Personal myth
Ivan M. Granger January 30th, 2009
The ego is a personal myth,
a story we tell ourselves
about who we are.
That story can change, expand,
or grow silent.
Archive for January, 2009
Rabindranath Tagore - Thou hast made me endless (Gitanjali)
Ivan M. Granger January 30th, 2009
(1) Thou hast made me endless (from The Gitanjali)
by Rabindranath Tagore
English version by Rabindranath Tagore
Thou hast made me endless, such is thy pleasure. This frail vessel thou emptiest again and again, and fillest it ever with fresh life.
This little flute of a reed thou hast carried over hills and dales, and hast breathed through it melodies eternally new.
At the immortal touch of thy hands my little heart loses its limits in joy and gives birth to utterance ineffable.
Thy infinite gifts come to me only on these very small hands of mine. Ages pass, and still thou pourest, and still there is room to fill.
— from Gitanjali, by Rabindranath Tagore
/ Photo by particlem /
I’ve jotted down a few comments about this opening verse from Tagore’s Gitanjali, but you know what? Maybe you should just ignore what I have to say and reread the poem.
This frail vessel thou emptiest again and again, and fillest it ever with fresh life…
–
The great Rabindranath Tagore evokes for us something of the mystic’s experience.
There is the awareness of being endless, without any boundaries. You recognize yourself as being truly vast, beyond all limits of skin and thought.
You often feel yourself to be a “vessel,” a cup or a bowl that has been repeatedly emptied of everything and scrubbed clean, only to be filled with an entirely new sense of life and identity.
The metaphor of a reed or flute is a common one in sacred poetry. In Yogic terminology, he is speaking of the shushumna, the energetic channel associated with the spine, and the energy centers called chakras are the “holes” of the flute that allow its music to be tuned and modified. It is God’s warm breath that blows through us, animating us with the gift of consciousness. And something in us hums, producing an awareness of divine music.
The heart, along with the general sense of self, “loses its limits” and spreads itself open in an indescribable joy and love.
–
PS - Did it seem like a bumpy week to you too? I hope you survived without too many bruises…
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Rabindranath Tagore
India (1861 - 1941) Timeline |
Faith, Being, Knowing
Ivan M. Granger January 28th, 2009
Faith isn’t about knowing,
it’s about being
– then you know.
Marina Tsvetaeva - The gold that was my hair has turned
Ivan M. Granger January 28th, 2009
The gold that was my hair has turned
by Marina Tsvetaeva
English version by Paul Graves
The gold that was my hair has turned
silently to gray. Don’t pity me!
Everything’s been realized,
in my breast all’s blended and attuned.
– Attuned, as all of distance blends
In the smokestack moaning on the outskirts.
And Lord! A soul’s been realized:
The most deeply secret of your ends.
— from Women in Praise of the Sacred: 43 Centuries of Spiritual Poetry by Women, Edited by Jane Hirshfield
/ Photo by Petteri Sulonen /
Although Tsvetaeva’s poetry often has the feeling of struggling against the weight of life, there is also a glimpse of something transcendent.
In this poem, I love the line “in my breast all’s blended and attuned.” This is often how mystical union is experienced, as a stunning, all-inclusive wholeness that, though everywhere, is somehow centered in the heart.
But in Tsvetaeva’s troubled world, there is the odd juxtaposition of an inner wholeness that ironically emerges only in the soot of life: “–Attuned, as all of distance blends / In the smokestack moaning on the outskirts.”
Yet, Marina Tsvetaeva closes her poem with sacred recognition: “And Lord! A soul’s been realized: / The most deeply secret of your ends.”
Perhaps Marina Tsvetaeva is consciously experiencing a state of union or, perhaps, as with many poets, the feeling is unconsciously noted. This almost-awareness of union can sometimes have a suggestion of reality; it feels as if it should be there, as if it probably is there, even if it is not yet directly perceived. The experience of union is not truly an “experience” since it has no beginning or end point. It is going on always, eternally, within each of us — we just have to become still enough to recognize it. When that union hasn’t wrenched us fully into its heavenly realms, it is still with us, quietly whispering of its existence in the inner ear. Many individuals who haven’t had a full-blown mystical opening may still instinctively describe aspects of these states. It can filter through to the normal awareness when, as with many artists, one steps out of common mental patterning… and begins to listen to that whisper. And once you hear that quiet breath, who knows where it will lead you if you decide to follow it…
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Marina Tsvetaeva
Russia (1892 - 1941) Timeline |
Video & Music - Hendrix’s Little Wing… on Ukulele
Ivan M. Granger January 27th, 2009
“Little Wing” was always my favorite Jimi Hendrix song. There’s something so dream-like to its words and soft groove, but with the quiet growl of Hendrix’s guitar that threatens but never quite roars.
Well, this is not your typical version of Little Wing. Jason Arimoto (http://www.myspace.com/jasonarimoto) gives us a quiet, almost meditative version, but still just that hint of something bigger rumbling beneath the surface — and only playing ukulele. Give it a listen. You’ll be surprised. I guarantee a smile on your face.
