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#3669 - Monday, September 28, 2009 - Editor: Gloria Lee

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  • Gloria Lee
    #3669 - Monday, September 28, 2009 - Editor: Gloria Lee The Nonduality Highlights - http://groups.yahoo.com/group/NDhighlights To Be Shown to the Monks at a
    Message 1 of 1 , Sep 28, 2009

      #3669 - Monday, September 28, 2009 - Editor: Gloria Lee

      The Nonduality Highlights - http://groups.yahoo.com/group/NDhighlights
       
       

      To Be Shown to the Monks at a Certain Temple

      By Chiao Jan
      (730 - 799)

      English version by J. P. Seaton

      Not yet to the shore of nondoing,
      it's silly to be sad you're not moored yet...
      Eastmount's white clouds say
      to keep on moving, even
      if it's evening, even if it's fall.

       

      -- from The Shambhala Anthology of Chinese Poetry, Edited by J. P. Seaton

      www.Poetry-Chaikhana.com


       
      Unconscious people read the scriptures
      like parrots saying Ram, Ram,
      in their cages.

      It's all pretend-knowledge.
      Read rather, with me, every
      living moment as prophecy.

      - Lalla
        14th Century North Indian mystic

      ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` 


      From "Naked Song"
      Versions by Coleman Barks
      posted to Along THe Way
       

       

      the diner

      Jul. 23rd, 2005 | 12:33 pm


      I’ve just returned from the Double-T diner where I sat at the counter drinking stale black coffee. I was fortunate enough to be joined by Arnie on my right, a 71 year old moon-faced Virginian who is an expert on politics, religion, marriage, and waitresses, and by Samuel on my left, an even older man with coal-black skin and a beaming jack-o-lantern smile.

      Between the two of them, I learned why the world is as deeply screwed up as it is and precisely what needs to be done about it (did you know, for instance, that the solution to any problem can be found in the book of Ezekial?). I was given the sort of advice on choosing a wife that you just can’t buy from any therapist. I also learned the history of our waitress, Ida, and how to make her laugh so that you can watch her eyes squint with pleasure until you can’t help but laugh along with her.

      I’ve been at this counter many times before, sitting alone with the latest issue of The New Yorker, sipping coffee and keeping my eyes down; if someone sits next to me, I ignore them as politely as I can. But this morning I looked up, and discovered that the entire place was shimmering with light. The paper napkin dispenser, the stacks of coffee-stained cups and saucers, the cart of bused silverware and crumpled sugar packets, the loose change sitting idly on the faux-granite counter—all of it alive and vibrant; all of it singing its heart out for anyone with ears to hear.

      And I got to meet these two old sages, either of whom could have been my father, and listen to their sutras. I got to see the creases on their faces and hands, the worn pathways of so many forgotten journeys. I got to shake those hands, strong hands that have touched and held so much, that have built ingenious devices, folded newspapers, signed checks, wiped away tears; I got to shake hands with these men and feel as if we were pals forever.

      I didn’t know any of this before leaving my house. I knew only that I was hungry. I just didn’t have any idea what it was I hungered for.

      Now I know.
       

      --Dan Honemann

       
       
      posted to Wisdom-l by Mark Scorelle
       

       
      Just Thinking
       
      Got up on a cool morning. Leaned out a window.
      No cloud, no wind. Air
      that flowers held
      for awhile. Some dove somewhere.
      Been on probation most of my life. And
      the rest of my life been condemned.
      So these moments
      count for a lot—peace, you know.
      Let the bucket of memory down into the well,
      bring it up. Cool, cool
      minutes. No one
      stirring, no plans. Just being there.
      This is what the whole thing is about. 
                    
      ~    ~   ~

      When I Met My Muse
      I glanced at her and took my glasses
      off—they were still singing. They
      buzzed
      like a locust on the coffee table and then
      ceased. Her voice belled
      forth, and the
      sunlight bent. I felt the ceiling arch, and
      knew that nails
      up there took a new grip
      on whatever they touched. "I am your own
      way of
      looking at things," she said. "When
      you allow me to live with you,
      every
      glance at the world around you will be
      a sort of salvation." And I
      took her hand.          
       
      --William Stafford
       
      posted to Daily Dharma by Amrita Nadi


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