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Sunday, April 7, 2002

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  • Gloria Lee
    . The Nondual Highlights The Best of the Internet s Nonduality Email Lists, Forums, Web sites, and More Editors: Jerry Katz, Gloria Lee, Christiana Duranczyk,
    Message 1 of 1 , Apr 8, 2002

      The Nondual Highlights
      The Best of the Internet's Nonduality Email Lists, Forums, Web sites, and More

      Editors: Jerry Katz, Gloria Lee, Christiana Duranczyk, Michael Read,
      John Metzger

      Highlights Issue # 1034

      Sunday, April 7, 2002

      Today's Highlights Compiled, Edited, and Designed
      Gloria Lee

      Search all editions of the Highlights: <http://nonduality.com/searchhl.htm>
      Highlights Home Page: <http://nonduality.com/hlhome.htm>


      VIORICA WEISSMAN        from MillionPaths

      Eckhart Tolle- learn to disidentify from your mind


      So the single most vital step on your journey toward
      enlightenment is this :  learn to disidentify from your mind.
      Every time you create a gap in the stream of mind ,
      the light of your consciousness grows stronger.

      One day you may catch yourself smiling at the voice
      in your head , as you would smile at the antics of a child.
      This means that you no longer take the content of your mind
      all that seriously ,  as your sense of self does not depend on it.


               taken from
               Eckhart Tolle , The Power of Now


      MAZIE LANE     from HarshaSatsangh

      wild bird weeping

      thinking this would be another message,
      a regular post, i just started to write,
      and then, i realized how personal,
      how deeply full of grace and prayer
      and love this story was.
      so i stopped and sat here,
      sat and couldn't say the thing,
      could not speak another single word.
      sat and asked myself why,
      why i felt the need to tell you everything about this.
      asked myself what could be the benefit
      or detriment to telling this, this
      entirely, so commonplace tale.

      it's been long enough now, a right time
      now for me to talk about the turkeys.
      it all seems so really nothing now.
      i'm glad i waited to rant on about this thing,
      waited to pry my head out the sky's lion mouth.
      bloody good thing, good and somewhat bloody thing,
      this changing our hearts for each other's everyday.
      two hearts getting caught in one place, one space,
      they seem to see things so much filled with awe,
      everything brings a blinding reverence,
      for everyone, for everything,
      for every moment now
      i see who you are.

      there were two wild turkeys walking across the meadow,
      right out in the bright wide-open daylight,
      an unbelievable, a real remarkable sight to see.
      so i watched as these creatures, these soulful,
      so full of some kind of beautiful god walking grace,
      these copper and beige kind of golden, creamy cream,
      and a silver hue, a sort of rust, a hint of blue,
      god my good friends, they were so many colors,
      their feathers were so sleek, so like lacquered light,
      it looked like one seamless god-garment on a god-being,
      and it was dancing like a strange and wonderful loveheart,
      my heart was the love and the thing of seeing these birds,
      i became so confused as to who was the bird and who the beauty
      and who the one ruffling the dust up under the feathers,
      and who did the sun-strutting thing, and the bits of grass,
      and the simple nodding and the such splendid most exquiste,
      the marvelous one who made manifest this delightful breast
      of breathing beauty to be these two turkeys of wild ways to be here.

      But the thing is this,
      they were very pretty,
      it was real nice,
      it was something to see,
      something not seen everyday,
      not by everyone.
      But even this is not such a big deal,
      its really a so-what, hohum,
      so what, but, the thing that changed this for me,
      made it something worth saying,
      was that as i watched these birds
      just being beautiful wild birds,
      suddenly, just like happened yesterday to me,

      i started to cry,
      i started to weep and cry
      and i could not stop,
      i could not get a grip,
      and i still sit here like a crazy crying fool,
      lost in a sea of weeping
      weeping for every single thing in the world
      forever. weeping for you
      weeping for me
      weeping for god
      and the neighbors
      and the deer-goats,
      and the rocks
      and the sky
      and the eyes that bore a hole in my heart.

      i just think that if i ever start crying
      like this again,
      with such love again,
      i wont be able to stop.


      VIORICA WEISSMAN     from HarshaSatsangh

      taken from:


      My Life and Quest
      By Arthur Osborne

      The following are extracts from the new publication, My Life and Quest, the autobiography of Arthur Osborne. The manuscript for this book was long buried among other writings and recently made available to Sri Ramanasramam for publication by his daughter, Katya Douglas. Copies are now available at Arunachala Ashrama (see page 7). [...]

