Loading ...
Sorry, an error occurred while loading the content.

#1855 - Sunday, July 11, 2004

Expand Messages
  • Gloria Lee
    #1855 - Sunday, July 11, 2004 - Editor: Gloria A note to those who choose digest version: You may see (most) images on yahoo without adding to your mailbox.
    Message 1 of 1 , Jul 13, 2004
      #1855 - Sunday, July 11, 2004 - Editor: Gloria
      A note to those who choose digest version:
      You may see (most) images on yahoo without adding to your mailbox.

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


      Jonathon ~ The_Other_Syntax

       Gazing at Stone

      The outline of the stone is round, having no end and no beginning;
      like the power of the stone it is endless. The stone is perfect of
      its kind and is the work of nature, no artificial means being used in
      shaping it. Outwardly it is not beautiful, but its structure is
      solid, like a solid house in which one may safely dwell.

      Chased-by-Bears (1843-1915) Santee- Yanktonai Sioux


      Stacy Fair ~ The_Other_Syntax
      Natural Spirit Body
      The heavenly heart lies between sun and moon (i.e. between
      the two eyes). It is the home of the inner light. To make light
      circulate is the deepest and most wonderful secret. The light is
      easy to move, but difficult to fix. If it is made to circulate long
      enough, then it crystallizes itself; that is the natural spirit

      Lu Yen
      800 AD

      DharmaG ~ Daily Dharma
      "Spring, cherry blossoms.
      In summer, the cuckoo's song.
      The bright moon in autumn and
      in winter, snow,
      cold, clear.

                The eye cannot see itself. The fingertip
      cannot touch itself. Knowing in itself cannot be made into an object
      that is known. Awareness cannot be reduced to something there is
      Awareness of. It is not a thing. And yet still there is something. And
      it shines as you. What shines as you is who you are. This face, this
      body, this rice cake are only its reflections. Compared to it, a
      painting of a rice cake is as real a rice cake as a rice cake is.

                  Come on, take a bite."

      ~Ven. Anzan Hoshin roshi

      From "White Wind Zen Community,"

      [The birthday of Pablo Neruda is July 12, and this poem of his was heard on the radio Sunday.]
      From Sonnet XVII by Pablo Neruda 
      (Translated by Stephen Mitchell)

      I don't love you as if you were the salt-rose, topaz 
      or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:

      I love you as certain dark things are loved, 
      secretly, between the shadow and the soul.

      I love you as the plant that doesn't bloom and carries 
      hidden within itself the light of those flowers, 
      and thanks to your love, darkly in my body 
      lives the dense fragrance that rises from the earth.

      I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where, 
      I love you simply, without problems or pride.
      I love you in this way because I don't know any other way of loving.

      but this, in which there is no I or you, 
      so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand, 
      so intimate that when I fall asleep it is your eyes that close.



      Viorica Weissman ~ MillionPaths  

      A dialogue between David Godman and Maalok, #2

      Maalok: If somebody wants to start practicing the teachings of Ramana Maharshi, where and how should they start?

      David: This is another classic question: 'What should I do?' However, the question itself is misconceived. It is based on the erroneous assumption that happiness and peace are states that can be experienced by striving, by effort. The busy mind covers up the peace and the silence that is your own natural state, so if you put the mind in gear and use it to pursue some spiritual goal, you are usually taking it away from the peace, not towards it. This is a hard concept for many people to grasp. 

           People found their own inner peace in Sri Ramana's presence because they didn't interfere with the energy that was eradicating their minds, their sense of being a particular person who has ideas, beliefs, and so on. The true practice of Sri Ramana's teachings is remaining quiet, remaining in a state of inner mental quiescence that allows the power of Sri Ramana to seep into your heart and transform you. This can be summarized in one of Sri Ramana's classic comments: 'Just keep quiet. Bhagavan will do the rest.' 

           If you use the phrase 'practicing the teachings,' the following sequence is assumed: that Sri Ramana speaks of some goal that has to be attained, that he gives you some route, some practice, to reach that goal, and that you then use your mind to vigorously move towards that goal. The mind wants to be in charge of this operation. It wants to listen to the Guru, understand what is required, and then use itself to move in the prescribed direction. All this is wrong. Mind is not the vehicle one uses to carry out the teachings; it is, instead, the obstacle that prevents one from directly experiencing them. The only useful, productive thing the mind can do is disappear. 

           Sri Ramana himself always said that his true teachings were given out in silence. Those who were receptive to them were the ones who could get out of the way mentally, allowing Sri Ramana's silent emanations to work on them. In the benedictory verse to his philosophical poem Ulladu Narpadu Sri Ramana wrote, and I paraphrase a little: 'Who can meditate on that which alone exists. One cannot meditate on it because one is not apart from it. One can only be it.' This is the essence of Sri Ramana's teachings. 'Be what you are and remain as you are without having any thoughts. Don't try to meditate on the Self, on God. Just abide silently at the source of the mind and you will experience that you are God, that you are the Self.'

