I would maintain that thanks are the highest form of thought; and that gratitude is happiness doubled by wonder.
—G. K. Chesterton
Learn by little the desire for all things
which perhaps is not desire at all
but undying love which perhaps
is not love at all but gratitude
for the being of things which perhaps
is not gratitude at all
but the maker’s joy in what is made,
the joy in which we come to rest.
Cultivate the habit of being grateful for every good thing that comes to you, and to give thanks continuously.
And because all things have contributed to your advancement, you should include all things in your gratitude.
–Ralph Waldo Emerson
Thanks and blessings be
to the Sun and the Earth
for this bread and this wine,
this fruit, this meat, this salt,
thanks be and blessing to them
who prepare it, and who serve it;
thanks and blessings to them
who share it
(and also the absent and the dead).
Thanks and Blessing to them who bring it
(may they not want),
and to them who plant and tend it,
harvest and gather it
(may they not want);
thanks and blessing to them who work
and blessing to them who cannot;
may they not want - for their hunger
sours the wine and robs
the taste from the salt.
Thanks be for the sustenance and strength
for our dance and work of justice, and of peace.
–Rafael Jesus Gonzalez
In Praise of Fertile Land
I could have differentancestors, after all.I could have flutteredfrom another nestor crawled bescaledfrom another tree.Nature's wardrobeholds a fairsupply of costumes:Spider, seagull, fieldmouse.each fits perfectly right offand is dutifully worninto shreds.I didn't get a choice either,but I can't complain.I could have been someonemuch less separate.someone from an anthill, shoal, or buzzing swarm,an inch of landscape ruffled by the wind.Someone much less fortunate,bred for my furor Christmas dinner,something swimming under a square of glass.A tree rooted to the groundas the fire draws near.A grass blade trampled by a stampedeof incomprehensible events.A shady type whose darknessdazzled some.What if I'd prompted only fear,Loathing,or pity?If I'd been bornin the wrong tribewith all roads closed before me?Fate has been kindto me thus far.I might never have been giventhe memory of happy momentsMy yen for comparisonmight have been taken away.I might have been myself minus amazement,that is,someone completely different.
Walking, I can almost hear the redwoods beating. And the oceans are above me here, rolling clouds, heavy and dark. It is winter and there is smoke from the fires.
It is a world of elemental attention, of all things working together, listening to what speaks in the blood. Whichever road I follow, I walk in the land of many gods, and they love and eat one another.
Suddenly all my ancestors are behind me. Be still, they say. Watch and listen. You are the result of the love of thousands.
Introduction from Collected Poems
The poems to come are for you and for me and are not for mostpeople.
-it's no use trying to pretend that mostpeople and ourselves are alike.
Mostpeople have less in common with ourselves than the
squarerootofminusone. You and I are human beings:mostpeople are snobs.Take the matter of being born. What does being born mean to mostpeople?
Catastrophe unmitigated. Socialrevolution. The cultured aristocrat yanked
out of his hyperexclusively ultra voluptuous superpalazzo,and dumped into an
incredibly vulgar detentioncamp swarming with every conceivable species of
undesirable organism. Mostpeople fancy a guaranteed birthproof safetysuit of
nondestructible selflessness. If mostpeople were to be born twice they'd
improbably call it dying-you and I are not snobs. We can never be born enough. We are human
beings;for whom birth is a supremely welcome mystery,the mystery of
growing:the mystery which happens only and whenever we are faithful to
ourselves. You and I wear the dangerous looseness of doom and find it
becoming. Life,for eternal us,is now;and now is much too busy being a
little more than everything to seem anything,catastrophic included.Life,for mostpeople,simply isn't. Take the socalled standardof living. What do
mostpeople mean by 'living'? They don't mean living. They mean the latest and
closest plural approximation to singular prenatal passivity which science,in its
finite but unbounded wisdom,has succeeded in selling their wives. If science
could fail,a mountain's a mammal. Mostpeople's wives can spot a genuine
delusion of embryonic omnipotence immediately and will accept no substitutes.-luckily for us,a mountain is a mammal. The plusorminus movie to end
moving,the strictly scientific parlourgame of real unreality,the tyranny
conceived in misconception and dedicated to the proposition that every man
is a woman and any woman a king,hasn't a wheel to stand on. What their most
synthetic not to mention transparent majesty,mrsadmr collective foetus,would
improbably call a ghost is walking. He isn't an undream of anaesthetized
impersons,or a cosmic comfortstation,or a transcendentally sterilized lookiesoundiefeelietastiesmellie. He is a healthily complex,a naturally
homogeneous,citizen of immortality. The now of his each pitying free imperfect
gesture,his any birth or breathing,insults perfected inframortally millenniums
of slavishness. He is a little more than everything,he is democracy; he is
alive:he is ourselves.Miracles are to come. With you I leave a remembrance of miracles: they are by
somebody who can love and who shall be continually reborn,a human
being;somebody who said to those near him,when his fingers would not hold a
brush 'tie it into my hand'-nothing proving or sick or partial. Nothing false,nothing difficult or easy or small
or colossal. Nothing ordinary or extraordinary,nothing emptied or filled,real or
unreal;nothing feeble and known or clumsy and guessed. Everywhere tints
childrening, innocent spontaneous,true. Nowhere possibly what flesh and
impossibly such a garden,but actually flowers which breasts are among the very
mouths of light. Nothing believed or doubted; brain over heart, surface:nowhere
hating or to fear;shadow, mind without soul. Only how measureless cool flames
of making;only each other building always distinct selves of mutual entirely
opening;only alive. Never the murdered finalities of wherewhen and
yesno,impotent nongames of wrongright and rightwrong;never to gain or
pause,never the soft adventure of undoom,greedy anguishes and cringing
ecstasies of inexistence; never to rest and never to have:only to grow.Always the beautiful answer who asks a more beautiful question.
