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#4907 - Thursday, May 2, 2013 - Editor: Gloria Lee

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  • Gloria Lee
    #4907 - Thursday, May 2, 2013 - Editor: Gloria Lee The Nonduality Highlights http://groups.yahoo.com/group/NDhighlights/ Standing Deer As the house of a person
    Message 1 of 1 , May 3 10:18 AM
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      #4907 - Thursday, May 2, 2013 - Editor: Gloria Lee
       
       
       
       

      Standing Deer

      As the house of a person
      in age sometimes grows cluttered
      with what is
      too loved or too heavy to part with,
      the heart may grow cluttered.
      And still the house will be emptied,
      and still the heart.

      As the thoughts of a person
      in age sometimes grow sparer,
      like a great cleanness come into a room,
      the soul may grow sparer;
      one sparrow song carves it completely.
      And still the room is full,
      and still the heart.

      Empty and filled,
      like the curling half-light of morning,
      in which everything is still possible and so why not.

      Filled and empty,
      like the curling half-light of evening,
      in which everything now is finished and so why not.

      Beloved, what can be, what was,
      will be taken from us.
      I have disappointed.
      I am sorry. I knew no better.

      A root seeks water.
      Tenderness only breaks open the earth.
      This morning, out the window,
      the deer stood like a blessing, then vanished.

      ~ Jane Hirshfield ~
       
      (The Lives of the Heart)

       
       
       

       
       
      Five A.M. in the Pinewoods
       
      I'd seen
      their hoofprints in the deep
      needles and knew
      they ended the long night
       
      under the pines, walking
      like two mute
      and beautiful women toward
      the deeper woods, so I
       
      got up in the dark and
      went there. They came
      slowly down the hill
      and looked at me sitting under
       
      the blue trees, shyly
      they stepped
      closer and stared
      from under their thick lashes and even
       
      nibbled some damp
      tassels of weeds. This
      is not a poem about a dream,
      though it could be.
       
      This is a poem about the world
      that is ours, or could be.
      Finally
      one of them — I swear it! —
       
      would have come to my arms.
      But the other
      stamped sharp hoof in the
      pine needles like
       
      the tap of sanity,
      and they went off together through
      the trees. When I woke
      I was alone,
       
      I was thinking:
      so this is how you swim inward,
      so this is how you flow outward,
      so this is how you pray.
       

      ~ Mary Oliver ~
       
      (House of Light
       
       
       



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