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#4503 - Saturday, February 4, 2011

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  • Mark
    Archived issues of the NDHighlights are available online: http://nonduality.com/hlhome.htm Nonduality Highlights: Issue
    Message 1 of 1 , Feb 5, 2012
      Archived issues of the NDHighlights are available online: http://nonduality.com/hlhome.htm

      Nonduality Highlights: Issue #4503, Saturday, February 4, 2011

      When Death Comes

      When death comes
      like the hungry bear in autumn;
      when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse

      to buy me, and snaps the purse shut;
      when death comes
      like the measle-pox

      when death comes
      like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,

      I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:
      what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?

      And therefore I look upon everything
      as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
      and I look upon time as no more than an idea,
      and I consider eternity as another possibility,

      and I think of each life as a flower, as common
      as a field daisy, and as singular,

      and each name a comfortable music in the mouth,
      tending, as all music does, toward silence,

      and each body a lion of courage, and something
      precious to the earth.

      When it's over, I want to say all my life
      I was a bride married to amazement.
      I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

      When it's over, I don't want to wonder
      if I have made of my life something particular, and real.

      I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened,
      or full of argument.

      I don't want to end up simply having visited this world.

      - Mary Oliver

      Warrior II

      Here there is nothing to fight
      except wilfulness.
      Some lean to far
      into the past.
      Others stretch way out
      into the future.
      The true warrior
      stays in the moment,
      burning deeper
      into whatever comes,
      or sometimes with
      even more difficulty,
      what doesn't.

      - Virabhadrasana II, posted to Allspirit

      Perhaps not to be is to be without your being.

      Perhaps not to be is to be without your being,
      without your going, that cuts noon light
      like a blue flower, without your passing
      later through fog and stones,
      without the torch you lift in your hand
      that others may not see as golden,
      that perhaps no one believed blossomed
      the glowing origin of the rose,
      without, in the end, your being, your coming
      suddenly, inspiringly, to know my life,
      blaze of the rose-tree, wheat of the breeze:
      and it follows that I am, because you are:
      it follows from `you are', that I am, and we:
      and, because of love, you will, I will,
      We will, come to be.

      - Pablo Neruda

      A Riddle Song

      THAT which eludes this verse and any verse,
      Unheard by sharpest ear, unform'd in clearest eye or cunningest min
      d, Nor lore nor fame, nor happiness nor wealth,
      And yet the pulse of every heart and life throughout the world
      Which you and I and all pursuing ever ever miss,
      Open but still a secret, the real of the real, an illusion,
      Costless, vouchsafed to each, yet never man the owner,
      Which poets vainly seek to put in rhyme, historians in prose,
      Which sculptor never chisel'd yet, nor painter painted,
      Which vocalist never sung, nor orator nor actor ever utter'd,
      Invoking here and now I challenge for my song.

      Indifferently, 'mid public, private haunts, in solitude,
      Behind the mountain and the wood,
      Companion of the city's busiest streets, through the assemblage,
      It and its radiations constantly glide.

      In looks of fair unconscious babes,
      Or strangely in the coffin'd dead,
      Or show of breaking dawn or stars by night,
      As some dissolving delicate film of dreams,
      Hiding yet lingering.

      Two little breaths of words comprising it.
      Two words, yet all from first to last comprised in it.

      How ardently for it!
      How many ships have sail'd and sunk for it!
      How many travelers started from their homes and ne'er return'd!
      How much of genius boldly staked and lost for it!
      What countless stores of beauty, love, ventur'd for it!
      How all superbest deeds since Time began are traceable to it--and
      shall be to the end!
      How all heroic martyrdoms to it!
      How, justified by it, the horrors, evils, battles of the earth!
      How the bright fascinating lambent flames of it, in every age and
      land, have drawn men's eyes,
      Rich as a sunset on the Norway coast, the sky, the islands, and the
      Or midnight's silent glowing northern lights unreachable.

      Haply God's riddle it, so vague and yet so certain,
      The soul for it, and all the visible universe for it,
      And heaven at last for it.

      - Walt Whitman

      A Brave and Startling Truth

      We, unaccustomed to courage exiles from delight
      live coiled in shells of loneliness
      until love leaves its high holy temple
      and comes into our sight
      to liberate us into life.

      If we are bold, love strikes away the chains of fear from our souls.

      Love costs all we are and will ever be.
      Yet it is only love which sets us free.
      A Brave and Startling Truth.

      It is possible and imperative that we discover
      A brave and startling truth.

      When we come to it
      We, this people, on this wayward, floating body
      Created on this earth, of this earth
      Have the power to fashion for this earth
      A climate where every man and every woman
      Can live freely without sanctimonious piety
      And without crippling fear

      When we come to it
      We must confess that we are the possible
      We are the miraculous, the true wonders of this world
      That is when, and only when
      We come to it.

      - Maya Angelou

      Again and Again

      Again and again, however we know the landscape of love
      and the little churchyard there, with its sorrowing names,
      and the frighteningly silent abyss into which the others
      fall: again and again the two of us walk out together
      under the ancient trees, lie down again and again
      among the flowers, face to face with the sky.

      - Rainer Maria Rilke

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