Sunday, June 10, 2018

letters from God























I have said that the soul is not more than the body,
And I have said that the body is not more than the soul,
And nothing, not God, is greater to one than one’s self is,
And whoever walks a furlong without sympathy walks to his
                            own funeral drest in his shroud,
And I or you pocketless of a dime may purchase the pick of
                            the earth,
And to glance with an eye or show a bean in its pod confounds
                            the learning of all times,
And there is no trade or employment but the young man
                            following it may become a hero,
And there is no object so soft but it makes a hub for the
                            wheel’d universe,
And I say to any man or woman, Let your soul stand cool and
                            composed before a million universes.


And I say to mankind, Be not curious about God,
For I who am curious about each am not curious about God,
(No array of terms can say how much I am at peace about
                            God and about death.)


I hear and behold God in every object, yet understand God not
                            in the least,
Nor do I understand who there can be more wonderful than
                            myself.


Why should I wish to see God better than this day?
I see something of God each hour of the twenty-four, and
                            each moment then,
In the faces of men and women I see God, and in my own
                            face in the glass,
I find letters from God dropt in the street, and every one is
                            sign’d by God’s name,
And I leave them where they are, for I know that wheresoe’er
                            I go
Others will punctually come for ever and ever.






Walt Whitman
Song of Myself, 48
photo:  Peter Bowers








Monday, June 4, 2018

Laughter



What is laughter? What is laughter?
It is God waking up!  O it is God waking up! 
It is the sun poking its sweet head out
From behind a cloud
You have been carrying too long,
Veiling your eyes and heart

It is Light breaking ground for a great Structure
That is your Real body - called Truth.

It is happiness applauding itself and then taking flight
To embrace everyone and everything in this world.

Laughter is the polestar
Held in the sky by our Beloved,
Who eternally says,

"Yes, dear ones, come this way,
Come this way toward Me and Love!

Come with your tender mouths moving
And your beautiful tongues conducting songs
And with your movements - your magic movements
Of hands and feet and glands and cells - Dancing! 


Know that to God's Eye, 
All movement is a Wondrous Language,
And Music - such exquisite, wild Music!"

O what is laughter, Hafiz?
What is this precious love and laughter
Budding in our hearts?

It is the glorious sound
Of a soul waking up! 





Hafiz
I Heard God Laughing 
Daniel Ladinsky
Photo:  Peter Bowers













Saturday, May 5, 2018

thus spake the heart-whisperer





Dear One –

– you will never be more at home
than in the ceaseless energy
of your body’s wild word

– you will never know purer peace
than in your blessed breathtide

– you will never find more happiness
than in this miracle-moment

– you will never find truer love
than in your own forgiving embrace

– you will never be more creative
than when you disappear

– you will never know life’s purpose
outside of simply living it

– you will never be more free
than before you contemplated freedom

– you will never be more awake
than within the quiet murmur
of your soft, animal, secret senses

– you will never find your self
apart from your changeless
inescapable
light of being






miriam louisa





Tuesday, April 10, 2018

The Climate of My Prayer


Our mentioning of the weather - our perfunctory observations on what kind of day it is - are perhaps not idle.  Perhaps we have a deep and legitimate need to know in our entire being what the day is like, to see it and feel it, to know how the sky is grey, paler in the south, with patches of blue in the southwest, with snow on the ground, the thermometer at 18, and cold wind making your ears ache.  I have a real need to know these things because I myself am part of the weather and part of the climate and part of the place, and a day in which I have not shared truly in all this is no day at all.  It is certainly part of my life of prayer.




Thomas Merton
A Year With Thomas Merton
Daily Meditations from His Journals






Tuesday, February 20, 2018

honesty


is reached through the doorway of grief and loss. Where we cannot go in our mind, our memory, or our body is where we cannot be straight with another, with the world, or with our self. The fear of loss, in one form or another, is the motivator behind all conscious and unconscious dishonesties: all of us are afraid of loss, in all its forms, all of us, at times, are haunted or overwhelmed by the possibility of a disappearance, and all of us therefore, are one short step away from dishonesty. Every human being dwells intimately close to a door of revelation they are afraid to pass through. Honesty lies in understanding our close and necessary relationship with not wanting to hear the truth.