      Vietnam  http://tinyurl.com/4l67q

      Allspirit Inspiration

      In 1968, I was travelling with Thich Nhat Hanh on a Fellowship (of
      Reconciliation) tour during which there were meetings with church, and
      student groups, senators, journalists, professors, business people,
      and (blessed relief) a few poets.
          After an hour with him one was haunted with the beauties of
      Vietnam, and filled with anguish at America's military intervention in
      the political and cultural tribulations of the Vietnemese people.
      One was stripped of all the ideological loyalties that justified one
      party or another in their battles, and felt the horror of the skies
      raked with bombers, houses and humans burned to ash, children left to
      face life without the presence and love of their parents and grandparents.
          But there was one evening when Nhat Hanh awoke not understanding
      but rather the measureless rage of an  American. He had been talking
      in the auditorium of a wealthy Christian church in a St. Louis suburb.
      As always he emphasized the need for Americans to stop their bombings
      and killing in his country. There had been questions and answers when
      a large man stood up and spoke with searing scorn of the "supposed
      compassion" of "this Mr. Hanh."
          "If you care so much about your people, Mr. Hanh, why are you
      here? If you care so much about for the people who are wounded, why
      don't you spend your time with them?" At this point my recollection of
      his words is replaced by the memory of the intense anger which
      overwhelmed me.
          When he finished, I looked towards Nhat Hanh in bewilderment. What
      could he-or anyone-say? The spirit of the war itself suddenly filled
      the room and it seemed hard to breathe.
          There was silence. Then Nhat Hanh began to speak-quietly, with
      deep calm, indeed with a sense of personal caring for the man who had
      just damned him. The words seemed like rain falling on fire. "If you
      want the tree to grow" he said, "it won't help to water the leaves.
      You have to water the roots. Many of the roots of war are here, in
      your country. To help the people who are to be bombed, to try to
      protect them from this suffering, I have to come here."
          The atmosphere in the room was transformed. In the man's fury we
      had experienced our own furies; we had seen the world as through a
      bomb bay. In Nhat Hanh's response we had experienced an alternate
      possibility (here brought to Christians by a Buddhist and to Americans
      by an "enemy") of overcoming hatred with love, of breaking the
      seemingly endless chain reaction of violence throughout human history.
          But after his response, Nhat Hanh whispered something to the
      chairman and walked quickly from the room. Sensing something was
      wrong, I followed him out. It was a cool, clear night. Nhat Hanh stood
      on the sidewalk beside the church parking lot. He was struggling for
      air-like someone who had been deeply underwater and who had barely
      managed to swim to the surface before gasping for breath. It was
      several minutes before I dared ask him what had happened.

         Nhat Hanh explained that the man's comments had been terribly
      upsetting. He had wanted to respond to him with anger.......
          "Why not just be angry with him," I asked. "Even pacifists have a
      right to be angry."
          "If it were just for myself, yes. But I am here to speak for
      Vietnamese peasants. I have to show them that we can be at our best."
          The moment was an important on in my life, one pondered again, and
      again since then. For one thing, it was the first time I realized
      there was a connection between the way one breathes and the way one
      responds to the world around.

      excerpt from chapter by James Forest
      in The Miracle of Mindfulness
      Thich Nhat Hanh
      translated by Mobi Ho

      Long Afternoon at the Edge of Little Sister Pond

      As for life,
      I'm humbled,
      I'm without words
      sufficient to say

      how it has been hard as flint,
      and soft as a spring pond,
      both of these
      and over and over,

      and long pale afternoons besides,
      and so many mysteries
      beautiful as eggs in a nest,
      still unhatched

      though warm and watched over
      by something I have never seen—
      a tree angel, perhaps,
      or a ghost of loneliness.

      Every day I walk out into the world
      to be dazzled, then to be reflective.
      It suffices, it is all comfort—
      along with human love,

      dog love, water love, little-serpent love,
      sunburst love, or love for that smallest of birds
      flying among the scarlet flowers.
      There is hardly time to think about

      stopping, and lying down at last
      to the long afterlife, to the tenderness
      yet to come, when
      time will brim over the singular pond, and become forever,

      and we will pretend to melt away into the leaves.
      As for death,
      I can't wait to be the hummingbird,
      can you?

      - Mary Oliver

      from Owls and Other Fantasies. © Beacon Press

    Your message has been successfully submitted and would be delivered to recipients shortly.