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#3297 - Monday, September 22, 2008 - Editor: Gloria Lee

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  • Gloria Lee
    #3297 - Monday, September 22, 2008 - Editor: Gloria Lee Nonduality Highlights - http://groups.yahoo.com/group/NDhighlights Gill Eardley lost her mother to
    Message 1 of 1 , Sep 23, 2008
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      #3297 - Monday, September 22, 2008 - Editor: Gloria Lee
      Nonduality Highlights
      Gill Eardley lost her mother to breast cancer a month ago. And Ivan Granger's father has just passed. Along with condolences to both, I would like to honor their dedication to inspiring the best in all of us. Both have spent years creating websites full of poetry and song which express the highest aspirations and deepest knowings of the human spirit. Thank you, Gill and Ivan.

      From: Lover's Gifts (1918) - Rabindranath Tagore
      XXXIX: There Is a Looker-On

      There is a looker-on who sits behind my eyes. It seems he has seen
      things in ages and worlds beyond memory's shore, and those forgotten
      sights glisten on the grass and shiver on the leaves. He has seen
      under new veils the face of the one beloved, in twilight hours of many
      a nameless star. Therefore his sky seems to ache with the pain of
      countless meetings and partings, and a longing pervades this spring
      breeze, -the longing that is full of the whisper of ages without


      I Am Not I
      I am not I.
                     I am this one
      walking beside me whom I do not see,
      whom at times I manage to visit,
      and whom at other times I forget;
      the one who remains silent while I talk,
      the one who forgives, sweet, when I hate,
      the one who takes a walk when I am indoors,
      the one who will remain standing when I die.
      --Juan Ramon Jimenez

      The core of our being is drawn like a stone to the quiet depths
      of each moment where God waits for us with eternal longing.
      But to those depths the false self tries to prevent us from travelling,
      keeping us skimming across the surface of the water on the one
      dimensional fringe of life.
      To sink is to vanish.
      To sink into the unknown depths of God's call to union with Himself
      is to lose all that the false self knows and cherishes.

      --Thomas Merton

      Thanks to Tom McFerran


      By Wendell Berry
      (1934 - )

      And now to the Abyss I pass
      Of that Unfathomable Grass...

      Dear relatives and friends, when my last breath
      Grows large and free in air, don't call it death --
      A word to enrich the undertaker and inspire
      His surly art of imitating life; conspire
      Against him. Say that my body cannot now
      Be improved upon; it has no fault to show
      To the sly cosmetician. Say that my flesh
      Has a perfect compliance with the grass
      Truer than any it could have striven for.
      You will recognize the earth in me, as before
      I wished to know it in myself: my earth
      That has been my care and faithful charge from birth,
      And toward which all my sorrows were surely bound,
      And all my hopes. Say that I have found
      A good solution, and am on my way
      To the roots. And say I have left my native clay
      At last, to be a traveler; that too will be so.
      Traveler to where? Say you don't know.

      But do not let your ignorance
      Of my spirit's whereabouts dismay
      You, or overwhelm your thoughts.
      Be careful not to say

      Anything too final. Whatever
      Is unsure is possible, and life is bigger
      Than flesh. Beyond reach of thought
      Let imagination figure

      Your hope. That will be generous
      To me and to yourselves. Why settle
      For some know-it-all's despair
      When the dead may dance to the fiddle

      Hereafter, for all anybody knows?
      And remember that the Heavenly soil
      Need not be too rich to please
      One who was happy in Port Royal.

      I may be already heading back,
      A new and better man, toward
      That town. The thought's unreasonable,
      But so is life, thank the Lord!

      So treat me, even dead,
      As a man who has a place
      To go, and something to do.
      Don't muck up my face

      With wax and powder and rouge
      As one would prettify
      An unalterable fact
      To give bitterness the lie.

      Admit the native earth
      My body is and will be,
      Admit its freedom and
      Its changeability.

      Dress me in the clothes
      I wore in the day's round.
      Lay me in a wooden box.
      Put the box in the ground.

      Beneath this stone a Berry is planted
      In his home land, as he wanted.

      He has come to the gathering of his kin,
      Among whom some were worthy men,

      Farmers mostly, who lived by hand,
      But one was a cobbler from Ireland,

      Another played the eternal fool
      By riding on a circus mule

      To be remembered in grateful laughter
      Longer than the rest. After

      Doing that they had to do
      They are at ease here. Let all of you

      Who yet for pain find force and voice
      Look on their peace, and rejoice.



      Ask those who know...

      Ask those who know,
      what's this soul within the flesh?
      Reality's own power.
      What blood fills these veins?

      Thought is an errand boy,
      fear a mine of worries.
      These sighs are love's clothing.
      Who is the Khan on the throne?

      Give thanks for His unity.
      He created when nothing existed.
      And since we are actually nothing,
      what are possessions, houses, shops?

      God sent us here
      to come and see the world.
      This world itself is not everlasting.
      What are all of Solomon's riches?

      Ask Yunus and Taptuk
      what the world means to them.
      The world won't last.
      What are You? What am I?

      --Yunus Emre




      It hovers in dark corners
      before the lights are turned on,
      it shakes sleep from its eyes
      and drops from mushroom gills,
      it explodes in the starry heads
      of dandelions turned sages,
      it sticks to the wings of green angels
      that sail from the tops of maples.
      It sprouts in each occluded eye
      of the many-eyed potato,
      it lives in each earthworm segment
      surviving cruelty,
      it is the motion that runs the tail of a dog,
      it is the mouth that inflates the lungs
      of the child that has just been born.
      It is the singular gift
      we cannot destroy in ourselves,
      the argument that refutes death,
      the genius that invents the future,
      all we know of God.
      It is the serum which makes us swear
      not to betray one another;
      it is in this poem, trying to speak.
      ~ Lisel Mueller ~
      (Alive Together: New and Selected Poems)

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