      The mind is like a mill grinding the thoughts that we constantly feed into it in an unbroken though ever-changing flow. It doesn't care whether grave or trivial so long as it is kept constantly supplied. And at night, in dreams, it chews over the cud of what was supplied to it by day. Nearly all this activity is wasted energy. It prevents concentration and does not really clarify one's mind. And all of it is based on the very assumption one is trying to destroy, of an individual being who decides and acts. So I began instead to suspend thought, refusing to feed anything into the mill, retaining only pure consciousness - and, of course, observation of things happening. The mind was allowed to deal with anything requiring thought as and when it arose, but not prefigure it before it arose or re-enact it after it was finished. I was surprised how simple and what a relief this was and wondered why I had not started doing it systematically long before; and then it occurred to me that without a good deal of previous meditation it would not have been feasible. Until it has been brought well under control the mind abhors a vacuum.

      Therefore what has to be done is to submit, take life as it comes, let things happen, while at the same time striving to wake up from it all. As long as it is taken to be real, the dream cannot be recognised as one and therefore there is no awakening.

      LISA     on NondualitySalon,

      continuing "quoting" discussion

      I thought it had all been said before anyway...wish I could remember
      who said that?! Do you really think there are any original ideas out
      there? Maybe just one thought that has not been "thunk"? Who cares,
      what a wonderful dream...think a thought that has yet to be
      conceived...it could happen---not?

      Just thinking,


      Could well be the one that is being quoted, was in fact quoting
      someone else, who was quoting someone else....

      Where is that 'original man' does he exist?
      Call him Adam or God maybe?
      Sorry Goddess :-)

      Lots of original repeats are now showing :-)

      Quoting is Shakespearean  from 'coat'. I am coated by quotes.
      Also meaning to give evidence, one might see for instance that legally
      one could quote the bible as a guide to what was right or wrong. There
      being lots of bibles of course (non-dual ones maybe). Its called going
      by the book. Quotation mark, is to mark the place in the book, chapter
      and verse.

      "I rest my case"



      ...cloaked in gay raiment...

      dancing form

      weaving the Emperor's clothes,

      shaping an outline of nothingness

      with words.

      dreams within Dream.

      JOSEPH RILEY     on Hafiz list


      We are the guardians of His Beauty.

      We are the protectors
      Of the Sun.

      There is only one reason
      We have followed God into this world:

      To encourage laughter, freedom, dance
      And love.

      Let a noble cry inside of you speak to me

      Don't just sit there on the moon tonight
      Doing nothing -

      Help unfurl my heart into the Friend's Mind,
      Help, Old Man, to heal my wounded wings!"

      We are the companions of His Beauty
      We are the guardians
      Of Truth.

      Every man, plant and creature in Existence,
      Every woman, child, vein and note
      Is a servant of our Beloved -

      A harbinger of joy,
      The harbinger of


      Building my Zen Garden

      Below are the draft chapters of the book, with photographs of each stage of the construction. I will indicate below each chapter the most recent update. The text has been published as a book by Houghton Mifflin in the U.S.A. and is now available from booksellers across the galaxy.


      I also imagined a strip of about three feet in front of the fence where I would put a few patches of bamboo, growing through a covering of small stones. Why does one develop enthusiasms about things one knows nothing much about? Descriptions of black bamboo's ebony stems and rich green leaves made it sound romantically ideal. I should have attended a little more to what the books might have meant in calling it an "aggressive running variety". I faced two problems; first, finding some, and second, constraining it from taking over the city.

      Black bamboo was a problem to find--at stupendously varying prices. [more?]

      One has to contain its roots, or it will "run" rapidly and everywhere over the planet. Containment requires digging down about two feet or so, and then putting in a "water barrier"--a tough, flexible, impermeable plastic. I tried various nurseries in vain. I was directed to the one place in town that dealt in trees and everything to do with them.

      I phoned and got directions, across town in an area of industrial roads and factories. It had been raining, and stopped just before I arrived. I stepped carefully through the mud-riddled yard, avoiding pools and streamlets, and ducked past massive machinery. The place was macho and surly beyond the muscled fantasies of the lumberyards. I passed tattooed and hairy guys, who chewed trees for breakfast, pulling huge chains off spools, and slinging cables in the back of pick-ups. They disdained to look at anyone not dripping oil and mud. I entered the shop through a side door from a huge covered storage and service area, where some long-haired and even more muscled mechanics were clanging on some huge-wheeled tractor.

