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#2920 - Wednesday, September 5, 2007 - Editor: Gloria Lee

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  • Gloria Lee
    #2920 - Wednesday, September 5, 2007 - Editor: Gloria Lee Nondual Highlights His passing leaves a magnificent silence. Nessun Dorma
    Message 1 of 1 , Sep 6 12:08 PM
      #2920 - Wednesday, September 5, 2007 - Editor: Gloria Lee
      Nondual Highlights
      His passing leaves a magnificent silence.
      Nessun Dorma
      "The whole world will be listening today to his
      voice on every radio and television station.
      And that will continue. And that is his legacy.
      He will never stop," said conductor Zubin Mehta.
      'Pavarotti took opera to the people'
      1935 - 2007
      Listen on Performance Today radio
      Celebrating the life of Luciano Pavarotti
      The legendary tenor, Luciano Pavarotti, died today from pancreatic cancer at the age of 71. We offer a look at the life of this operatic superstar, celebrating his amazing voice and charismatic personality through classic recordings, as well as reminiscences from soprano Joan Sutherland and Pavarotti himself.
      Featured today:
      Blanc, Ravel, Berlioz, Verdi, Puccini
      Bravo! Maestro


      Listen to the reed and the tale it tells,
      How it sings of separation:
      Ever since they cut me from the reed bed,
      my wail has caused men and women to weep.
      I want a heart torn open with longing
      To share the pain of this love.
      Whoever has been parted from his source
      Longs to return to the state of union.
      At every gathering I play my lament.
      I'm a friend to both happy and sad.
      Each befriended me for his own reasons,
      Yet none searched out the secrets I contain.
      My secret is not different than my lament,
      Yet this is not for the senses to perceive.
      The body is not hidden from the soul,
      nor is the soul hidden from the body,
      And yet the soul is not for everyone to see.
      This flute is played with fire, not with wind,
      and without this fire you would not exist.
      It is the fire of love that inspires the flute.
      It is the ferment of love that completes the wine.
      The reed is a comfort to all estranged lovers.
      Its music tears our veils away. Have you
      Ever seen a poison or antidote likethe reed?
      Have you seen a more intimate companion and lover?
      It sings of the path of blood;
      it relates the passion of Majnun.
      Only to the senseless is this sense confided.
      Does the tongue have any patron but the ear?
      Our days grow more unseasonable,
      These days which mix with grief and pain.
      But if the days that remain are few,
      Let them go; it doesn't matter. But You, You remain,
      For nothing is as pure as You are.
      All but the fish quickly have their fill of His water;
      And the day is longwithout His daily bread.
      The raw do not understand the state of the ripe,
      so my words will be brief.

      Break your bonds, be free, my child!
      How long will silver and gold enslave you?
      If your pour the whole sea into a jug,
      will it hold more than one day's store?
      The greedy eye, like the jug, is never filled.
      Until content, the oyster holds no pearl.
      Only one who has been undressed by Love,
      Is free of defect and desire.
      O Gladness, O Love, our partner in trade,
      healer of all our ills, our Plato and Galen,
      remedy of our pride and our vanity.
      With love this earthly body could soar in the air;
      The mountain could arise and nimbly dance.
      Love gave life to Mount Sinai, O lover.
      Sinai was drunk; Moses lost consciousness.
      Pressed to the lips of one in harmony with myself,
      I might also tell all that can be told;
      but without a common tongue, I am dumb,
      Even if I have a hundred songs to sing.
      When the rose is gone and the garden faded,
      You will no longer hear the nightingale's song.
      The Beloved is all; the lover just a veil.
      The Beloved is living; the lover a dead thing.
      If Love withholds its strengthening care,
      the lover is left like a bird without wings.
      How will I be awake and aware
      If the light of the Beloved is absent?
      Love wills that this Word be brought forth.
      If you find the mirror of the heart dull,
      The rust has not been cleared from its face.
      O friends, listen to this tale,
      The marrow of our inward state.

      Love Is A Stranger, selected Rumi poetry by Kabir Helminski.

      posted by Tom to GardenMystics

      Where can you go that you can't see the moon?
      Where can you go that you won't find flowers?
      Where there's sky, there's a moon.
      Where there's earth, flowers grow.
      Carry a lute. Make up your own songs.
      You don't need to study other people's music.
      Guide your feet until they move in step
      With nothing more glorious than a white ox cart.

      Hsu Yun
      posted by Tom to GardenMystics

      Tao Te Ching - 14
      Looked at but cannot be seen - it is beneath form;
      Listened to but cannot be heard - it is beneath sound;
      Held but cannot be touched - it is beneath feeling;
      These depthless things evade definition,
      And blend into a single mystery.

      In its rising there is no light,
      In its falling there is no darkness,
      A continuous thread beyond description,
      Lining what does not exist;
      Its form formless,
      Its image nothing,
      Its name silence;
      Follow it, it has no back,
      Meet it, it has no face.

      Attend the present to deal with the past;
      Thus you grasp the continuity of the Way,
      Which is its essence.
      posted to AllspiritInspiration

      There seems a sort of humming, a pulsing
      insistence in the heart of everything,
      a yearning to leap forth and soar
      free in an astonishment of flight,
      to reach out beyond itself,
      and yet, Lao Jen,
      how can it?
      The eye cannot see itself,
      nor can mind exceed itself
      by grasping for more mind.

      In whatever way it lives itself,
      can life be other than itself, exceeding
      itself regardless, every moment, every day?

      Still, how many transformations must
      be endured before it dawns that
      there is only transformation?

      And what then of this impulse?

      When all experience reveals itself
      as essentially cloud-like -- its soap-bubble
      substance transparent -- and the clever one,
      the architect, can no longer mortar the gaping
      holes in a crumbling fortress of self-belief with
      fresh new myths of immortality, in a dark place
      of no hope, one can still raise up a chant, yet
      even sacred chants are extra when there’s
      nothing sacred, nothing not.
      While each one sings their own truth’s
      song, the gathering worlds will hum along, like
      tall trees hummed in a lyrical wind, a nothing-sacred
      sacred wind, hummed to a keen anonymous sound,
      a yellow leaf’s triumph in light spun down,
      one echoing phrase forever resounds:
      "Gate, Gate, Paragate,
      Parasamgate, Bodhi Swaha!
      Parasamgate, Bodhi Swaha!
      Parasamgate, Bodhi Swaha!"
      by Bob O'Hearn

      A fork in the path
      by Alan Larus

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