Well she’s walking through the clouds
With a circus mind thats running round
Butterflies and zebras
And moonbeams and fairy tales
That’s all she ever thinks about
Riding with the wind.
When I’m sad, she comes to me
With a thousand smiles, she gives to me free
It’s alright she says it’s alright
Take anything you want from me, anything
Anything.
Fly on little wing,
Yeah yeah, yeah, little wing
Lover & Beloved - 2. The Song of Solomon
Ivan M. Granger January 26th, 2009
The song of songs, which is Solomon’s.
- Song of Solomon 1:1
/ Photo by big-ashb /
We won’t get very far in discussing the sacred language of lover and beloved within the Western traditions without referencing the biblical Song of Solomon, so let’s start there.
Virtually every Christian and Jewish love poem, sacred and secular, in some way hearkens back to the Song of Solomon. Continue Reading »
Love has no opposite
Ivan M. Granger January 26th, 2009
Love has no opposite.
Hate, fear, are not love’s opposites;
they are its denial.
Two Book Recommendations: The Joyous Soul and Turkish Sufis
Ivan M. Granger January 25th, 2009
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Quarreling with God: Mystic Rebel Poems of the Dervishes of Turkey Translated by Jennifer Ferraro / Translated by Latif Bolat |
This is an excellent sampling of poetry of Turkish Sufis, most of whom haven’t been translated into English until now. You’ll find a few poems by well-known figures, like Yunus Emre, but many other stunning works by names you’re less likely to have heard of, such as Ummi Sinan, Kul Himmet, Seyh Ibrahim Efendi, and Niyazi Misri. Recommended.
They say the Sufi way
is to give one’s life away.
The Sufi way is to become a sultan
on the throne of the soul.
In the station of the Path,
it is to destroy appearances.
In the station of Reality,
it is to become a guest
in the innermost palace of the heart…
- from The Sufi Way, by Seyh Ibrahim Efendi
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The Soul is Here for its Own Joy: Sacred Poems from Many Cultures Edited by Robert Bly |
Another good, wide-ranging selection of sacred poetry gathered by Robert Bly. Continue Reading »
The Divine Sea
Ivan M. Granger January 23rd, 2009
We are always floating in the Divine Sea.
All we must do
at any time
is drink!
Constantine P. Cavafy - The Great Yes
Ivan M. Granger January 23rd, 2009
The Great Yes
by Constantine P. Cavafy
English version by Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard
For some people the day comes
when they have to declare the great Yes
or the great No. It’s clear at once who has the Yes
ready within him; and saying it,
he goes from honor to honor, strong in his conviction.
He who refuses does not repent. Asked again,
he’d still say no. Yet that no–the right no–
drags him down all his life.
— from Nine Gates: Entering the Mind of Poetry, by Jane Hirshfield
/ Photo by erix! /
A reminder from the early 20th century Greek poet Constantine P. Cavafy to declare the great Yes!
Have a beautiful weekend…
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Constantine P. Cavafy
Egypt (1863 - 1933) Timeline |
Lover & Beloved - 1. Introduction
Ivan M. Granger January 21st, 2009
/ Photo by jurvetson /
It’s a new year. The winter weather has already turned surprisingly warm and sunny, hinting at spring. Valentine’s Day is on the horizon. It’s natural for thoughts to turn to love.
That flush of first infatuation. A glance, a smile, a turn of the head. Yearning, hope. Preparing yourself to attract the notice of that special someone. A shy invitation. Perhaps a secret tryst. Surrender. Sometimes sacrifice. Maybe the heartbreak of separation. Or maybe marriage.
These images have been the foundation of sacred writings long before they filled romance novels and pop songs.
It’s surprising when you first notice just how passionate sacred poetry is. At times it verges on the erotic. All this talk of lovers and longing…
Shaggy dog
Ivan M. Granger January 21st, 2009
Insight comes as the punchline
to a drawn-out shaggy dog story.
The answer is so obvious
it’s insulting — then you laugh.
Vibrating
Ivan M. Granger January 19th, 2009
When you can’t quiet the mind,
watch it busily vibrating.
Feel how it is hot.
Notice what it is and what it is not.
Maya Angelou - Touched by an Angel
Ivan M. Granger January 19th, 2009
Touched by an Angel
by Maya Angelou
We, unaccustomed to courage
exiles from delight
live coiled in shells of loneliness
until love leaves its high holy temple
and comes into our sight
to liberate us into life.
Love arrives
and in its train come ecstasies
old memories of pleasure
ancient histories of pain.
Yet if we are bold,
love strikes away the chains of fear
from our souls.
We are weaned from our timidity
In the flush of love’s light
we dare be brave
And suddenly we see
that love costs all we are
and will ever be.
Yet it is only love
which sets us free.
/ Photo by Steve Punter /
Something today by the great Maya Angelou in honor of the Rev. Martin Luther King’s birthday…
Yet if we are bold,
love strikes away the chains of fear
from our souls.