      The shop did little to change the ultra-macho impression of the tree fixing business. Most of what I could see piled on the floor and hanging randomly from walls seemed mainly designed for murdering trees rather than doing them good, with what seemed like a side-line in Hell's Angels' armaments. The floor was of broad dusty boards, that could have graced Dawson City in the gold rush days.

      "I'll be down in a moment!" A woman's muffled voice from above, German accented. It seemed unlikely she would have heard me over the cacophony from the service area outside. Perhaps she could see me through the cracks between the planks that formed the floor above. I anticipated a Teutonic wrestler, sporting as much facial hair as some of the guys outside.

      Down the wooden stairs came the unmistakable click of high-heels, and smiling a welcome was a young blond woman right out of one of those luxuriant fashion magazines. A light purple sweater--cashmere it looked like--with a neat skirt, and, I swear, a string of pearls.

      What could she help me with? I described my desire to have three patches of black bamboo, and my desire not to have them take off at a gallop across the neighborhood. Water barrier! She seemed disproportionately delighted, as though I was a valued ally in the battle against uncontrolled bamboo. It came 4' in width, of any length I wished.

      "I want to have three sets, each about three-feet long and maybe a foot and a half wide."

      "So, three-feet and six-feet is nine-feet each one. By three. You should buy fifty-feet. You always need more."

      She walked behind the plywood facing that blocked off the stairs, and came back a moment later wrestling with a mighty roll of deeply gleaming black plastic. Another woman came into the shop behind me.

      "Can I help?" I asked.

      "No, no. I can manage." I thought I shouldn't push the macho stuff in this setting, though the roll did seem not only awkward, slippery, and heavy, but to have a will of its own.

      "Jane come and help." Presumably the Jane who had just entered was not a customer. As I looked around, she took off her coat and dropped it on the handle of what I was later to learn was that miraculous tool, a Come-Along. Jane seemed to be a school-girl, or perhaps a student, wearing jeans, a sweater quite unlike the German's, and had the lank and unkempt hair of the guys outside.

      Jane held one end of the strong black plastic while the cashmere and pearls began to unroll it. It was very stiff, and unwilling to come off its roll without a struggle. As the German pulled the bulky roll, Jane found herself dragged sideways by the coiled force of the plastic. They had little room to work in, and each of them was bracing against the counter or the plywood wall to move it apart. Within minutes it seemed clear they were in a battle they weren't going to win easily. With about three feet unrolled, Jane was pulled forward and just stopped herself from falling, but her force toppled the precariously balanced roll till it thudded against the counter, the German woman hugging it and trying to pull it back.

      They started with a few shouts of surprise and outrage, which became splutters of giggling. Jane tried to help by pushing against her end, but went over into it, falling and pushing the plastic over with her. This helped spring the roll away from the counter in the German embrace, and she went down sprawled not entirely gracefully legs astride it. Both women tried to haul themselves up, hindered by the uncooperative plastic. They absolutely refused to accept any help, and were by this point in tears of laughter at their ungainly struggle.

      After some brutal minutes, in which the battle could have gone either way, they managed to work out a technique whereby Jane backed towards the Come-Along, pulling and dragging from side to side, while the German wobbled the roll while turning it, her pearls all the while clicking against the plastic. Once Jane had retreated to near the rear wall, the German began measuring, and put a piece of tape at the twenty-foot mark. Things became a bit nasty again, as Jane had now to roll up her end, while they simultaneously were trying to unwind it from the other end. By this time, laughter was seriously handicapping both women. But with heroic efforts, they managed somehow to get fifty-feet from the tight bail and roll it up in a carryable bundle. The German took up a utility cutter and sliced the roll from top to bottom with a deft wrist and the practiced ease of an Argentinean knife-fighter.

      I paid, thanked them heartily, and strode out into the yard with the water barrier under my arm. As I tiptoed my way back across the muddy yard's pools and streams, various of the tattooed and oiled workers nodded and smiled, a few "Good afternoons", and one wished me luck with the water barrier. Perhaps I had been the surly one going in, and the happier man who came out elicited a happier response.


      (from <http://www.educ.sfu.ca/people/faculty/kegan/JapangardenFence2.html>)


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