The ability to speak the truth is as much the ability to describe what it is like to stand in trepidation at this door, as it is to actually go through it and become that beautifully honest spiritual warrior, equal to all circumstances, we would like to become. Honesty is not the revealing of some foundational truth that gives us power over life or another or even the self, but a robust incarnation into the unknown unfolding vulnerability of existence, where we acknowledge how powerless we feel, how little we actually know, how afraid we are of not knowing and how astonished we are by the generous measure of loss that is conferred upon even the most average life.

Honesty is grounded in humility and indeed in humiliation, and in admitting exactly where we are powerless. Honesty is not found in revealing the truth, but in understanding how deeply afraid of it we are. To become honest is in effect to become fully and robustly incarnated into powerlessness. Honesty allows us to live with not knowing. We do not know the full story, we do not know where we are in the story; we do not know who is at fault or who will carry the blame in the end. Honesty is not a weapon to keep loss and heartbreak at bay, honesty is the outer diagnostic of our ability to come to ground in reality, the hardest attainable ground of all, the place where we actually dwell, the living, breathing frontier where there is no realistic choice between gain or loss.






David Whyte
Consolations
The Solace, Nourishment and Underlying Meaning of Everyday Words
Photo:  Peter Bowers







Friday, December 22, 2017

in your heart




If in your heart you make
a manger for Love's birth,
Then God will once again
become a child on earth.







Angelus Silesius
Photo:  Peter Bowers




















Friday, December 8, 2017

Who is there to say this?


The true voice of what is
Does not need to speak
Because there is nothing else
Apart from it to listen.

Two men debating in a dream
However clever
Cannot come up with anything
The dreamer doesn't know already
Just as two lovers
Cannot better
Love

Without departing from itself
How can the one voice
Say its name?

Without dividing from itself
How can the undivided
See its face?

Mirrors and echoes alone
Are the world we call real -
But what we really are -
Who is there
To say this?





Kavita








Monday, December 4, 2017

mirror







 
...beauty is life when life unveils her holy face.
But you are life and you are the veil.
Beauty is eternity gazing at itself in a mirror.
But you are eternity and you are the mirror. 





Kahlil Gibran
Photo:  Peter Bowers






Sunday, December 3, 2017

Good Medicine



Unbelief is good medicine, undoing belief
     better:
all beings free to leave their being
     and enter silence.

The nameless tree with its forest
     of green,
the endless expanse called
     sky, beaks and

feathered wings with their urgent
     conversations;
all around, the light that sets the vital body
     to humming,

and the dark of re-creation:
     the world held for us in promise
until it is loosened from
     our thinking.





Andrew Colliver
with thanks:  Poetry Chaikhana
Photo:  Peter Bowers







Saturday, November 11, 2017

Small Ponds






















Small ponds freeze first,
in the beginning, with just a film
at sunrise you wouldn't even
notice and then a crust
that lasts till noon.  Now half-sunk slush
doesn't melt and the conspiracy of molecules
spreads to lakes.  In the stillness
of a single night, when one breath
of wind might make the difference
between water and ice, solid reaches in and in
and grasps the last ripple for its own.





Joan Ruvinsky
Photo:  Peter Bowers















Friday, October 20, 2017

In praise of silence


In praise of silence, the less said the better.

However.....let it be said that this is it.  Nothing fancy.  Nothing extraordinary.

The it that this is may be decorated differently moment to moment, now as the furnishings provided by the senses, now as the furnishings provided by the mind.  But the decorations themselves are simply hung on the invisible fabric of this that is all there is.

Perhaps keeping silence is better -  but it must be said that we LOVE the decorations - even to the exclusion of this that makes them visible.  Just the other day I was captivated by.....  And then there was.....   What is captivating now?

Perhaps the less said the better, so we become captivated by silence, ever present in spite of the words, in spite of the story, in spite of ourselves  - silence that interpenetrates all noise and its absence, all image, all sensation - silence that underlies not only the presence of content but the absence of content as well, even presence itself swallowed by silence.....

.....in praise of silence.  That's all.






Joan Ruvinsky
Photo:  Peter Bowers












Sunday, October 8, 2017

Thanking


I think as long as you are a human being
there is thanking, gratitude for being,
not for being human,
but for being
what you fundamentally are.
Thanking for the sake of thanking.





Jean Klein
Photo:  Peter Bowers