- #1964 - Friday, November 29, 2004 - Editor: Gloria PERCEPTION The question is not what you look at but what you see. - Henry David Thoreau ... A suddenMessage 1 of 1 , Oct 30, 2004View Source#1964 - Friday, November 29, 2004 - Editor: GloriaPERCEPTION
The question is not
what you look at
but what you see.
- Henry David Thoreau
A sudden perception
that subject and object are one
will lead you to a deeply mysterious
You will awaken to the truth of Zen.
Why are we reading, if not in hope of beauty laid bare,
life heightened and its deepest mystery probed?
- Annie Dillard
The wise man does not discriminate; he gathers together all shreds of light,
from wherever they may come.
- (Agliè) Umberto Eco, Foucaults Pendulum
posted on AlphaWorld
The problems in your life are in direct proportion
to your unwillingness to swallow absolutely
everything that's on your Path.
The problem is not in what's showing up for you.
The problem is in your resistance to what's
showing up for you.
It's in your shouting out to the Cosmos, "This
should not be so!"
When you swallow the entire "you-niverse,"
then you're not resisting "what is."
If you're patient, though, then everything that
shows up for you will eventually become edible.
However, don't expect it all to taste just like
- Chuck Hilligposted on Along the Way
The Fragile Vial
I need a mouth as wide as the sky
to say the nature of a True Person, language
as large as longing.
The fragile vial inside me often breaks.
No wonder I go mad and disappear for three days
every month with the moon.
For anyone in love with you,
it's always these invisible days.
I've lost the thread of the story I was telling.
My elephant roams his dream of Hindustan again.
Narrative, poetics, destroyed, my body,
a dissolving, a return.
Friend, I 've shrunk to a hair trying to say your story.
Would you tell mine?
I've made up so many love stories.
Now I feel fictional.
The truth is, you are speaking, not me.
I am Sinai, and you are Moses walking there.
This poetry is an echo of what you say.
A piece of land can't speak, or know anything!
Or if it can, only within limits.
The body is a device to calculate
the astronomy of the spirit.
Look through that astrolabe
and become oceanic.
Why this distracted talk?
It's not my fault I rave.
You did this.
Do you approve of my love-madness?
What language will you say it in, Arabic or Persian,
or what? Once again, I must be tied up.
Bring the curly ropes of your hair.
Now I remember the
A True Man stares at his old shoes
and sheepskin jacket. Every day he goes up
to his attic to look at his work-shoes and worn-out coat.
This is his wisdom, to remember the original clay
and not get drunk with ego and arrogance.
To visit those shoes and jacket
The Absolute works with nothing.
The workshop, the materials
are what does not exist.
Try and be a sheet of paper with nothing on it.
Be a spot of ground where nothing is growing,
where something might be planted,
a seed, possibly, from the Absolute.
Mathnawi V: 1884-1920, 1959-64
'The Essential Rumi' Coleman Barks/John Moyne
posted on AlphaWorldacross the lake
the tree a nest
the nest an egg
inside the blue
the heartbeat of the galaxies
a promise and a keyeach step observed.
each land and seahow nothing ever ever
did not come on throughthis narrow lanehow nothing ever ever
did not passthis empty handed thief
to imagine he's
been asking 'who am I?'makes me laugh,
makes me crywith a hammer hitting carefully,
on who can he
rely to beA fragile jar
and plainly obsolete.this one and only
thought of it?- Alan LarusEveningRainer Maria RilkeSlowly the evening changes into the clothesheld for it by a row of ancient trees;you look: and two worlds grow separate from you,one ascending to heaven, another, that falls;and leave you, belonging not wholly to either one,not quite as dark as the house that remains silent,not quite as certainly sworn to eternityas that which becomes star each night and rises-and leave you (unsayably to disentangle) your lifewith all its immensity and fear and great ripening,so that, all but bounded, all but understood,it is by turns stone in you and star.Translated by Cliff Cregoposted on AlphaWorldTruth disappears with the telling of it.
Lawrence Durrell (1912-1990)"Clea" , Chapter 2posted on AlphaWorld