Mar 22 2013
Use yourself up!
Use yourself up!
When you have spent yourself utterly
– that is the moment you seek.
Mar 18 2013
Li Po – The birds have vanished into the sky
The birds have vanished into the sky
by Li Po
English version by Sam Hamill
The birds have vanished into the sky,
and now the last cloud drains away.
We sit together, the mountain and me,
until only the mountain remains.
— from Endless River: Li Po and Tu Fu: A Friendship in Poetry, Translated by Sam Hamill
/ Photo by FelineShadowDancer /
We can read a lot into this poem, or very little.
One way to read Li Po’s poem is that the birds are like chattering thoughts. They represent the movement within the mind. But thoughts can soar so high, reach such elevated levels, that they vanish in the sky of mind.
The clouds might be understood as obstructions of awareness, limiting the perception of the untainted vast sky-mind. And, with the birds, clouds too “drain away” in deep stillness.
(Yet, even when clouds are thick and heavy, even when birds flit about in their busyness, the sky itself, original mind, contains it all and remains pure and untainted beyond the obstructions.)
The mountain is that which is eternal, fixed, both rooted in the earth and touching the heavens. Watching this “mountain” of eternal presence long enough, in deep stillness you find that you are nowhere to be seen. You are surprised to discover that everything you reflexively called “me” was never really there in the first place, and “only the mountain remains.” The “mountain” is finally recognized as your true Self, your only self, eternal. Effortlessly, you bridge heaven and earth by your very nature. And only That remains.
OR –
You can ignore all of that, and just step into the landscape.
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Li Po |
Mar 18 2013
without rush
Performed with attention, without rush,
with patience,
any single step can surprise you
and reveal your destination.
Mar 15 2013
Denise Levertov – The Fountain
The Fountain
by Denise Levertov
Don’t say, don’t say there is no water
to solace the dryness at our hearts.
I have seen
the fountain springing out of the rock wall
and you drinking there. And I too
before your eyes
found footholds and climbed
to drink the cool water.
The woman of that place, shading her eyes,
frowned as she watched — but not because
she grudged the water,
only because she was waiting
to see we drank our fill and were
refreshed.
Don’t say, don’t say there is no water.
That fountain is there among its scalloped
green and gray stones,
it is still there and always there
with its quiet song and strange power
to spring in us,
up and out through the rock.
— from Poems: 1960-1967, by Denise Levertov
/ Photo by Weaselmcfee /
Don’t say, don’t say there is no water
to solace the dryness at our hearts.
I have seen
the fountain springing out of the rock wall
and you drinking there. And I too…
The image of this fountain has such rich resonance.
The water and the “dryness at our hearts.”
Its water springing out of the rock wall.
Footholds allowing us to climb.
Drinking the cool water.
The “woman of that place,” waiting to make sure we drink our fill.
And Levertov’s exhortation, “Don’t say, don’t say there is no water.” That line, to me, is the pulsing heart of the poem. Those words follow you long after the rest of the poem softens into the gossamer of memory.
It is still there and always there…
it is still there and always there
with its quiet song and strange power
to spring in us…
Rather than try to offer my own understanding of this poem, I’ll just let these words work their wet alchemy, their “quiet song and strange power… to spring in us.”
Have a beautiful day!
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Denise Levertov
US (1923 – 1997) Timeline |
More poetry by Denise Levertov
Mar 13 2013
Omar Khayyam – And David’s Lips are lock’t
[6] And David’s Lips are lock’t; but in divine
by Omar Khayyam
English version by Edward FitzGerald
And David’s Lips are lock’t; but in divine
High piping Pehlevi, with “Wine! Wine! Wine!
“Red Wine!” — the Nightingale cries to the Rose
That yellow Cheek of hers to incarnadine.
— from The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, by Omar Khayyam / Translated by Edward FitzGerald
/ Photo by LutherHarkon /
“David’s Lips are lock’t” — saying nothing, except singing the praises of wine. I’ve spoken several times before of wine as a metaphor for bliss and the ‘celestial drink’ of divine communion…
The relationship of the nightingale to the rose is important in Middle Eastern love poetry, and it becomes elevated to sacred levels of meaning in the poetry of the Sufis.
The rose, with its wine-like scent and deep red color, is sometimes thought of as a more tangible embodiment of wine. More broadly, it is a symbol of the Beloved, of God. The rose unfolds in a gentle circling that invites one to yield inward. It is a symbol of lovers and of union. The rose resonates strongly with the gently awakened heart.
The rose grows from a bush of thorns yet reveals a delicate inner beauty and shares an intimate, sweet wine-like fragrance, symbolic of how the soul emerges from the tribulations of worldly difficulty and, in so doing, recognizes her innate beauty.
