-jan immediately follows his mention of the lotus blossom’s purity with his reference to the untainted heart. No matter what the heart experiences, loss, sorrow, suffering, disgrace, when it truly opens, it is surprisingly untouched. So much of life wounds. Who can deny it? Yet somehow the battered heart blossoms with such beauty and love, no hint of past hurts.

This untainted opening of the heart is not an emotion, not even something one works at. This is simply what happens. With meditation or prayer, the cultivation of inner quiet and generosity and humility, the heart surprises with its unexpected budding and blossoming. Just wait and watch.


Recommended Books: Meng Hao-jan

The Poetry of Zen: (Shambhala Library) Sunflower Splendor: Three Thousand Years of Chinese Poetry The Mountain Poems of Meng Hao-jan


Meng Hao-jan

China (689 – 740) Timeline
Buddhist : Zen / Chan

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Aug 16 2017

we learn to see

Through watching,
we learn to see.

No responses yet

Aug 16 2017

Charlottesville, White Supremecists, and the Cultural Mind

Most weeks paying attention to the news brings heartbreak for some part of the world. But I have been especially feeling the impact of the terrible actions and heightened emotions from the recent white supremecist rally in Charlottesville.

People of goodwill are rightfully horrified by the resurgence of blatant racism within the United States, but I have to say that I’m not as surprised as most. In the 1980s, when I was a teenager, I was aware, through reading materials by groups like the Southern Poverty Law Center, of just how intensely white supremecist groups were organizing and refashioning themselves to fit modern sensibilities. They have been playing a long-term strategy in the cultural shadows while searching for ways to move once again into the mainstream.

This racialized tendency is a deeply rooted, tenacious problem within the American cultural psyche. It requires real and sustained attention on a national level. And it needs honest explorations of our actual history beyond our cherished myths.

Partly what I’m saying is that this isn’t simply a question about what individuals will do — citizens, activists, police officers, government officials, extremists themselves — it is just as much a moment for the culture as a whole, to see how it responds. The culture is more than the mathematical sum of individual actions and ideas. It has a sort of life of its own. Each nation, each culture has its own character and personality, seeking to perpetuate itself and justify its existence. We might even say it has a path of spiritual growth along with challenges, both external and internal, to resolve. How it handles those challenges colors its character and journey as it moves forward through history.

We might view this moment, this period in our history as highlighted by Charlottesville, as a moment of testing the national character. How do we respond as individuals and, even more importantly, how do we respond as a nation, as a culture? Do we look deeply and deal with the real sickness, or do we act shocked and then turn away?

As individuals, we influence that cultural growth through our voices, our actions, our thoughts and, most importantly, through the energy we cultivate within the heart and radiate into the world.

Sending blessings and creative inspiration to the culture as a whole, as it seeks to navigate through its spiritual challenges.

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Aug 09 2017

Emily Dickinson – Always Mine!

Published by under Poetry

Always Mine!
by Emily Dickinson

Always Mine!
No more Vacation!
Term of Light this Day begun!
Failless as the fair rotation
Of the Seasons and the Sun.

Old the Grace, but new the Subjects —
Old, indeed, the East,
Yet upon His Purple Programme
Every Dawn, is first.

— from The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson, Edited by Thomas H. Johnson


/ Image by capt_tain Tom /

When I was first introduced to Emily Dickinson’s poetry as a teenager, I immediately responded to the power of her writing. Her short, staccato lines, words and phrases connected by dashes and strange punctuation. Statements filled with intensity, as if she can barely get the words out. But it wasn’t always clear to me what she was really saying.

It wasn’t until much later, re-reading her writing as an adult, that a light went off in my mind, and I realized that much of the commentary I had read of her poetry had missed the essential element of her poetry — that Emily Dickinson was, in fact, a mystic describing ecstatic states of awareness.

Don’t take my word for it, just consider the possibility. And then reread her poetry with that idea in mind.

This poem, for example. Why does she rapturously proclaim, “Always Mine!” Something or someone she had been passionately seeking is discovered to already belong to her, to have always been hers. There is “no more vacation,” no longer a sense of separation or distance. For her, it is as if a new day has begun, filled with light, as dependable as the seasons.

