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5132#5132 - Unrealities, Bodhisattvas, Lorca poem, Touch by David Whyte

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  • Gloria Lee
    Jan 6, 2014
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      #5132 -  Unrealities, Bodhisattvas, Lorca poem, Touch by David Whyte
      Nonduality Highlights - Monday, January 6, 2014 - Editor: Gloria Lee
      see blog for images:
      Mind and body dropped off;
      dropped off mind and body!
      This state should be experienced by everyone;
      it is like piling fruit into a basket without a bottom,
      like pouring water into a bowl With a pierced hole;
      However much you may pile or pour you cannot fill it up.
      When this is realized the pail bottom is broken through.
      But while there is still a trace of conceptualizations
      which makes you say ‘I have this understanding’
      or ‘I have that realization’,
      you are still playing with unrealities.

      ~ Dogen Zenji
      via Tao & Zen on Facebook by Mary Byrne
      "A bodhisattva doesn't have to be perfect. Anyone who is
      aware of what is happening and who tries to wake up other
      people is a bodhisattva. We are all bodhisattvas, doing our
      ~ Thích Nhat Hanh
      Yaşar Koç Photography

      "Every morning I awake torn between a desire to save the
      world and an inclination to savor it. This makes it hard to plan
      the day. But if we forget to savor the world, what possible
      reason do we have for saving it? In a way, the savoring must
      come first."
      ~ E.B. White

      "Love has reached the seventh heaven.
      Before the mind can figure how
      Love has climbed the Holy Mountain.
      I must stop this talk now and let
      Love speak from its nest of silence."
      ~ Rumi

      Hour of Stars
      The round silence of night,
      one note on the stave
      of the infinite.
      Ripe with lost poems,
      I step naked into the street.
      The blackness riddled
      by the singing of crickets:
      that dead
      that musical light
      by the spirit.
      A thousand butterfly skeletons
      sleep within my walls.
      A wild crowd of young breezes
      over the river.
      - Federico García Lorca
      Image by Peter Shefler. (Moon reflected on the Milles River).

      is what we desire in one form or another, even if we find it
      through being alone, the agency of silence or the felt need
      to walk at a distance: the meeting with something or
      someone other than ourselves, the light brush of grass on
      the skin, the ruffling breeze, the actual touch of another’s
      hand; even an understanding we formally could not hold.
      Whether we touch only what we see or the mystery of what
      lies beneath the veil of what we see, we are made for
      unending meeting and exchange, while having to hold a
      coherent mind and body, physically or imaginatively, which
      in turn can be found and touched itself. We are something
      for the world to run up against and rub up against: through
      the trials of love, through pain, through happiness, through
      our simple everyday movement through the world.
      And the world touches us in many ways, some of which are
      violations of the body or our hopes for safety: through
      natural disaster, through heartbreak, through illness,
      through death itself. In the ancient world the touch of a
      God was seen as both a blessing and a violation, at the same
      time. Being alive in the world means being found by the
      world and sometimes touched to the core in ways we would
      rather not experience. Growing with our bodies, all of us
      find ourselves at one time violated or wounded by this
      world in difficult ways, and still we live and breathe in this
      touchable, sensual world, and through trauma, through grief,
      through recovery, we heal in order to be touched again in
      the right way, as the physical consecration of a mutual,
      trusted invitation.
      Nothing stops the body’s arrival in each new present,
      except death itself, which is intuited in all cultures as
      another, ultimate form of meeting. Nothing stops our ageing
      nor our witness to time, asking us again and again to be
      present to each different present, to be touchable and
      findable, to be one who is living up to the very fierce
      consequences of being bodily present in the world.
      To forge an untouchable, invulnerable identity is actually a
      sign of retreat from this world; of weakness, a sign of fear
      rather than strength and betrays a strange
      misunderstanding of an abiding, foundational and necessary
      reality: that untouched, we disappear.
      © - David Whyte from Readers' Circle Essay, ‘Touch’