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Wednesday, October 16, 2002

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  • Jerry Katz
    [Image] A Question of Time, detail Acrylic/board, 20 x12¾ , 1993, by David Cheepin -- private collection, London, England
    Message 1 of 1 , Oct 17, 2002
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      A Question of Time, detail Acrylic/board, 20"x12¾", 1993, by David Cheepin
      -- private collection, London, England

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      #1229 - Wednesday, October 16, 2002 - Edited by Jerry

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      FARIZ from Nasrudin

      Intent

      Once an eminent philosopher asked: "Who are you?" The
      Mulla promptly replied: "I'm an itch in search of a
      scratch!"

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      BOB ROSE
      Meditation Society of America

      Sri Ramana Maharshi on Meditation

      Bhagavan Ramana: Seek the Self through meditation. In
      this manner, trace every thought back to its origin,
      which is only the mind. Never allow thought to run on.
      If you do, it will be unending. Take it back to its
      starting place, the mind, again and again, and it and
      the mind will both die of inaction. The mind exists only
      by reason of thought. Stop that and there is no mind. As
      each doubt and depression arises, ask yourself, "Who is
      it that doubts? What is it that is depressed?" Go back
      constantly to the question, "Who is the 'I'? Where is
      it?" Tear everything away until there is nothing but the
      Source of all left. And then - live always in the
      present and only in it. There is no past or future, save
      in the mind.

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      HARSHA
      from HarshaSatsangh

      Heaven according to James Taylor

      If it feels nice don't think twice. Just...

      Shower the people you love with love; Show them the way
      that you feel.

      Things are gonna work out fine, if you only will.

      Shower the people you love with love; Show them the way
      you feel.

      Things are gonna be much better if you only will.

      --James Taylor

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      Spring Tonic

      Clouds obscure the glory
      of your mornings, your pewter-plated
      afternoons, the fig trees of evening,
      alive with talkative birds.
      It's been this way forever and a day.
      This minute the air smells
      like slug-colored medicines
      you were given as a kid.
      Childhood ought to be light years
      behind you, but isn't. Which old
      terror or complaint seeps slow
      as resin through your veins,
      despite your gentle parents'
      best efforts to purge it?
      Your ragged spirit still flees you
      so frequently: a mongrel slinking out
      the dog-door of your mouth,
      anxious to tip over trash cans,
      chase vermin and get dirty
      before limping home. What made you
      furtive so early, amused only when horses
      broke loose in the park and trampled
      several church picnics,
      or on the morning after grandpa's
      citrus groves froze in an ice storm?
      Your mental weather's perpetually
      inclement, like those dank fogs
      once believed to be the breath
      of disease. Only a meteorologist
      could log your thoughts: sea smoke,
      coronas, buttermilk billows.

      This spring's uncertain currents
      waft you back to the past, where
      mother and father, huge painted
      saints wearing paper crowns,
      hold court in the dark, wielding
      red-tipped cigarettes like scepters.
      No one knew what was wrong with you.
      You were fed thick medicinal liquids
      whose sugary tinge failed
      to disguise their chemical agendas.
      Your tongue curled, a pink newborn
      marsupial, afraid of the taste
      of iron mixed with ink, or chalk thinned
      with motor oil, or greasy silt left
      in the pan after mother fried liver.
      Weren't those potions meant
      to cure everything: your sullenness
      and tyrannical attachments;
      your refusals to eat or speak;
      and most of all the terrible religions
      you kept inventing, which left you
      hollow and rigid as some insect's
      shed exoskeleton, ever meditating
      on what it would be like
      after you died and your body
      turned into a worm farm? No other
      thoughts fit into your head.
      During those sickened nights
      and glazed days, you never imagined
      your metamorphosis (a word
      you wouldn't learn for years)
      might transform you into something
      less like mom's teaming compost heap--
      and more enduring and bright,
      like diamond.
      --Amy Gerstler

      A Non-Christian on Sunday

      Now we heathens have the town to ourselves.
      We lie around, munching award-winning pickles
      and hunks of coarse, seeded bread smeared
      with soft, sweet cheese. The streets seem
      deserted, as if Godzilla had been sighted
      on the horizon, kicking down skyscrapers
      and flattening cabs. Only two people
      are lined up to see a popular movie
      in which the good guy and the bad guy trade
      faces. Churches burst into song. Trees wish
      for a big wind. Burnt bacon and domestic tension
      scent the air. So do whiffs of lawn mower exhaust
      mixed with the colorless blood of clipped hedges.
      For whatever's about to come crashing down
      on our heads, be it bliss-filled or heinous,
      make us grateful, OK? Hints of the savior's
      flavor buzz on our tongues, like crumbs
      of a sleeping pill shaped like a snowflake.
      --Amy Gerstler

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