#4110 - Monday, December 20, 2010 - Editor: Gloria Lee
- Grace is not something to be acquired from others.If it is external, it is useless.All that is necessary is to know its existence in you.- Ramana MaharshiIf you seek the grace of God with your whole heart,then you may be assured that the grace of God is also seeking you.- Ramana MaharshiThis sense of affection, this love, this quality cannot be cultivated,cannot be practised, cannot be brought about; but it must happenas naturally as breathing, as fully with great joy and delight as the sunset.- J. Krishnamurtiby Kia Pierce on Facebook
When we speak of a calm state of mind or peace of mind, we shouldn'tconfuse that with an insensitive state of apathy. Having a calm or peacefulstate of mind doesn't mean being spaced out or completely empty. Peaceof mind or a calm state of mind is rooted in affection and compassion andis sensitive and responsive to others.- Dalai Lama
Like a Herd of Luminous Deer
You come and go. The doors swing closed
ever more gently, almost without a shudder.
Of all those who move through the quiet houses,
you are the quietest.
We become so accustomed to you,
we no longer look up
when your shadow falls over the book we are reading
and makes it glow. For all things
sing you: at times
we just hear them more clearly.
Often when I imagine you
your wholeness cascades into many shapes.
You run like a herd of luminous deer
and I am dark, I am forest.
You are a wheel at which I stand,
whose dark spokes sometimes catch me up,
revolve me nearer to the center.
Then all the work I put my hand to
widens from turn to turn.
_ Rainer Maria Rilke, Love Poems to God, The Book of Monastic Life
posted by Peter Shefler to Facebook, photo by Peter SheflerWhite Owl Flies Into and Out of the FieldComing down out of the freezing sky
with its depths of light,
like an angel, or a Buddha with wings,
it was beautiful, and accurate,
striking the snow and whatever was there
with a force that left the imprint
of the tips of its wings — five feet apart —
and the grabbing thrust of its feet,
and the indentation of what had been running
through the white valleys of the snow —
and then it rose, gracefully,
and flew back to the frozen marshes
to lurk there, like a little lighthouse,
in the blue shadows —
so I thought:
maybe death isn't darkness, after all,
but so much light wrapping itself around us —as soft as feathers —
that we are instantly weary of looking, and looking,
and shut our eyes, not without amazement,
and let ourselves be carried,
as through the translucence of mica,
to the river that is without the least dapple or shadow,
that is nothing but light — scalding, aortal light —
in which we are washed and washed
out of our bones.- Mary Oliver(House of Light)Web version: www.panhala.net/Archive/White_Owl_Flies.html