–E. E. Cummings
To me, every hour of the light and dark is a miracle,Every cubic inch of space is a miracle,Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the same,Every foot of the interior swarms with the same;
Every spear of grass - the frames, limbs, organs, of men and women, and all that concerns them,
All these to me are unspeakably perfect miracles.–Walt Whitman
These original Sound Frequencies were apparently used in Ancient Gregorian Chants, such as the great hymn to St. John the Baptist, along with others that church authorities say were lost centuries ago. The Chants and their special tones were believed to impart tremendous Spiritual Blessings when sung in Harmony during Religious Masses.These powerful Frequencies were rediscovered by Dr. Joseph Puleo as described in the book “Healing Codes for the Biological Apocalypse” by Dr. Leonard Horowitz.The Six Solfeggio Frequencies include:UT (396 Hz) - Liberating Guilt and Fear
RE (417 Hz) - Undoing Situations and Facilitating Change
MI (528 Hz) - Transformation and Miracles (DNA Repair)
FA (639 Hz) - Connecting/Relationships
SOL (741 Hz) - Awakening Intuition
LA (852 Hz) - Returning to Spiritual OrderFor example, the third note, frequency 528, relates to the note MI on the scale and derives from the phrase “MI-ra gestorum” in Latin meaning “miracle.” Stunningly, this is the exact frequency used by genetic biochemists to repair broken DNA, the genetic blueprint upon which life is based.
Among the more irritating minor ideasOf Mr. Homburg during his visits homeTo Concord, at the edge of things, was this:To think away the grass, the trees, the clouds,Not to transform them into other things,Is only what the sun does every day,Until we say to ourselves that there may beA pensive nature, a mechanicalAnd slightly detestable operandum, freeFrom man's ghost, larger and yet a little like,Without his literature and without his gods . . .No doubt we live beyond ourselves in air,In an element that does not do for us,so well, that which we do for ourselves, too big,A thing not planned for imagery or belief,Not one of the masculine myths we used to make,A transparency through which the swallow weaves,Without any form or any sense of form,What we know in what we see, what we feel in whatWe hear, what we are, beyond mystic disputation,In the tumult of integrations out of the sky,And what we think, a breathing like the wind,A moving part of a motion, a discoveryPart of a discovery, a change part of a change,A sharing of color and being part of it.The afternoon is visibly a source,Too wide, too irised, to be more than calm,Too much like thinking to be less than thought,Obscurest parent, obscurest patriarch,A daily majesty of meditation,That comes and goes in silences of its own.We think, then as the sun shines or does not.We think as wind skitters on a pond in a fieldOr we put mantles on our words becauseThe same wind, rising and rising, makes a soundLike the last muting of winter as it ends.A new scholar replacing an older one reflectsA moment on this fantasia. He seeksFor a human that can be accounted for.The spirit comes from the body of the world,Or so Mr. Homburg thought: the body of a worldWhose blunt laws make an affectation of mind,The mannerism of nature caught in a glassAnd there become a spirit's mannerism,A glass aswarm with things going as far as they can.
The room was suddenly rich and the great bay-window was
Spawning snow and pink roses against it
Soundlessly collateral and incompatible:
World is suddener than we fancy it.
World is crazier and more of it than we think,
Incorrigibly plural. I peel and portion
A tangerine and spit the pips and feel
The drunkenness of things being various.
And the fire flames with a bubbling sound for world
Is more spiteful and gay than one supposes -
On the tongue on the eyes on the ears in the palms of one's hands -
There is more than glass between the snow and the roses.
It was passed from one bird to another,the whole gift of the day.The day went from flute to flute,
went dressed in vegetation,
in flights which opened a tunnel
through which the wind would pass
to where birds were breaking open
the dense blue air -
and there, night came in.
