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Friday, October 25, 2002

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  • Gloria Lee
    Life photo of Brooklyn men - 1947 __________________________________________________ Highlight #1238 - Friday, October 25, 2002 - Edited by Gloria Home:
    Message 1 of 1 , Oct 26, 2002
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      Life photo of Brooklyn men - 1947

      Highlight #1238 - Friday, October 25, 2002 - Edited by Gloria



      It is not my intention to have anyone remember all the transistorized
      thinking in this book, but I highly recommend memorizing the italic
      [CAPS] lines below. They are simple enough to stay with you and
      will work in any mental crisis. Keep them handy in your mind.

      One of my psychedelic excursions had gotten off to a bad start, and I
      was sinking into a really satanic bummer. As I looked about me at
      people turning evil, shrunken, colorless, old, and weird, I suddenly


      And just like that, the doors opened and I was in paradise.

      Thaddeus Golas


      Praise to the emptiness...
      Praise to the emptiness that blanks out existence. 
      This place made from our love for that emptiness!
      Yet somehow comes emptiness,
      this existence goes.
      Praise to that happening, over and over!

      For years I pulled my own existence out of emptiness.
      Then one swoop, one swing of the arm,
      that work is over.
      Free of who I was, free of presence, free of
      dangerous fear, hope,
      free of mountainous wanting.
      The here-and-now mountain is  a tiny piece of a piece
      of straw
      blown off into emptiness.

      These words I'm saying so much begin to lose meaning:
      Existence, emptiness, mountain, straw:
      Words and what they try to say swept
      out the window, down the slant of the roof.

      trans barks/moyne

      When all thoughts
      Are exhausted
      I slip into the woods
      And gather
      A pile of shepherd's purse.

      Like the little stream
      Making its way
      Through the mossy crevices
      I, too, quietly
      Turn clear and transparent.

      from "Dewdrops on a Lotus Leaf" translated by John Stevens
      reflected trees photo
      There You Are

      You're inside every kindness.  When
      a sick person feels better, you're

      that, and the onset of disease too.
      You're sudden, terrible screaming.

      Some problems require we go for help:
      when we knock on a stranger's door,

      you sent us.  Nobody answers: it's
      you!  When work feels necessary, you

      are the way workers move in rhythm.
      You are what is: the field, the players,

      the ball, those watching.  Someone
      claims to have evidence that you do

      not exist.  You're the one who brings
      the evidence in, and the evidence

      itself.  You are inside the soul's
      great fear, every natural pleasure,

      every vicious cruelty.  You are in
      every difference and irritation.

      Someone loves something; someone else
      hates the same.  There you are.

      Whatever eyes see, what anyone wants
      or not: political power, injustice,

      material possessions, those are your
      script, the handwriting we study.

      Body, soul, shadow.  Whether reckless
      or careful, you are what we do.  It's

      absurd to ask your pardon.  You're
      inside repentance, and sin!  The wonder

      of various jewels, agate, emerald.
      How we are during a day, then at night,

      you are those moods and qualities.
      The pure compassion we feel for each

      other.  Every encampment has a tent
      where the leader is and also the wide

      truth of your imperial tent overall.

      (Rumi - "The Soul of Rumi" - Coleman Barks)


      Having posted so much meaningless talk on this site,

      I feel I must acknowledge that it was my part in
        this dream to provide meaningless chatter.

      There is nothing moving in shadow except
        various shades.

      The light that casts the shadow won't be
        found hiding under a bushel basket,
        or in a pail full of holes.

      I've tried to place the ocean in a pail full
        of holes, and sought to capture the sun
        under a basket.

      Meanwhile, there is nowhere it is not ...

      Pointing to that which is never absent,
        by that which is never present ...

      I am the ultimate in absurdity ...

      We cling to our own point of view, as though everything depended on it. Yet our
      opinions have no permanence; like autumn and winter, they gradually pass away.
      Chuang Tzu (c 369 BC-286 BC, Chinese Philosopher)
      Sri Ramana: Instead of enquiring...
      ...Kitchenmate, Subbalakshmi Amma, was keen on meditation and would ply
      Ramana with questions. Once she asked him about the nature of the Self. Ramana
      advised, "Abide in the Self, free from thoughts instead of enquiring about the nature
      of the Self."
      She would fret and fume about the absence of time to meditate because of
      excessive kitchen work. Ramana told her "If you identify yourself with the body,
      you are bound to dualities. Work will appear difficult. Even if we free ourselves
      from work, would the mind cease to wander? It does not let us sleep in peace. It
      keeps wandering as in dreams."
      Timeless in Time  Natarajan
      Turn your love warm
      Your face is beautiful,
      but your loving is cold.
      Your tongue is tired of saying
      sacred words over and over ,
      and your fingers, you've worked them
      to the nub copying texts,
      but the rage stored inside you
      has found no way to leave.
      Lalla , Naked Song
      tr : Coleman Barks
      from Hafiz
      A Hafiz interpretation by Eric Ashford.
      Ghazal 31


      Those who pray in the open
      with ecstatic smiles or righteous thunder
      may behave, in their own hearts,
      like frightened children
      when the spotlight of self importance
      sits alone with the Alone.

      It's a marvel to me,
      that those who would teach of Love
      or demand repentance for our lack of love
      waste their time with all this holy belching.
      They make a great wind of piety
      while the heart goes starving.
      They should open their own door.

      This Day of Judgment they bellow of
      is a counterfeit wind.
      They repeat the word God and there is no digestion,
      only an indigestion they would give others for truth.
      Their Judgment forever locks them out
      of the remedy of this surrendered moment.

      Hafiz is a puppet to God's freedom;
      a cup of wine flowing in Her Tavern.
      Dervishes scatter glass beads and diamonds to all equally
      and if you see any difference
      you cannot dance through that open door.

      Some preachers flaunt their poverty and call it gold,
      and those who have nothing in them but false gold
      run to any guru to buy and exchange pig poop
      thinking it manna from heaven.

      Open the Tavern door of your heart dear friend.
      There is an angel inside
      distilling your wine
      from the original juice of Adam.

      God's beauty kills her lovers
      so that the lover inside the lover
      can leap out laughing from the invisible world.

      Don't keep begging for crumbs at a poor man's table
      when a millionaire of love
      is pouring gold into you in every moment.
      Keep sweeping false gold away
      from the threshold of the heart
      and get empty enough
      to receive what is truly yours.

      Go deep enough to drown
      in that place where the Beloved lives.
      For the heart of the shallow
      is a pond full of desperate swimmers
      who still believe they can breathe for themselves.

      God is hard to see
      when the heart is hard of hearing.
      The clang and clatter of this world's jewels
      turns all prayer to bartering.

      There is a great amusement and amazement in heaven
      for the angels all know that you had won the gift of Love
      long before you came to this market place.

      Love says, "Angels are talking about Hafiz' verse
      and signing his name for every lover to remember himself."


      A Hafiz interpretation by Eric Ashford.


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