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#4737 - Monday, October 22, 2012 - Editor: Gloria Lee

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  • Gloria Lee
    #4737 - Monday, October 22, 2012 - Editor: Gloria Lee The Nonduality Highlights http://groups.yahoo.com/group/NDhighlights/ Autumn is a second spring when
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      #4737 - Monday, October 22, 2012 - Editor: Gloria Lee
       
       
      "Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower."
      ~ Albert Camus
       

       
       
      Being awake is not a feeling.
      Being awake is not a thought.
      Being awake is not a memory or desire.
      Being awake is the burning away
      of past and future,
      this scattering of apples in October rain.
      Perish into the Mother.
       
      Photo: Being awake is not a feeling.
Being awake is not a thought.
Being awake is not a memory or desire.
Being awake is the burning away
of past and future,
this scattering of apples in October rain.
Perish into the Mother.
      ~ Fred LaMotte
       
       

       
      The Great Creator, in the variety of creations,
      blesses the low and the high.
      In this one act have I resolved all philosophy.
      I walk oceans and they do not hold me back.
      I ride into the dark heart of all being
      and dwell in the vast halls of the ant.
      No need to look outside the door for wisdom.
      Must we see all the mountains and the seas to love them?
      I have written what my heart has learned.
       
      ~ Isonokami no Yakatsugu
       
      by Alan Larus
       
       

       
       
      Sojourns in the Parallel World
       

      We live our lives of human passions,
      cruelties, dreams, concepts,
      crimes and the exercise of virtue
      in and beside a world devoid
      of our preoccupations, free
      from apprehension—though affected,
      certainly, by our actions. A world
      parallel to our own though overlapping.
      We call it 'Nature: only reluctantly
      admitting ourselves to be 'Nature' too.
      Whenever we lose track of our own obsessions,
      our self-concerns, because we drift for a minute,
      an hour even, of pure (almost pure)
      response to that insouciant life:
      cloud, bird, fox, the flow of light, the dancing
      pilgrimage of water, vast stillness
      of spellbound ephemerae on a lit windowpane,
      animal voices, mineral hum, wind
      conversing with rain, ocean with rock, stuttering
      of fire to coal—then something tethered
      in us, hobbled like a donkey on its patch
      of gnawed grass and thistles, breaks free.
      No one discovers
      just where we've been, when we're caught up again
      into our own sphere (where we must
      return, indeed, to evolve our destinies)
      —but we have changed, a little.
       
      by Denise Levertov from Sands of the Well.
      © New Directions Books, 1994
      via Writer's Almanac
       
      photo by Alan Larus
       
       

       
       
      Lake and Maple
       
      I want to give myself
      utterly
      as this maple
      that burned and burned
      for three days without stinting
      and then in two more
      dropped off every leaf;
      as this lake that,
      no matter what comes
      to its green-blue depths,
      both takes and returns it.
      In the still heart that refuses nothing,
      the world is twice-born --
      two earths wheeling,
      two heavens,
      two egrets reaching
      down into subtraction;
      even the fish
      for an instant doubled,
      before it is gone.
      I want the fish.
      I want the losing it all
      when it rains and I want
      the returning transparence.
      I want the place
      by the edge-flowers where
      the shallow sand is deceptive,
      where whatever
      steps in must plunge,
      and I want that plunging.
      I want the ones
      who come in secret to drink
      only in early darkness,
      and I want the ones
      who are swallowed.
      I want the way
      the water sees without eyes,
      hears without ears,
      shivers without will or fear
      at the gentlest touch.
      I want the way it
      accepts the cold moonlight
      and lets it pass,
      the way it lets
      all of of it pass
      without judgment or comment.
      There is a lake.
      Lalla Ded sang, no larger
      than one seed of mustard,
      that all things return to.
      O heart, if you
      will not, cannot, give me the lake,
      then give me the song.
       
      Jane Hirshfield
       
      photo by Alan Larus
       

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