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#1832 - Friday, June 18, 2004

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  • Gloria Lee
    #1832 - Friday, June 18, 2004 - Editor: Gloria Highlights Home Page and Archive: http://nonduality.com/hlhome.htm Letter to the Editors: Click Reply , compose
    Message 1 of 1 , Jun 20, 2004
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      #1832 - Friday, June 18, 2004 - Editor: Gloria
       

      Highlights Home Page and Archive: http://nonduality.com/hlhome.htm

      Letter to the Editors: Click 'Reply', compose your message, and 'Send'. All the editors will see your letter.

       
       
      Those who awaken never rest in one place.
      Like swans, they rise and leave the lake.
      On the air they rise and fly an invisible course.
      Their food is knowledge.
      They live on emptiness.
      They have seen how to break free.
      Who can follow them?
      - Buddha in the Dhammapada
       
      photo by Al Larus
       

       
      Wolfgang ~ E-zendo
       
      I honor the Buddha,
      The first of the teachers.
      His teaching was
      Conditioned Arising,
      The end of playing with terms.
      No creation, no extinction;
      No duration, no inconstancy;
      No Identity, no difference;
      No arrival, no departure.

      -Nagarjuna, first lines of the Middle Treatise
       

       
      I climb these hills
      As if walking on air
      Body too light to fall
      Bamboo staff resting
      Against a great stone
      Torn cloak snapping in the wind
      A lone bird soars the azure depths
      Far distant springs reflected in its eye
      Carefree, singing a timeless song
      Gone, on a journey without end.
       
      - Shih-shu (17th century-early 18th)


       
       
      CHOPIN SUMMER
       
      "The summer of endless Chopin
      is the summer I spent with
      my father as he lay dying,
      he played piano, Chopin mostly,
      though he couldn't any longer so
      we played his collection of CD's,
      they filtered the air we breathed,
      became the soundtrack of our days,

      we lived those summer days mindfully,
      savored everything, the taste of a peach,
      the laughter of children streaming
      in the window, the bark of a dog,
      rain drumming on the porch's tin roof,

      we shared memories, snippets of our
      childhoods, of family members
      long gone, of my mother, also gone,
      our talk became music, melodies
      that erased old misunderstandings,
      and wrote new poems, new stories to
      sew together the diminishing now,

      we held every moment in our hands
      as gently as we would have a butterfly
      or a baby bird knowing that these
      moments were gifted to us, that their
      numbers were rapidly diminishing,

      I watched him fade like a leaf
      slowly turning brown,
      I was with him when he died.

      I realize now how light and
      wondrous those days were,
      how thick with awareness,
      with life, with caring, as if
      sculpted in fragrant rosewood,

      I have only to listen to Chopin
      to replay the summer soundtrack
      of those gifted last lived days,
      to hear my father's voice urging
      me to take nothing for granted,
      or carelessly step on garden paths
      my mind full of other things and miss
      the lavender flowers scenting the air,

      I want this aching mindfulness to
      bloom in me and fill my soul."

      ~Zen Oleary



      From the web site, "Zen Oleary Poetry,"
      http://www.angelsinc.com/ZenO/


       
      Some people live closely guarded lives, fearful of encountering someone or something that might shatter their insecure spiritual foundation. This attitude, however, is not the fault of religion but of their own limited understanding. True Dharma leads in exactly the opposite direction. It enables one to integrate all the many diverse experiences of life into a meaningful and coherent whole, thereby banishing fear and insecurity completely.

      -Lama Thubten Yeshe, "Wisdom Energy"

      Copyright Wisdom Publications 2001. Reprinted from "Daily Wisdom: 365 Buddhist Inspirations


      Happiness

      Weep for what little things could make them glad.
      —Robert Frost, "Directive"

      Melvin,
           the large collie
      who lives in the red house
      at the end of my daily run
      is happy,
           happy to see me
      even now,
           in February—
      a month of low skies
      and slowly melting snow.

      His yard
           has turned almost
      entirely to mud—
                but so what?

      Today,
           as if to please me,
      he has torn apart
                and scattered
      everywhere
           a yellow plastic bucket
      the color of forsythia
      or daffodils . . .

                And now,
      in a transport
                of cross-eyed
      muddy ecstasy,
                he has placed
      his filthy two front paws
      together
           on the top pipe
      of his sagging cyclone fence—

      drooling a little,
                his tail
      wagging furiously,
                until finally,
      as if I were God's angel himself—

      fulgent,
           blinding,
                aflame
      with news of the Resurrection,
      I give him a biscuit
                instead.

      Which is fine with Melvin—
      who is wise,
           by whole epochs
      of evolution,
           beyond his years.

      Take
           what you can get,
      that's his motto . . .

                And really,
      apropos of bliss,
                happiness
      and the true rapture,
                what saint
      could tell us half as much?

      Even as he drops
                back down
      into the cold
                dog-shit muck
      he'll have to live in
                every day
      for weeks on end perhaps
      unless it freezes . . .

      whining now,
            dancing
      nervously
           as I turn away
      again,
           to leave him there

      the same today
                as yesterday—

      one of the truly wretched
      of this earth
           whose happiness
      is almost more
                than I can bear.


      Michael Van Walleghen, from In the Black Window: New and Selected Poems. © University of Illinois Press. (buy now)


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