I especially respond to the line:

Old the Grace, but new the Subjects —

The sense of grace that fills her is “old,” ancient, familiar, as if it has always been there, yet she notices for the first time how it shines anew on everything. Everything is new when seen in this new light.

She expands on this with:

Old, indeed, the East,
Yet upon His Purple Programme
Every Dawn, is first.

The East, the direction of the sunrise, the direction of enlightenment, has always been there, yet amidst its royal purple majesty, every dawn is new and wondrous.

Re-reading this poem, does it seem like a lonely recluse’s breathless praise of the morning or perhaps a secret love, or is it genuinely ecstatic, describing an awareness that is profound and alive?


Recommended Books: Emily Dickinson

The Longing in Between: Sacred Poetry from Around the World (A Poetry Chaikhana Anthology) The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson Women in Praise of the Sacred: 43 Centuries of Spiritual Poetry by Women The Enlightened Heart: An Anthology of Sacred Poetry Saved by a Poem: The Transformative Power of Words
More Books >>


Emily Dickinson, Emily Dickinson poetry, Secular or Eclectic poetry Emily Dickinson

US (1830 – 1886) Timeline
Secular or Eclectic
Christian : Protestant

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4 responses so far

Aug 09 2017

expediency

Never accept the logic of expediency
over compassion.
We need a world that’s less efficient
and more humane.

2 responses so far

Aug 04 2017

Li Bai – You ask why I make my home in the mountain forest

Published by under Poetry

You ask why I make my home in the mountain forest
by Li Bai

English version by Sam Hamill

You ask why I make my home in the mountain forest,
and I smile, and am silent,
and even my soul remains quiet:
it lives in the other world
which no one owns.
The peach trees blossom,
The water flows.

— from Endless River: Li Po and Tu Fu: A Friendship in Poetry, Translated by Sam Hamill


/ Image by neil alejandro /

I thought I’d share a moment of peace…

I smile, and am silent,
and even my soul remains quiet…

These lines bring me to rest.

The mind at rest, the entire self at rest, all silt having settled, leaving only quiet clarity. One becomes empty, a spacious, silent witness to the world’s unfolding.

The peach trees blossom,
The water flows

Have a beautiful weekend!


Recommended Books: Li Bai

The Enlightened Heart: An Anthology of Sacred Poetry The Poetry of Zen: (Shambhala Library) Endless River: Li Po and Tu Fu: A Friendship in Poetry Li Pai: 200 Selected Poems A Feast of Lanterns
More Books >>


Li Bai, Li Bai poetry, Taoist poetry Li Bai

China (701 – 762) Timeline
Taoist

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3 responses so far

Aug 04 2017

in nature

Commune with nature.

But don’t go out and do something in nature.
Go out and let nature do something in you!

One response so far

Jul 28 2017

A. R. Ammons – Eyesight

Published by under Poetry

Eyesight
by A. R. Ammons

It was May before my
attention came
to spring and

my word I said
to the southern slopes
I’ve

missed it, it
came and went before
I got right to see:

don’t worry, said the mountain,
try the later northern slopes
or if

you can climb, climb
into spring: but
said the mountain

it’s not that way
with all things, some
that go are gone

— from Collected Poems: 1951 – 1971, by A. R. Ammons


/ Image by Warren Rohner /

I quite like the way this poem reminds us to pay attention, to be present.

It was May before my
attention came
to spring…

It is easy to get so busy with our lives that we miss life. Too much dedication to the minutia and the demands of each day can cause our peripheral vision to collapse. And then too often we miss the important stuff. We lose context and meaning. It is as if we go on a journey and then train ourselves to only stare down at our moving feet. Continuing this metaphor, we certainly can’t ignore our feet, particularly on difficult or uneven terrain. But if we don’t regularly look up we are more likely to lose our way… and the joy of the journey itself.

my word I said
to the southern slopes
I’ve

missed it, it
came and went before
I got right to see:

I love the poet’s phrase, that the spring came and went before he “got right to see.” Seeing is not simply a mechanical action, is it? It requires an inner readiness, a willingness to be open to the encounter of what is witnessed. We have to be receptive, and ready for surprise. We don’t just look, we have to get right to see.

