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#1625 - Sunday, November 23, 2003

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  • Gloria Lee
    #1625 - Sunday, November 23, 2003 - Editor: Gloria The mountain was in the stream, both on the surface and in the glittering white of the polished stones in
    Message 1 of 1 , Nov 24, 2003
      #1625 - Sunday, November 23, 2003 - Editor: Gloria

      The mountain was in the stream, both on the surface and in the glittering white of the polished stones in the streambed. Reflecting easily despite the rapid flow of the current. The snowy white mass seemed to double in size. It was the purest white you had ever seen, and it floated in the blue sky. The day was incredibly fresh and clear as you walked in it, step by step, each step complete in and of itself. Each step the beginning of a leap into the infinite present. The mountain enfolded you; the mind stopped, stunned, and still. You walked through the silence toward the mountain, each step a leap into the deep silence which is always present, always unfolding.

      - Journeys on Mind Mountain

      Lykkja, photo by Alan Larus
      Lykkja means small field, and it is in the mountains, it is minus 12 C.
      We did not freeze and the cabin had a sauna.

      Flash presentation of Hubble images, takes time to load.

      David Hodges ~ NDS
      (I've been writing these over the past few months and thought I'd share.
      The Starbucks I visit on weekends is near the campus of Yale University,
      hence the references to Yale)

      Starbucks Haiku

      Rainy morning -
           People in Starbucks
      Talk about money

      Rainy morning -
          A Yale student reads
      A book I never finished

      Yale girl in Starbucks
           Bends over her laptop
      ---Red thong!!!

      Waiting for my latte -
         Hey! That guy
      Just stole my table.

      Starbucks filling up -
           I might have to go
      Somewhere else

      That man with one arm -
         He's waiting outside
      To ask me for money

      Girl gabbing on cell phone
          Pissing me off
      In some other language

      At the next table:
         "That's a finger puppet"
      --- "Yeah I know"

      This isn't going anywhere -
          Isn't there something
      Besides the breath?

      Practicing Spirituality with Catholics
      Day 24
      November 24, 2003


      The woman sets the table. She watches me beat the eggs. I scramble them in a
      saucepan, .. . . I take our plates, spoon eggs on them, we sit and eat. She
      and I and the kitchen have become extraordinary: we are not simply eating;
      we are pausing in the march to perform an act together; we are in love; and
      the meal offered and received is a sacrament which says: I know you will
      die; I am sharing food with you; it is all I can do, and it is everything.
      -- Andre Dubus in "Broken Vessels: Essays"

      Daily Dharma
      "This is what you should do: Love the earth and sun and animals,

      despise riches, give alms to everyone that asks,

      stand up for the stupid and crazy,

      devote your income and labor to others, hate tyrants, argue not

      concerning God,

      have patience and indulgence toward the people...

      reexamine all you have been told in school or church or in any book,

      dismiss what insults your very soul,

      and your flesh shall become a great poem."

      ~Walt Whitman

      From the book, "Walt Whitman: The Complete Poems," edited by Francis
      Murphy, published by Viking Press.

      Lady Joyce ~ HarshaSatsangh

      Thank you, God, for Everything

      As Thanksgiving, 2002, falling on November 28, approaches, I think how Jesse's birthday and the anniversary of the death of my mother and my unborn child all fall on the same day this year. My mind wanders back to another time. I am 28 years old, still thinking I know it all, still thinking that somehow I control my own destiny, still thinking that if I put my mind to it, I can do anything I want to do...defiant, rebellious, contentious, a young lawyer fresh out of law school. About to face the unexpected death of my mother. [...] story continues

      Every year now, as Thanksgiving approaches, I celebrate it twice. On Jesse¬ís birthday, my mind wanders back again to this memory, bittersweet with pain and pleasure. The bounty of blessings, the surrender to All That Is.  I have learned from the wisdom of Sono, Woman Zen Master, who advised every devotee who came to her to adopt an affirmation to be said many times a day, under All conditions. The affirmation was, "Thank you for everything. I have no complaint whatsoever." Thank you, Sonoji.