The nightingale, like a lover, sings its heartbreaking songs in the cool of the evening, in love with the beauty of the rose. In sacred poetry, then, the rose is God and the nightingale is the spiritual seeker who calls out in the night, like the devout in midnight prayers or zikr.
Reread that last phrase again: “the Nightingale cries to the Rose / That yellow Cheek of hers to incarnadine.” The most obvious way to read this is that nightingale with her yellow cheek calls out to the “incarnadine” red of the rose. But a possible alternate reading is that the yellow cheek is transformed, somehow taking on the “incarnadine” (blood-red, life-filled) color of the rose. Read this way, the more passionately the lover yearns for the Beloved, aches for the Beloved, calls out to the Beloved, the more the lover takes on the nature of the Beloved. In divine communion, we don’t merely touch the Eternal, we discover it emerging from within.
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Omar Khayyam
Iran/Persia (11th Century) Timeline |
Mar 08 2013
the way we look at the world
The way we look at the world
influences the way we are in the world.
Mar 08 2013
Stephen Levine – Trust Your Vision
Trust Your Vision
by Stephen Levine
Trust your vision
make it whole
hold it like the Navajo
his solemn desert oracle
in quest of shaman passage
gaining his healing chant
guiding him through life.
Hold the vision
constantly rising
it is the way nature works
through you
it is the only self
an everchanging underdream
a vision (if you see it)
up to you
to make real.
Act on your vision
and pray that you are blessed.
— from Breaking the Drought: Visions of Grace, by Stephen Levine
/ Photo by AlicePopkorn /
I found out last night that Michael Black, a good friend, died unexpectedly a few days ago. He was hit by a truck while walking along the side of a road.
Michael was a generous soul, a man of immense love and great heart. He was an environmental scientist, a lover of nature, and a visionary. The world is blessed by his journey through it.
According to his girlfriend, the last thing Michael wrote, on February 27, was a lovely meditation on death:
Death is neither something to be judged nor feared, but rather approached with compassionate dignity. The Arc of life is both fleeting and profound; our lessons stemming from being present all along the way. You are being invited to hold space for the living and the dead, for in their conscious re-union is an opportunity to return to celebrating the entirety of life, carrying forward accumulated lessons which, once acknowledged, cease being either “tears or breaks in the field of love.”
Sending love to Michael’s son, his girlfriend, and everyone who was lucky enough to know him.
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Stephen Levine
US (1937 – ) |
Mar 06 2013
Kahlil Gibran – Pain
Pain
by Kahlil Gibran
And a woman spoke, saying, Tell us of Pain.
And he said:
Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding.
Even as the stone of the fruit must break, that its heart may stand in the sun, so must you know pain.
And could you keep your heart in wonder at the daily miracles of your life, your pain would not seem less wondrous than your joy;
And you would accept the seasons of your heart, even as you have always accepted the seasons that pass over your fields.
And you would watch with serenity through the winters of your grief.
Much of your pain is self-chosen,
It is the bitter potion by which the physician within you heals your sick self.
Therefore trust the physician, and drink his remedy in silence and tranquility:
For his hand, though heavy and hard, is guided by the tender hand of the Unseen,
And the cup he brings, though it burn your lips, has been fashioned of the clay which the Potter has moistened with His own sacred tears.
— from The Prophet, by Kahlil Gibran
/ Photo by techn04life /
Monday’s poem sparked some fascinating discussions. Many of the notes and comments I received were responses to Rumi’s emphasis on suffering in that poem. Several people argued that suffering is not required for spiritual growth. Others found a certain comfort in the idea that suffering is part of the spiritual process, giving meaning to their own sometimes terrible struggles. So many wise, compassionate viewpoints.
I don’t want to suggest that I believe pain is necessary. I do believe, however, that suffering can be used. Difficult experiences can serve a profound purpose — when we approach them with awareness and with heart.
I would like to look at this question of suffering and spirituality from a slightly different angle today. What if the suffering is the suffering of the ego?
Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding.
When we believe that we are that ego, then we experience the ego’s suffering as pain. We take it personally, and fear it could lead to death and, worse, nonexistence.
But– when we carefully, elegantly free ourselves from the notion that we are the ego, not merely as a philosophical idea but as a directly experienced reality, then what does the suffering of the ego mean to us? What is the ego exactly? When we come to see the ego as nothing more than a phantom, a mental construction, then the suffering itself becomes phantom-like. It is more like the unfolding drama of a movie being watched. It can be intense, heart-breaking, occasionally beautiful, but we no longer experience it as personal. It is no longer seen as an attack on our being.