don’t worry, said the mountain,
try the later northern slopes
or if

you can climb, climb
into spring…

I’m not sure if the meaning of this is obvious to everyone. In the natural world, seasonal patterns are cooler and move in reverse as we go away from the equator or higher in elevation. I live near the foothills of the Rocky Mountains in Colorado. If, like Ammons, May has come and I have forgotten to pause and appreciate spring — the wildflowers, the new grasses, the birdsong in the cool mornings — I can drive up into the mountains and find it all there waiting for me.

In other words, many of the things we were too preoccupied to recognize and appreciate at the right moment in life can still be found with a little “climbing,” a little effort, a change in perspective. If we missed it when it came to us, we can go to it.

…but
said the mountain

it’s not that way
with all things, some
that go are gone

But not all things are so. Some things, when they are gone, they are gone. We might say that this is closer to the greater truth, that all things, really, when they go are gone. Even an experience repeated is entirely new the second time. That first experience is gone. And, once experienced, that second experience is gone too.

This may sound tragic, but it is not really so. It is simply the nature of the flow of reality. Nothing is truly stable or repeatable. Everything, every encounter, every moment is entirely unique to itself. This is the blessing and the challenge of life. When we feel trapped in a sameness, we are simply not seeing. There is constant change and mystery unfolding within that apparent sameness.

The ephemeral, flowing nature of experience invites us to keep paying attention. Because that is what we truly have. We don’t “have” experiences. They can’t be grasped or held. We can catalog them, list them as part of our personal histories, but that doesn’t truly make them ours. All we truly have is our awareness of experiences as they pass through our lives. If our awareness isn’t engaged, then those experiences were never truly experienced.

So, yes, let’s climb the mountains to find the wildflowers, but better still not to miss them when they sprout in our own back yards.


Recommended Books: A. R. Ammons

Collected Poems: 1951 – 1971 Brink Road: Poems Selected Poems A Coast of Trees: Poems by A R Ammons Uplands: New Poems by A R Ammons
More Books >>


A. R. Ammons, A. R. Ammons poetry, Secular or Eclectic poetry A. R. Ammons

US (1926 – 2001) Timeline
Secular or Eclectic

More poetry by A. R. Ammons

3 responses so far

Jul 28 2017

real magic

Remember, real magic
is hidden,
hidden in the quiet moments.

One response so far

Jul 26 2017

Hafiz (Daniel Ladinsky) – The Great Religions

Published by under Poetry

The Great Religions
by Hafiz (Daniel Ladinsky)

The
Great religions are the
Ships,

Poets the life
Boats.

Every sane person I know has jumped
Overboard.

That is good for business
Isn’t it

Hafiz?

— from The Gift: Poems by Hafiz the Great Sufi Master, by Daniel Ladinsky


/ Image by Erik Hansen /

This is one of my favorite poems by Ladinsky. It winks knowingly at us, inviting us in on the joke. Without saying much, it suggests a lot about the relationship between formal ideas of religion, genuine insight, freedom, and the poetic impulse.

Ready, one, two, three — JUMP!


Recommended Books: Hafiz (Daniel Ladinsky)

The Gift: Poems by Hafiz the Great Sufi Master Love Poems from God: Twelve Sacred Voices from the East and West The Subject Tonight Is Love: 60 Wild and Sweet Poems of Hafiz I Heard God Laughing: Renderings of Hafiz


Hafiz (Daniel Ladinsky)

US (1945? – )
Muslim / Sufi

People sometimes wonder why I don’t feature more of Hafiz’s poetry from Daniel Ladinsky’s book, The Gift. They are such delightful, ecstatic, irreverent poems that have inspired so many people…

Ladinsky’s books put me in an awkward spot. I really like the poetry from Ladinsky’s books… but, well, they aren’t actually by Hafiz. His collection of poetry entitled The Gift: Poems by Hafiz the Great Sufi Master actually contains no lines of poetry written by the great Sufi poet Hafiz!