      My daily variation on that theme appears on a placement sent home to me with Jesse, my little Thanksgiving cornocupia. A prayer of sorts that I had heard over the years, and ignored, until now. Before I eat, and sometimes, when things seem to be going all the wrong way, this is what I try to say...

      Thank you for the world so sweet
      Thank you for the food we eat
      Thank you for the birds that sing
      Thank you God for Everything...

      Joyce (know_mystery) ~ NDS
      As Rumi said:

                 Deafened by the voices
           you are unaware the Beloved lives
               in the core of your heart.
                   Stop the noise and
                you will hear His voice
                    in the silence.

                       ~  Rumi  ~
      Andy ~ NDS
      And yet we are driven to converse,
      By forces not our own.
      "As we stray further from Love
      We multiply the words,
      Words and sentences long and orderly.
      Had we remained together
      We could have become a Silence."
            (Yehuda Amichai)

      This present birth and death is the life of Buddha. If you reject it with distaste, you are thereby losing the life of Buddha. If you abide in it, attaching to birth and death, you also lose the life of Buddha. .. When you simply release and forget both your body and your mind and throw yourself into the house of Buddha, then with no strength needed and no thought expended, freed from birth and death, you become Buddha. Then there can be no obstacle in any person's mind.

      -Dogen, "Birth and Death"

      From "Teachings of the Buddha," edited by Jack Kornfield, 1993. Reprinted by arrangement with Shambhala Publications, Boston, www.shambhala.com.

      The Size of Spokane

      The baby isn't cute. In fact he's
      a homely little pale and headlong
      stumbler. Still, he's one
      of us-the human beings
      stuck on flight 295 (Chicago to Spokane);
      and when he passes my seat twice
      at full tilt this then that direction,
      I look down from Lethal Weapon 3 to see
      just why. He's

      running back and forth
      across a sunblazed circle on
      the carpet-something brilliant, fallen
      from a porthole. So! it's light
      amazing him, it's only light, despite
      some three and one
      half hundred
      people, propped in rows
      for him to wonder at; it's light
      he can't get over, light he can't
      investigate enough, however many
      zones he runs across it,
      flickering himself.

      The umpteenth time
      I see him coming, I've had
      just about enough; but then
      he notices me noticing and stops-
      one fat hand on my armrest-to
      inspect the oddities of me.

      Some people cannot hear.
      Some people cannot walk.
      But everyone was
      sunstruck once, and set adrift.
      Have we forgotten how 

      astonishing this is? so practiced all our senses
      we cannot imagine them? foreseen instead of seeing
      all the all there is? Each spectral port,
      each human eye

      is shot through with a hole, and everything we know
      goes in there, where it feeds a blaze. In a flash

      the baby's old; Mel Gibson's hundredth comeback seems
      less clever; all his chases and embraces
      narrow down, while we
      fly on (in our
      plain radiance of vehicle)

      toward what cannot stay small forever.

      -Heather McHugh, from Hinge and Sign (Wesleyan University Press).

      * Sun reflection photo by Alan Larus

      Viorica Weissman ~ Million Paths
      You are so at home in this passing state,
      In the lottery of the here and now,
      In slumber you find yourself in another
      Space no stranger than the waking place;
      Now ill at ease in a forgotten panel of your mind;
      You do not say: 'What place is this
      So strange, so different and yet the same?',
      Not at all; the diffident city of sleep
      Is as imaginary as that of sullied day.
      Is it surprizing then that the soul, the inner child,
      Which remembers nothing and nothing forgets,
      Should not recall its home and birth place when it's
      rugged with body's weight, traweled through
      The five-pointed darkness of here and now,
      Wrapped like a star in eiderdown?
      This innocent traveller enters and passes through
      Many states, collecting, like a forgotten
      Piece of porcelain, valedictory dust,
      How can it review its state and remember,
      When its memory is nothing but rust?
             ___   Mathnavi IV , 3628
      __ Words of Paradise
            Selected Poems of Rumi  

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