Suffering, from that perspective, is not about pain or loss of being; instead it is seen as a form of alchemical pressure. When we keep our awareness engaged, we can use suffering as a form of transformational intensity, turning the crushed grape into wine…
Let’s also keep in mind that mystics often use the language of pain to describe spiritual opening, often in a shockingly positive light. They may refer to a “sweet pain” or a “healing pain.” This “pain” has a few levels of meaning and types of experience.
On one level, the pain can be quite literal and even physical. But it might be more accurate to refer to this as “intensity” rather than “pain.” It can be as if the senses and the perceptual mind’s ability to process it all gets overloaded. The mystic then experiences a searing, cleansing sort of intensity, that might be called pain.
Through profound opening, one feels everything more completely, a sort of universal empathy. There is a lot of hidden suffering in the world and, at a certain point, we feel it as our own. (Actually, we always feel it anyway, but the walls of denial fall away, and we become aware of it for the first time.) In a directly sentient way, we become aware of the interconnectedness of life. Initially, that flood of feeling is intense, even painful, but that is the pain of the heart breaking open. It becomes a sort of wound one carries, but it resolves itself to a beauty and sense of unity that manages to integrate even the most terrible suffering.
Other mystics speak of a wounding in a more metaphorical sense. The pain experienced is the perception of one’s separation from God. But that pain itself is the doorway to reunion. By allowing oneself to become completely vulnerable to that pain, to surrender to it, the mystic finds the pain transformed into the blissful touch of the Beloved.
In the past, I’ve written–
Your most secret wound
is the doorway.
Ultimately, all of these forms of pain are the pain of the pierced ego. For one with inner balance, where the protective but limiting shell of the ego is no longer necessary, that pain points the way to freedom.
For this reason, mystics and saints describe the pain as being sweet or joyful or beautiful. It is, in fact, the beginning of bliss.
Sending much love to everyone!
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Kahlil Gibran
Lebanon/US (1883 – 1931) Timeline |
Mar 04 2013
Mevlana Jelaluddin Rumi – The grapes of my body
The grapes of my body can only become wine
by Mevlana Jelaluddin Rumi
English version by Andrew Harvey
The grapes of my body can only become wine
After the winemaker tramples me.
I surrender my spirit like grapes to his trampling
So my inmost heart can blaze and dance with joy.
Although the grapes go on weeping blood and sobbing
“I cannot bear any more anguish, any more cruelty”
The trampler stuffs cotton in his ears: “I am not working in ignorance
You can deny me if you want, you have every excuse,
But it is I who am the Master of this Work.
And when through my Passion you reach Perfection,
You will never be done praising my name.”
— from The Way of Passion: A Celebration of Rumi, by Andrew Harvey
/ Photo by Christ Potako /
This verse by Rumi says so much. Here he is telling us that the wine of the mystic is really the refined essence of oneself. It is formed from “the grapes of my body.” The wine is the juice emitted by the ego, the selfish, separate idea of the self when it finally surrenders and allows itself to be crushed into non-existence.
Of course, working toward that complete surrender can be terrifying… so long as we identify with the ego. There are times when the seeker calls out, “I cannot bear any more anguish, any more cruelty.” But the Winemaker, caring for us too much to let us remain comfortably incomplete, continues with the work, knowing the pure sweetness of completion.
When we finally free ourselves from identification with the ego-self and reverently place it as a sacrifice upon the wine press, we watch it collapse into nothing, the old “you” becomes nothing — it dies, but something new is born. From the death of the grape, the juice appears!
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Mevlana Jelaluddin Rumi
Afghanistan & Turkey (1207 – 1273) Timeline |
Feb 27 2013
the scariest people
The scariest people are those
who’ve grown tired of questions
and so brutalize the world with simplistic answers.
Feb 27 2013
Gharib Nawaz – Riddle
Riddle
by Gharib Nawaz
English version by Peter Lamborn Wilson and Nasrollah Pourjavady
Lord,
whose face is this
reflected in spirit’s mirror?
Such beauty painted
on the inner screen–
who is he?
Each atom
in all space
is filled…
Who transcends the galaxies,
shows himself in every molecule–
who is he?
Sun
in the costume
of various specks of dust
sparks forth various rays
of light at every moment–
who is he?
Outwardly
you appear in the meat
of our existence
but he who is hidden
in soul’s marrow–
who is he?
In soul’s fete
every now and again he sings
a new song, melodies of peace
touching the veils
of the people of the heart–
who is he?
He who manifests himself
upon himself
makes love to himself
in the name
of lovers–
who is he?
How many times, Mo’in
will you drag yourself and me
between us?