Daniel Ladinsky seems to acknowledge this in his introduction to the book, when he writes, “I feel my relationship to Hafiz defies all reason… I had an astounding dream in which I saw Hafiz as an Infinite Fountaining Sun (I saw him as God), who sang hundreds of lines of his poetry to me in English, asking me to give that message to ‘my artists and seekers.’”

You might say that Ladinsky’s poetry is “inspired by” Hafiz. Or, if you prefer a broader interpretation, you could say Ladinsky channels Hafiz. But his “translations” are not the historical writings of Hafiz. From the more limited scholar’s definition, these are poems by Daniel Ladinsky, not Hafiz.

So here’s what I do: I enjoy Ladinsky’s playful, profound poetry, but I look to other books to savor the historical poetry of Hafiz that Sufis and seekers have delighted in for centuries.

If you’d like to explore and compare them, here are some links to start with:

More of Ladinsky’s Hafiz
Historical Hafiz.

More poetry by Hafiz (Daniel Ladinsky)

4 responses so far

Jul 26 2017

not religion

Religion that does not inspire
outward compassion and inward awakening
is not religion.

One response so far

Jul 21 2017

Shabkar – The mind has neither color nor form

Published by under Poetry

The mind has neither color nor form
by Shabkar (Shabkar Tsogdruk Rangdrol)

English version by Matthieu Ricard

The mind has neither color nor form.
Search for it: it is nowhere.
Emptiness!

— from Rainbows Appear: Tibetan Poems of Shabkar, Translated by Matthieu Ricard


/ Image by Venu Gopal /

[Fair warning: I ramble on a bit here…]

Something in human instinct recoils from statements like this: “The mind is… nowhere.” It’s a reflex of psychic self-preservation. Consciously or unconsciously we assume that we are the mind. So to say that the mind is nowhere and to speak of emptiness feels like we are marching headlong into our own negation.

It’s especially fascinating to watch earnest seekers become mental contortionists, trying in such creative ways to integrate this notion into their worldview, while still rejecting it in their gut. The mind can perform some amazing acrobatics while trying to comprehend its own non-existence!

This gets down to fundamental ground in the process of spiritual awakening. Trying to accept this because a respected teacher or text has told you it is so will only carry you so far. You must investigate yourself.

Here’s one way to understand this: The mind must begin the search, but it cannot complete it. At a certain point the mind — well, aspects of the mind — are recognized as being a hindrance to full, clear perception. Then there is usually a long process of trying to figure out how to sidestep the mind. This leads only to limited success; we begin to conceive that we are not the mind, but we have no real idea how to get around this uncertain thing we call the mind.

Eventually we begin to wonder, What is the mind anyway? We begin to watch it, observe it’s thoughts and images and feelings. We question: Is that me? That thought, this collection of thoughts, are they somehow what I am? What part of me feels that feeling? That image hovering at the back of my awareness, did I conjure it? I see a thing and then I form a mental image of the thing and then I think about the mental image I’ve formed; do I ever really see a thing as it is? This constant flow of intangibles that endlessly occupies my awareness and populates the world I perceive, what is it all really, and what is my relationship to it?

This is not some heady, intellectual process. We don’t necessarily even formulate these questions into words. We just watch. Through watching, we grow quiet Through watching, we learn to see.

A curious thing begins to happen: We become more stable, while the mind dissipates. It’s not even really that the mind fades; its reality fades. We begin to see that the mind is not a sustained thing at all. It has no existence in and of itself. It is found to be like ripples upon the surface of a running stream, simply the result of movement. When the movement stops, the water remains, but the ripples are gone.

Awareness remains. You remain. You are, in truth, more yourself. But what you always thought you were is gone — nowhere. Imagine what that means; you stand there finally witnessing yourself and everything, but without the intervening disruption of your thoughts about your thoughts about your thoughts. Rather than a universe filled with an endless catalogue of objects and experiences, there is seen to be a single radiance. Because this deep level is free from “things,” we might call it Emptiness. But the life, and the presence, and the beauty we find is so immense that you’d never make the mistake of describing it as a negation; it is a summation.

So that impish mind, search for it. Laugh at its escapes and evasions. You’ll find you can’t find the mind. And you’ll find so much more.


