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#2957 - Monday, October 15, 2007 - Editor: Gloria Lee

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  • Gloria Lee
    #2957 - Monday, October 15, 2007 - Editor: Gloria Lee Nondual Highlights - http://groups.yahoo.com/group/NDhighlights On the surface, the present moment is
    Message 1 of 1 , Oct 15, 2007

      #2957 - Monday, October 15, 2007 - Editor: Gloria Lee


      On the surface, the present moment is "what happens." 
      Since what happens changes continuously,
      it seems that every day of your life consists of
      thousands of moments in which different things happen.
      Time is seen as an endless succession of moments,
      some "good," some "bad." 
      Yet, if you look more closely, that is to say,
      through your own immediate experience,
      you find that there are not many moments at all.
      You discover there is only ever this moment. 
      Life is always now.
      Your entire life unfolds in this constant Now.
      Even past or future moments only exist
      when you remember or anticipate them,
      and you do so by thinking about them
      in the only moment there is: this one.

      Eckhart Tolle - The New Earth p.204

      posted to Wisdom-l


      by Billy Collins


      This is the beginning.
      Almost anything can happen.
      This is where you find
      the creation of light, a fish wriggling onto land,
      the first word of Paradise Lost on an empty page.
      Think of an egg, the letter A,
      a woman ironing on a bare stage
      as the heavy curtain rises.
      This is the very beginning.
      The first-person narrator introduces himself,
      tells us about his lineage.
      The mezzo-soprano stands in the wings.
      Here the climbers are studying a map
      or pulling on their long woolen socks.
      This is early on, years before the Ark, dawn.
      The profile of an animal is being smeared
      on the wall of a cave,
      and you have not yet learned to crawl.
      This is the opening, the gambit,
      a pawn moving forward an inch.
      This is your first night with her,
      your first night without her.
      This is the first part
      where the wheels begin to turn,
      where the elevator begins its ascent,
      before the doors lurch apart.


      This is the middle.
      Things have had time to get complicated,
      messy, really. Nothing is simple anymore.
      Cities have sprouted up along the rivers
      teeming with people at cross-purposes—
      a million schemes, a million wild looks.
      Disappointment unshoulders his knapsack
      here and pitches his ragged tent.
      This is the sticky part where the plot congeals,
      where the action suddenly reverses
      or swerves off in an outrageous direction.
      Here the narrator devotes a long paragraph
      to why Miriam does not want Edward's child.
      Someone hides a letter under a pillow.
      Here the aria rises to a pitch,
      a song of betrayal, salted with revenge.
      And the climbing party is stuck on a ledge
      halfway up the mountain.
      This is the bridge, the painful modulation.
      This is the thick of things.
      So much is crowded into the middle—
      the guitars of Spain, piles of ripe avocados,
      Russian uniforms, noisy parties,
      lakeside kisses, arguments heard through a wall—
      too much to name, too much to think about.


      And this is the end,
      the car running out of road,
      the river losing its name in an ocean,
      the long nose of the photographed horse
      touching the white electronic line.
      This is the colophon, the last elephant in the parade,
      the empty wheelchair,
      and pigeons floating down in the evening.
      Here the stage is littered with bodies,
      the narrator leads the characters to their cells,
      and the climbers are in their graves.
      It is me hitting the period
      and you closing the book.
      It is Sylvia Plath in the kitchen
      and St. Clement with an anchor around his neck.
      This is the final bit
      thinning away to nothing.
      This is the end, according to Aristotle,
      what we have all been waiting for,
      what everything comes down to,
      the destination we cannot help imagining,
      a streak of light in the sky,
      a hat on a peg, and outside the cabin, falling leaves.
      photos by Alan Larus
      web version
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