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Thursday, February 21, 2002

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  • Gloria Lee
    **************** JOYCE SHORT Sri Garlicji ... Now thinking of Jan as Green Veggie Buddha. Woke up at five feeling very sad for little seedlings crawling along
    Message 1 of 1 , Feb 22, 2002
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       Sri Garlicji

      >  A much quoted analogy is that of the jar,
      > its space
      being the same as space containing the jar.
      > What is overlooked, is that
      neither the jar, nor it's 'inner space,
      > nor the 'outer' space does
      babble :)
      > Hence swami Sivananda's remark, the smell of garlic
      > from a jar even remains after thorough
      > Jan

      Now thinking of Jan as Green Veggie Buddha.  Woke up at five feeling very
      sad for little seedlings crawling along in the dirt looking for light in
      places where it is not to be found. How amazing is the life force! And poor
      garlic!  Garlics all around the world fussing over their smell and
      attempting to turn themselves into roses.  It is the nature of garlic to be
      garlic-hhhhmmmm, love that pungent aroma, the zip it gives to cooking.  To
      say nothing of warding off this and that.....space does not seem to mind
      garlic with its pungeant presence.  Quite the contrary.  There is space in
      garlic and garlic in space.  Seems to work with lovely reciprocity.

      Im now working on space jar dialogueing with garlic. But its not garlic that
      dresses up in anything, sits on throne and plays the flute ands says "you
      down there this" and "you down there that".  Just ordinary zippy, smelly,
      lively allium sativum.  Pressed and squeezed and always loved.



      What to Do?
      (from Harsha Satsangh)
      I don't remember who once said "reality is what doesn't go away when you stop
      believing in it."


      Gloria Lee sent Hafiz
      Today love has completely gutted me.
      I am lying in the market like a
      Filleted grouper,
      Every desire and sinew absolutely silent
      But I am still so fresh.
      Everything is now the same to me.
      The touch of a beautiful woman
      As she lifts me near,
      Drawing my scent into her body;
      She thinks about taking me home.
      The touch of a wondrous fly
      Drinking my vital fluids
      Through a strange shaped flute,
      The sun laying its radiant gaze against my cheek,
      Human voices and the breeze from a passing
      Horse’s tail,
      All send miraculous currents into
      My world.
      God’s beauty has split me wide open.
      Throw Hafiz on a scale,
      Wrap me in cloth,
      Bring me home.
      Lift a piece of my knowledge to your lips
      So I can melt inside of you
      And sing.
      (“The Gift” – versions of Hafiz by Daniel Ladinsky)

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