When I returned from so many journeys,
I stayed suspended and green
between sun and geography -
I saw how wings worked,
how perfumes are transmitted
by feathery telegraph,
and from above I saw the path,
the springs and the roof tiles,
the fishermen at their trades,
the trousers of the foam;I saw it all from my green sky.
I had no more alphabet
than the swallows in their courses,
the tiny, shining water
of the small bird on fire
which dances out of the pollen.
“It is understood that
Sleep is the desire for
A period of rest
For the body.
It is less understood that
Sleep is the desire for
A period of rest
Away from the body.”
"What constitutes the sense of 'I am this' is
Constantly changing while
What constitutes the sense of 'I am' is unmoving.
The shift in the attention from
The former to the latter is
The perfume of lucid sight."
—Wu Xin (Wu Hsin, 无心)
The Lost Writings of Wu-Hsin: Pointers to Non-Duality in Five Volumes,
Roy Melvyn translation
Be the mystery.
In this uncontainable night,
be the mystery at the crossroads of your senses,
the meaning discovered there.
And if the world has ceased to hear you,
say to the silent earth: I flow.
To the rushing water, speak: I am.
–Rainer Maria Rilke
Learn who it is within you who makes everything his own
and says, “My God, my mind, my thought, my soul, my body.”Learn the sources of sorrow, joy, love, hate.Learn how it happens that one watches without willing,
rests without willing, becomes angry without willing,
loves without willing.
–Hippolytus of Rome
Our bodies are wild. The involuntary quick turn of the head at a shout, the vertigo at looking off a precipice, the heart-in-the-throat in a moment of danger, the catch of the breath, the quiet moments relaxing, staring, reflecting - all universal responses of this mammal body . . . The body does not require the intercession of some conscious intellect to make it breathe, to keep the heart beating. It is to a great extent self-regulating, it is a life of its own. The world is our consciousness, and it surrounds us. There are more things in the mind, in the imagination, than 'you' can keep track of - thoughts, memories, images, angers, delights, rise unbidden. The depths of the mind, the unconscious, are our inner wilderness areas, and that is where a bobcat is right now. I do not mean personal bobcats in personal psyches, but the bobcat that roams from dream to dream. The conscious agenda-planning ego occupies a very tiny territory, a little cubicle somewhere near the gate, keeping track of some of what goes in and out, and the rest takes care of itself. The body is, so to speak, in the mind. They are both wild.
The source is within you,
And this whole world is pouring from it.
The source is full,
And it’s waters are overflowing.
Do not grieve, drink your fill,
Don’t think it will ever run dry, this endless ocean.
"The Nagual (don Juan) showed all of us what he could do with his intent,” she said abruptly.
“He could make things appear by calling intent."
"He told me that if I wanted to fly, I had to summon the intent of flying. He showed me then how he himself could summon it, and jumped in the air and soared in a circle, like a huge kite.
Or he would make things appear in his hand.
He said that he knew the intent of many things and could call those things by intending them.
The difference between him and Silvio Manuel was that Silvio Manuel, by being the master of intent, knew the intent of everything.”
I told her that her explanation needed more explaining.
She seemed to struggle with arranging words in her mind.
“I learned the intent of flying,” she said, “by repeating all the feeling I had while flying in dreaming.
This was only one thing.
The Nagual had learned in his life the intent of hundreds of things. But Silvio Manuel went to the source itself. He tapped it. He didn’t have to learn the intent of anything.
He was one with intent. The problem was that he had no more desires because intent has no desire of its own, so he had to rely on the Nagual for volition.
In other words, Silvio Manuel could do anything the Nagual wanted.
The Nagual directed Silvio Manuel’s intent. But since the Nagual had no desires either, most of the time they didn’t do anything.”
The Eagle’s Gift
A common misconception is
The belief that thinking is
The creation of thought.
Rather, it is
The reception of thought from
A source which has no name and
From a place that cannot be found.
Since one can’t decide to think
Nor can one decide
Why does one
Claim their ownership?
Is every sound Wu Hsin’s because
He can hear them?
Observe your own body. It breathes.
You breathe when you are asleep, when you are no longer conscious of your own ideas of self-identity.
Who, then, is breathing?
The collection of information that you mistakenly think is you is not the protagonist in this drama called the breath. In fact, you are not breathing; breath is naturally happening to you.
You can purposely end your own life, but you cannot purposely keep your own life going. The expression, 'my life' is actually an oxymoron, a result of ignorance and mistaken assumption.
You don't possess life; life expresses itself through you.
Your body is a flower that life let bloom, a phenomenon created by life.
Do you see the space between our bodies?
Barely a hand, hardly a breath,
it is the space mountains and rivers are made of.
It is the beginning of oceans, the space
between either and or, both and neither.
the happiness of forgetting
our names and the happiness of hearing them
for the first time.
Trading for Heaven