Wendell Berry's words give us an understanding of why it is so hard to describe meditation ...
"The mind that comes to rest is tended
In some ways that it cannot intend
Is born, preserved, and comprehended
By what it cannot comprehend." ~ Wendell Berry, from 1979 in This Day
The naturalness of deep rest meditation
the deeper nature of resting. The resonance
of generosity...the sheer ongoingness
that giving is and does...
Wendell Berry giving into his poems, along
Another old CD coming back to life--Handel's Messiah-- has kept me company driving in the rain this week.
Listening and singing along brought me to some kind of intersection-- a Monty Python-esque funny bone, the majestic sweep of harmonies, and a kinship felt in ancient shepherd poetry. Within all the absurdity and vastness, we're not so different after all, so then what? I had not paid as much attention to three passages that stood out this week: "All we like sheep," "Why
the craziness of
just being yourself, and yet
wooing the divine. Celebrating Kabir's kind of craziness.
The swan of our inner life or soul will fly away
some day, says Kabir, so find what's worthwhile to find--woo
and marry and celebrate that. Sing it. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FpWAKSGZZ6A&list=PLYQZAsoWq_KSzBnNKonHDmWCdpgIiFKY4 It's the kind of speech
no eye can see
Kabir says, Listen
to the word spoken
in every body
~Kabir (transl. L
Ask the world to reveal its quietude- not the silence of machines when they are still, but the true quiet by which birdsongs, trees, bellworts, snails, clouds, storms become what they are, and are nothing else. ~Wendell Berry Thanks to Kane for sharing this excerpt #poetry #WendellBerry #nature #ecology #silence #meditation #nonduality
Painting by Jaya Julienne Ashmore Though your destination is not yet clear,
You can trust the promise of this opening,
Unfurl yourself into the grace of beginning,
That is at one with your life's desire. from "Blessing a new beginning"
in John O'Donohue's To Bless the Space Between Us: A Book of Blessings
Thanks to Emma Philander for sharing this with me. #poetry
The fire in leaf and grass so green it seems each summer the last summer. The wind blowing, the leaves shivering in the sun, each day the last day. A red salamander so cold and so easy to catch, dreamily Moves his delicate feet and long tail. I hold my hand open for him to go. Each minute the last minute. ~Denise Levertov #poetry
swirling over the well
Rain splashes through the new roof, geckos bark,
purple lotus closed in the bright morning, opens, then closes,
Forty people walk the story, a
coiled path from big bang
to bacteria—candles and string drawing
freshly made space, feet
tracing times: through flowering plants
center drops endlessly
3 May, 2008
Sierra de Gredos, Spain, morning This morning I went out in
the blue-black to beat the
forgotten wake-up gong. The white wake of a tiny
unzipped heaven all
about to set #poetry
Between orange schoolhouse—boys in yellow—and parking lot/cricket field,
our meditation hall.
In the parking lot 8 white cars wear red VIP police lights, and
8 white rabbit “use me” trash cans peek through the fence.
Guards let everyone past the sign: “Silence. No entry without
Bells, loudspeakers, fire prayers.
Green lychee blossoms. Green lychee shade. #poetry
1. Day 2
in the hall
3-inch black scorpion Outside boys throw
lumps of clay over the wall
at our private interviews,
give flowers to someone on a walk Day 6
Turning around to arrive Day 7
Ripe wheat flat slopes up to sudden
(forest on uncommon shapes)
Afternoon wrapped women wave
green flags of weeds,
bundled then tossed
out of golden wheat slant backlit western hills burn lavender
eastern hills bask in green patchworks Late
The Tibetan girl in red and black plays the Chenrezig game—walks with eyes closed from one corner of the temple
across white marble
towards the statue of the bodhisattva of compassion.
Her palms face to face held up in front of her face.
If her hands meet his feet,
she gets her wish.
She veers to the left, then straightens out her path, grabs his ankles.
She peeked. On the last morning of the retreat,
before the closing talk,
I went to the Bodhi
Cheap ice cream,
bakery white buns, women’s hair nets white aprons, harsh look soft bread
Johanna on roller blades, slipper logs, bicycle; 6-week-old daughter, the youngest retreatant, only 2 or 3 peeps all week.
Her mother a tango dancer with black hair to hips
Her father (not by blood) a philosopher who loves books People felt: trust body, not should, connect even if nurse on duty. Spring sprang, daffodil dappled—th
A green tarp roof; a green tarp floor.
Walls of air, open to redwoods, ants. Hummingbirds throb by our cooling heads, and mosquitoes flit through and sip. Amazing to know that Silver Springs Mountain Retreat was offered to us on a completely donation basis. Amazing to taste the food cooked under the sky, with a view of Mount Shasta.
Amazing to hear the rustling of opening hearts, deep eyes. #poetry
dawn soft naked lavender
jasmine breath spills in and out chicken rhythms, white stony
barely hills barely green—
where green, dark green, dusted
except this willow dripping
light Jerusalem 20.10.06 across warty browning vineyard,
beyond utility tower lines, across the highway,
the crest of Jonn’s wilderness hill—reforested,
headlights, red roofs, water tanks. in the morning
rising up like a wall—
startled to be alive again
unripe lupines jewel birds
attacked trees still grow
barred cottages organic milk
salad of diced cactus
tomatoes are green
jicamates are red Sprigs of bouncy pine cross the path, comb my heavy hair.
Todo tan humedo que solo la quinta cerilla se illumina.
Flotando en las nubes, Cerro de las Estrellas, tallest volcano in North America. I looked straight out over the valley--not down into it--and he was at eye level.
Se borra de nuevo el volcan. black volcano's belly
In my dreams I was
I was uncovering
the ancient sites, carved stone
of a harmonious people. In my waking, I was
in green, meeting
eyes of willingness,
heart of peace. In my sleep I was
catching you when you fell
And lifting you.
Now I am clothed in lilacs, bunches
these striped clouds
and naked ground. #poetry