But to fully honor King’s legacy, remember the whole man, and not just the comfortable myth fed to us. Remember all his words and all he fought for. Culturally, we like to package Rev. King neatly into the role of activist for racial justice. He was that, profoundly. But King’s vision and heart expanded to encompass so much more. He saw clearly that racial injustice was also economic injustice, so he worked to create a society that cared for its poorest. He pointed out that a society that wasted its money on wars, had little left in it collective heart or pocketbook to help those in need, so he became a staunch anti-war activist.
King’s was an activism for the whole soul of the nation. When you hear one of his great speeches today, remember how far his words reverberated into all aspects of society.
And suddenly we see
that love costs all we are
and will ever be.
Yet it is only love
which sets us free.
Have a beautiful day!
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Maya Angelou
US (1928 - ) |
The Fire and the Ritual - A Visionary Experience of Healing
Ivan M. Granger January 17th, 2009
/ Photo by netlancer2006 /
A few weeks ago I wrote about a past life ‘memory’ from the American Civil War (Silent Guns). That post generated such strong interest that I thought I’d share another transformative experience I had at about the same time. But this is less easy to label. Is it a past life memory? A discussion with some part of my own psyche, or perhaps a spirit guide? Even I am not certain.
This was the early 1990s. At the time I was dating Michele, who would later become my wife. This particular night we got into an argument, first at a restaurant, and it spilled into the rest of the evening. We went back to her apartment, still arguing, when I started having difficulty breathing. I laid down on her living room floor, and Michele told me to breathe deeply from my belly.
I could hardly breathe. There was some sort of block in my chest. I struggled to inhale. My breath started to come in heavy sputters, half sobbed, half forced.
Then my breathing suddenly took on a life of its own. I wasn’t sure if I was pushing it or if it was pushing me. I wasn’t entirely in control of it. My breathing became deeper and more powerful, like a heavy bellows in my chest.
I grew hot. Heat built up in my feet. I started to take off my shoes, but I fumbled. I was having difficulty focusing on the laces. Michele removed my shoes for me.
The heat began to shoot up through my body in electric shivers. It was so strong that my body actually began to shake, and I couldn’t keep my legs still. I wasn’t aware of trying to move my legs, but they just started kicking out, as if they couldn’t be held to the ground. To someone else watching me, it would have looked like I was going into seizure. Continue Reading »
Ivan M. Granger - Twelve Ways to Lose Your Head on Maui
Ivan M. Granger January 16th, 2009
Twelve Ways to Lose Your Head on Maui
by Ivan M. Granger
I.
Piercing the clouds, fingers
of sunlight caress the valley floor.
The Iao Needle stands, its immense
quiet crushing.
II.
Staring blindly out the window,
no work getting done –
a stolen moment when silence
has stolen me.
III.
Reading, I shiver in the Upcountry chill.
Already old in the new year, the island
and I shiver
and grow still.
IV.
Baldwin Avenue meandering to Paia
beneath an empty sky,
cane fields
surge in the sun.
V.
At the altar: Breath
aglow in my throat.
Golden treacle pools
upon my heart.
VI.
The path to Twin Falls, dusty
between my toes. Ginger points
to the upper pool. Fallen guavas
float downstream.
VII.
Hana Highway, pausing
at each bridge to let traffic pass.
Around the bend –
endless ocean.
VIII.
Fasting on Saturday –
empty stomach, empty head.
Time spreads
into stillness.
IX.
Cinnamon-red and blue, a pheasant stares
through the window. Michele
calls me, whisper. I see them
see each other.
X.
In the cave among the eucalyptus
up Alae Road – a fine seat
for a city boy
playing sadhu.
XI.
In bursts of wingbeats
a cardinal darts by. The red
bird finds himself lost
among the red proteas.
XII.
The sun setting beyond
Ma’alaea Harbor. The golden ocean,
I see, drinks the tired eye in.
I am gone.
/ Photo by JoshBerglund19 /
For some reason I woke up this morning thinking of the handful of years I spent in Hawaii.
My wife and I moved to the island of Maui having never even visited the islands before, and my first impressions didn’t match my visions of a tropical paradise at all. We arrived just after the cane harvest, and half of the upcountry was just exposed red earth. Driving through the ramshackle surfer town of Paia for the first time, with red dust swirling around wood slat storefronts, it felt like we had arrived in the Australian outback.
But you know, over time, I really came to love the aina, the land of Hawaii. I wasn’t a beach dweller; my wife and I lived high up along the slopes of Haleakala Volcano, among the misty forests of eucalyptus and wattle. Every human structure was kind of run down, but there was something… normal about that. Even the trophy mansions hidden behind iron gates felt somehow temporary, just passing through on a slow current.
As I began to give in to the rhythms of life on the island, a quiet and ease settled into my body in a way I’d never known before.
It was too expensive to live there for long. And my wife, Michele, became severely allergic to a mold on the island that hit one winter. It was time to move back to the mainland.
But I still have visions of looking down the slope of Haleakala, all the way down to Ma’alaea Harbor, while the heavy golden sun sinks in glory beneath the horizon…
Malama pono!
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Ivan M. Granger
US (1969 - ) |
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