Recommended Books: Shabkar (Shabkar Tsogdruk Rangdrol)

Songs of Spiritual Experience: Tibetan Buddhist Poems of Insight & Awakening Rainbows Appear: Tibetan Poems of Shabkar The Life of Shabkar: The Autobiography of a Tibetan Yogin Food of Bodhisattvas: Buddhist Teachings on Abstaining from Meat


Shabkar (Shabkar Tsogdruk Rangdrol), Shabkar (Shabkar Tsogdruk Rangdrol) poetry, Buddhist poetry Shabkar (Shabkar Tsogdruk Rangdrol)

Tibet (1781 – 1851) Timeline
Buddhist : Tibetan

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Jul 21 2017

We can choose

We can choose
the world we live in
and the way
we live in the world.

No responses yet

Jul 14 2017

Dariya Sahib of Bihar – The musk is within the deer

Published by under Poetry

The musk is within the deer
by Dariya Sahib of Bihar

English version by K. N. Upadhyaya

The musk is within the deer,
But he searches for it outside in the grass
      instead of searching within himself.
He runs back and forth,
Wondering where the fragrance comes from.
The fragrance is nearby,
But he knows it not.

Caught by delusion, he roams about.
So do all people wander in pilgrimages
      and outer observances.
If you wish to obtain your own true Home,
Then find it by looking within yourself
      and dwell therein.

The true Lord resides within this body,
Recognize Him through the manifestation of true love.
By churning this body,
And by entering within yourself,
See the manifestation of true wisdom.

— from Dariya Sahib: Saint of Bihar, Translated by K. N. Upadhyaya


/ Image by Alice Popkorn /

The musk is within the deer

Sant Dariya Sahib is giving us a delightful spiritual metaphor that unfolds in several layers of meaning.

Musk is the aromatic oil produced by certain species of deer. It was traditionally said to be an aphrodisiac and was once used in perfumes.

We have a deer, and he smells this enticing, otherworldly scent, and so he searches everywhere in the grass around himself, but he cannot find its source.

The fragrance is nearby,
But he knows it not.

Because, of course, the musk is within himself. He just has not recognized this fundamental truth about his own nature.

The deer is obviously all of us, spiritual seekers endlessly looking outside of ourselves for God, the Eternal, the True Self.

There is a sort of turnabout in Dariya’s use of the deer to represent the spiritual aspirant. Very often in spiritual writings, the deer, being an elusive creature of profound silence and gentleness and beauty, is used as a metaphor for the Divine Beloved. Representing the spiritual seeker as a deer who does not know his own divinity adds further irony to the metaphor.

But why speak of musk or perfume at all?

In addition to a nectar-like sweetness, many mystics experience a scent that can be rapturously overwhelming or tantalizingly subtle. This blissful scent can also be understood as the perfume worn by the Beloved that awakens sacred ardor upon the spiritual journey.

And, of course, perfume is scented oil, oil being the substance used to anoint and initiate.

If you wish to obtain your own true Home,
Then find it by looking within yourself
      and dwell therein.

But let’s not get too far away from the poet’s point: If we want to find our “true Home,” then we need to cease our constant outward focus and and simply, deeply look within.

I just want to point out that the one line — “By churning this body” — is intriguing to me. That sounds almost like an alchemical phrase. He is saying something about “churning” the body, like forming butter by agitating the milk. He seems to be suggesting some practice of working with the body, overturning it, cycling the awareness through the body and its energetic pathways perhaps, as a way to draw out the concentrated spiritual essence. An interesting detail to contemplate.

And by entering within yourself,
See the manifestation of true wisdom.


Recommended Books: Dariya Sahib of Bihar

Dariya Sahib: Saint of Bihar


Dariya Sahib of Bihar, Dariya Sahib of Bihar poetry, Sikh poetry Dariya Sahib of Bihar

India (1634 – 1780) Timeline
Sikh
Yoga / Hindu

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6 responses so far

Jul 14 2017

contact is worship

Every person: God.
Every animal, every plant: God.
Everything: God, God!
The slightest contact is worship.