He, the goal of I and thou,
is there — right there!
Who is he?
— from The Drunken Universe: An Anthology of Persian Sufi Poetry, Translated by Peter Lamborn Wilson / Translated by Nasrollah Pourjavady
/ Photo by Lady Dragonfly /
A riddle for us today–
Lord,
whose face is this
reflected in spirit’s mirror?
Such beauty painted
on the inner screen–
who is he?
The thinking mind, every eager for praise, says this is an easy riddle. Clearly the poet is speaking of God.
Having answered, the mind believes it can then dismiss the question and move on to the next puzzle. But answering the puzzle is not the same thing as solving it.
We are speaking of the mystic’s grand mysteries here, not to be neatly tied up in a conceptual answer, but to be witnessed, experienced directly. We don’t answer this question, we participate in it, we give ourselves to it, and thus know.
Each atom
in all space
is filled…
Who transcends the galaxies,
shows himself in every molecule–
who is he?
There is a riddle within a riddle here. How is it that the immense Eternal, transcending the vast universe, can still be discovered within the smallest mote of creation?
How is it that the great Unity is still found at the heart of every atom of separated reality?
Sun
in the costume
of various specks of dust
sparks forth various rays
of light at every moment–
who is he?
How does the One Light divide itself into every ray and glimmer? How is the radiant measure of time found within time?
We look without and see a world, a universe, expanses beyond the mind’s comprehension. Small patterns join into great tapestries, multiplicities form a unified vision. And the One is all that and more.
Yet– when we look within, into the heart of the smallest grain or the mirror of one’s own soul, and instead of smallness, we again see expanses! How can the individual contain that which contains the stars? An impossibility! Yet the mystic sees it is so.
The intellect, having quickly answered its question, is content — and remains blind. But the full awareness, fully engaged, sees the full mystery, and in its awe is unable to answer.
He, the goal of I and thou,
is there — right there!
Who is he?
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Gharib Nawaz
Iran/Persia & India (1142? – 1236?) Timeline |
Feb 22 2013
Francis of Assisi – The Canticle of Brother Sun
The Canticle of Brother Sun
by Francis of Assisi
English version by Ivan M. Granger
My Lord most high, all-powerful, all-good,
Celebration, light, and all sweet blessings are yours,
yours alone.
No man speaks
who can speak your Name.
Praise to you, my Lord, and to all beings of your creation!
Praise especially to brother sun,
who fills the day with light
— through whom you shine!
Beautiful and bright, magnificent with splendor,
He shows us your Face.
Praise to my Lord for sister moon
and for the stars.
You have formed them in the firmament,
fine and rare and fair.
Praise to you, Lord, for brother wind,
for the air, for the clouds,
for fair days and every turn of weather
— through which you feed the world.
Praise to my Lord for sister water,
precious and pure, who selflessly serves all.
Praise to my Lord for brother fire,
through whom you fill the dark with light.
Lovely is he in his delight, mighty and strong.
Praise to my Lord for our sister, mother earth,
who nourishes us and surrounds us
in a world ripe with fruit, pregnant
with grassy fields,
spangled with flowers.
Praise to my Lord for those seeking your love,
who discover within themselves forgiveness,
rejecting neither frailty nor sorrow.
Enduring in serenity, they are blessed,
For they shall be crowned by your hand, Most High.
Praise to my Lord for our sister death,
the body’s death,
whom none avoid.
A great sadness for those who die having missed life’s mark;
Yet blessed they whose way
is your most holy will –
Having died once, the second death
does them no ill.
Sing praises!
Offer holy blessings to my Lord!
In gratitude, selflessly offer yourself to him.
/ Photo by rkramer62 /
St. Francis composed his masterpiece, the Canticle of Brother Sun, in three parts. The first part in praise of the beauty and holiness of nature as a reflection of the Divine, was written in the Spring of 1225, immediately after he received the stigmata during an extended meditation retreat among a group of caves.
The second section, the segment on forgiveness and peace, was composed soon after, perhaps in response to the squabbling of political and religious authorities in Assisi.
The final verses were written late the following year as St. Francis was dying, in which he seems to be greeting “sister death.”
This hymn is one of the first great works written in Italian. At the time, Latin was the language of the Church and of learning. Yet, as part of Francis’s humility and affinity with the common people, he composed this praise poem in simple Italian so all could be inspired by it.
Praise for brother sun and sister moon, for the living wind and water and fire and earth. Praise for love and peace, without which the living awareness collapses to barrenness. And praise to death, too, who, in the fulness of time, brings completion and life’s final initiation. Through this poem we witness the whole pageant of life as it expresses itself through us and all the world.
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Francis of Assisi |