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#4972 - Monday, July 15, 2013 - Editor: Gloria Lee

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  • Gloria Lee
    #4972 - Monday, July 15, 2013 - Editor: Gloria Lee The Nonduality Highlights http://groups.yahoo.com/group/NDhighlights/ According to Chuang Tzu, The pivot of
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      #4972 - Monday, July 15, 2013 - Editor: Gloria Lee
       
       
      According to Chuang Tzu, "The pivot of Tao passes through the center
      where all affirmations and denials converge." So you are neither "perfect"
      nor "imperfect." Neither "right" nor "wrong." Neither "good" nor "evil."
      Neither "yin" nor "yang." Neither “this” nor “that.” You are, instead, only
      the empty space in which all of these apparent opposites
      "appear-to-appear."
       
      ~Chuck Hillig
       
       

       
       
       
      MAMEEN
       
      Be infinitesimal under that sky, a creature
      even the sailing hawk misses, a wraith
      among the rocks where the mist parts slowly.
       
      Recall the way mere mortals are overwhelmed
      by circumstance, how great reputations
      dissolve with infirmity and how you,
      in particular, stand a hairsbreadth from losing
      everyone you hold dear.
       
      Then, look back down the path to the north,
      the way you came, as if seeing
      your entire past and then south
      over the hazy blue coast as if present
      to a broad future.
       
      Recall the way you are all possibilities
      you can see and how you live best
      as an appreciator of horizons
      whether you reach them or not.
       
      Admit that once you have got up
      from your chair and opened the door,
      once you have walked out into the clean air
      toward that edge and taken the path up high
      beyond the ordinary you have become
      the privileged and the pilgrim,
      the one who will tell the story
      and the one, coming back
       
       
       
      From TOBAR PHADRAIC
      River Flow: New and Selected Poems
      ©David Whyte
       
      Photo: DW. Statue of Patrick, Mameen, Connemara
       
       

       
       
      This oceanic feeling of wonder
      is the common source of religious mysticism,
      of pure science and art for art’s sake.
      ~Arthur Koestler
       
      Alan Larus Photography
       
       
      Ocean
       
      I am in love with Ocean
      lifting her thousands of white hats
      in the chop of the storm,
      or lying smooth and blue, the
      loveliest bed in the world.
      In the personal life, there is
       
      always grief more than enough,
      a heart-load for each of us
      on the dusty road. I suppose
      there is a reason for this, so I will be
      patient, acquiescent. But I will live
      nowhere except here, by Ocean, trusting
      equally in all the blast and welcome
      of her sorrowless, salt self.
       
      ~Mary Oliver
       
      via Gloria Tiede on Facebook
       


       
       
      Enigmas by Pablo Neruda
       

      You ask what the crab offers, between its claws of gold,
      and I say: The sea will tell you.
      You ask what the sea-squirt hopes for in its translucent bell.
      What can it hope for?
       
      I say that it waits on its time, as you do.
      You question for whom the algal Macrocystis offers its embraces.
      Unloose it, unloose it, in a certain ocean, and a certain time, that I know.
      Though you turn, for my answer to the Narwhal’s malicious ivory,
       
      I say that you wait for a darker reply,
      how the Sea-unicorn suffered the lance.
      It may be you question the Halcyon’s plumage, tremoring,
      in the pure womb of the southern seas?
       
      Now, on the crystalline house of the polyp you twine
      new demands, threshing it to the husk?
      You want to know the matter electric, caught on the forks of the deep?
      The stalactite’s armour that extends as crystal?
      The spear of the angler-fish, the music stretched-out
      in the gulf, like a thread amongst waters?
       
      I say to you that the ocean knows it, the life
      of its circlings vast as the sands, pure and innumerable,
      and between the red vine-clusters, time has brightened
      the stone of the petals, the light of Medusas,
      and the branches are threshed in the web of the corals,
      from the flowing horn’s infinite nacre.
       
      I am the empty net that hangs,
      beyond men, rendered dead by the shadowy waters,
      fingers grown used to the triangle, measured
      by the shy hemisphere of orange-flowers.
       
      I came, like you, penetrating the interminable starlight,
      in the net of the self, in the night, and found naked self,
      the sole catch, the fish noosed in the wind.
       
      Alan Larus Photography
      poem via Alan Larus
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