No responses yet

Jul 12 2017

e. e. cummings – let it go

Published by under Poetry

let it go — the
by e. e. cummings

let it go — the
smashed word broken
open vow or
the oath cracked length
wise — let it go it
was sworn to
go

let them go — the
truthful liars and
the false fair friends
and the boths and
neithers — you must let them go they
were born
to go

let all go — the
big small middling
tall bigger really
the biggest and all
things — let all go
dear

so comes love

— from E.E. Cummings: Complete Poems 1904-1962, by e. e. cummings


/ Image by Mario Sánchez Nevado /

I apologize about my absence for the past couple of weeks. I had a dental crisis that led to a tooth extraction, which unexpectedly became dental surgery. I am recovering now and doing well.

It was quite an ordeal for more than a week leading up to the surgery, however. In a perverse way, it is fascinating to recognize just how much pain the body can be subjected to and what that experience is. When such sharp pain lasts for an extended period of time, over days, it is curious how our relationship to that pain can evolve and change. At first recognition of the discomfort, my instinct was to ignore it or shuffle it aside, hoping it would pass, not wanting to interrupt my rhythms and focus. Then when it became strong and undeniable, I had to reorder my sense of reality to acknowledge that it was an issue that was present and demanded attention and help. All too quickly the bravado crumbled and the desire to end the pain took over every thought.

But when pain medication only partially muted the pain and surgical relief was still days away, I realized that I had the option to either rage at the pain, tensing up and shutting down to fight my own senses, or I could do my best to relax, to accept the simple reality of its presence, to observe it, and to observe myself. Doing that, the pain started to become more fluid. It shifted out of “pain” and into a different sort of experience, something I might call “intensity.” For a a few days, that intensity became my worship, my meditation, my willing sacrifice.

But it was the actual surgery and the tooth extraction that prompted my selection of this poem. The tooth isn’t normally visible when I am talking or laughing, so its removal doesn’t have much social consequence. But it is a removal of a part of my body, a part that will never grow back. It can be replaced with a false tooth, sure, but the tooth itself, that part that was part of “me” is permanently gone. It is a partial death, if I want to look at it that way.

Of course, I don’t really believe that “I” am merely my body, nor is the loss of any part of that body an actual loss of self. But that’s easy to say or believe in an intellectual sense. Surgery forces me to prove it. It demands a deep examination of this belief. Do I truly relate to reality in this way, fully embodying it and living it from the inside out, or do I merely cultivate a facade in order to feel “spiritual”?

This was all encapsulated within the surgery itself — the intensity of physical sensation which held the potential to overwhelm my senses as pain, all the while thinking of that one tooth the dentist was working at. It had been a living part of my body for nearly the whole of my life. As part of my body, in some ways it had been part of me and I identified with it. Yet in a deeper sense it was more of an expression of me and my life energy, not truly me in my essence. I almost came to think of it as a companion along the journey. And it was time to let go.

That was my attitude during the surgery: Let go. With gratitude.

So many of our difficulties are caused by clinging to things and experiences when it is time for them to leave our lives. We cling to them because we identify with them. We believe they are somehow essential to who and what we are. We fear that without them, death or loss of self must result. Letting go, in the proper time, restores our balance and perspective. It reminds us that we are not those things and experiences, not even the body itself. It reminds us that even with loss and change, we ourselves remain — full of life and undiminished.

Let it go. With love. With gratitude.

This practice, enjoined on us by the impermanent nature of the world, reminds us of our eternal nature as we witness the pageantry and movement all about us.

— let all go
dear

so comes love


Recommended Books: e. e. cummings

E.E. Cummings: Complete Poems 1904-1962 73 Poems 1 x 1 [One Times One] 50 Poems 95 Poems
More Books >>


e. e. cummings, e. e. cummings poetry, Secular or Eclectic poetry e. e. cummings

US (1894 – 1962) Timeline
Secular or Eclectic

More poetry by e. e. cummings

4 responses so far

Jul 12 2017

Confusion to certainty

Confusion to certainty.
Certainty to disillusionment.
Disillusionment to understanding.

But wonder wipes the slate clean!

One response so far

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