Friday, December 30, 2022

boil me








.




[...] there is something in the transfer, in the belief, in the folklore of what you do as a cook that makes your food that much different or that much better.

If I want to believe that the enzymes (in the Kalbi Marinade mother sauce) break down the tough sinew and protein in the meat, I transfer that energy to the marinade, and that belief and that spirit transfers to the food.

Somehow it's going to transfer to you and we're all going to be ok.


—Roy Choi
from his excellent Masterclass




.     .     .




A chickpea leaps almost over the rim of the pot

where it’s being boiled.

‘Why are you doing this to me?’ 
 
The cook knocks him down with the ladle.

‘Don’t you try to jump out.

You think I’m torturing you.
 
I’m giving you flavour,

so you can mix with spices and rice

and be the lovely vitality of a human being. 

Remember when you drank rain in the garden.

That was for this.’


Grace first. Sexual pleasure,

then a boiling new life begins,

and the Friend has something good to eat.
 
Eventually the chickpea

will say to the cook,

‘Boil me some more.
Hit me with the skimming spoon.

I can’t do this by myself.
 
I’m like an elephant that dreams of gardens

back in Hindustan and doesn’t pay attention

to his driver. You’re my cook, my driver,

my way to existence. I love your cooking.’


The cook says,

‘I was once like you,

fresh from the ground. Then I boiled in time,

and boiled in the body, two fierce boilings.


My animal soul grew powerful.

I controlled it with practices,

and boiled some more, and boiled

once beyond that,

and became your teacher.’


—Rumi

The Essential Rumi
Coleman Barks and John Moyne version





.








Wednesday, December 28, 2022

gathering life out of the rain

 



 
 
.




There's a tree walking around in the rain,
it rushes past us in the pouring grey.
It has an errand. It gathers life
out of the rain like a blackbird in an orchard.

When the rain stops so does the tree.
There it is, quiet on clear nights
waiting as we do for the moment
when the snowflakes blossom in space.


—Tomas Tranströmer
the tree and the sky



.




Saturday, December 24, 2022

would the heart

   





.



Ah! would the heart but be a manger for the birth, 
God would become once more a little child of earth.

Immeasurable is the Highest! Who but knows it?

And yet a human heart can perfectly enclose it.


—Angelus Silesius


 





Wednesday, December 21, 2022

From Quarks to Love







.



Be a lamp, or a lifeboat, or a ladder.

Help someone’s soul heal.

Walk out of your house like a shepherd.


—Rumi

.




Sunday, December 18, 2022

Advent Adventure







.



So I called my Jesuit friend, Tom, who is a hopeless alcoholic of the worst sort, sober now for 22 years, someone who sometimes gets fat and wants to hang himself, so I trust him. I said, “Tell me a story about Advent. Tell me about people getting well.” He thought for a while. Then he said, “OK.”

In 1976, when he first got sober, he was living in the People’s Republic of Berkeley, going to the very hip AA meetings there, where there were no fluorescent lights and not too much clapping – or that yahoo-cowboy-hat-in-the-air enthusiasm that you get in L.A., according to sober friends. And everything was more or less all right in early sobriety, except that he felt utterly insane all the time, filled with hostility and fear and self-contempt. But I mean, other than that everything was OK. Then he got transferred to Los Angeles in the winter, and he did not know a soul. “It was a nightmare,” he says. “I was afraid to go into entire areas of L.A., because the only places I knew were the bars.

So I called the cardinal and asked him for the name of anyone he knew in town who was in AA. And he told me to call this guy Terry." Terry, as it turned out, had been sober for five years at that point, so Tom thought he was God. They made arrangements to go to a meeting that night in the back of the Episcopal Cathedral, right in the heart of downtown L.A. It was Terry’s favorite meeting, full of low-bottom drunks and junkies – people from nearby halfway houses, bikers, jazz musicians. “Plus it’s a men’s stag meeting,” says Tom. "So already I’ve got issues.

There I am on my first date with this new friend Terry, who turns out to not be real chatty. He’s clumsy and ill at ease, an introvert with no social skills, but the cardinal has heard that he’s also good with newly sober people. He asks me how I am, and after a long moment, I say, ‘I’m just scared,’ and he nods and says gently, ‘That’s right.’ I don’t know a thing about him, I don’t what sort of things he thinks about or who he votes for, but he takes me to this meeting near skid row, where all these awful looking alkies are hanging out in the yard, waiting for a meeting to start. I’m tense, I’m just staring. It’s a whole bunch of strangers, all of them clearly very damaged – working their way back slowly, but not yet real attractive.

The people back in Berkeley AA all seem like David Niven in comparison, and I’m thinking, Who are these people? Why am I here? All my scanners are out. It’s all I can do not to bolt. Ten minutes before the meeting began, Terry directed me to a long flight of stairs heading up to a windowless, airless room. I started walking up the stairs, with my jaws clenched, muttering to myself tensely just like the guy in front of me, this guy my own age who was stumbling and numb and maybe not yet quite on his first day of sobriety.

The only things getting me up the stairs are Terry, behind me, pushing me forward every so often, and this conviction I have that this is as bad as it’s ever going to be – that if I can get through this, I can get through anything. Well. All of a sudden, the man in front of me soils himself. I guess his sphincter just relaxes. Shit runs down onto his shoes, but he keeps walking. He doesn’t seem to notice. However, I do. I clapped a hand over my mouth and nose, and my eyes bugged out but I couldn’t get out of line because of the crush behind me. And so, holding my breath, I walk into the windowless, airless room.

Now, this meeting has a greeter, which is a person who stands at the door saying hello. And this one is a biker with a shaved head, a huge gut and a Volga boatman mustache. He gets one whiff of the man with shit on his shoes and throws up all over everything. You’ve seen the Edvard Munch painting of the guy on the bridge screaming, right? That’s me. That’s what I look like. But Terry enters the room right behind me. And there’s total pandemonium, no one knows what to do. The man who had soiled himself stumbles forward and plops down in a chair. A fan blows the terrible smells of shit and vomit around the windowless room, and people start smoking just to fill in the spaces in the air. Finally Terry reaches out to the greeter, who had thrown up. He puts his hand on the man’s shoulder. 'Wow,' he says. 'Looks like you got caught by surprise.' And they both laugh. Right? Terry asks a couple of guys to go with him down the hall to the men’s room, and help this guy get cleaned up. There are towels there, and kitty litter, to absorb various effluvia, because this is a meeting where people show up routinely in pretty bad shape. So while they’re helping the greeter get cleaned up, other people start cleaning up the meeting room.

Then Terry approaches the other man. 'My friend,' he says gently, 'it looks like you have trouble here.' The man just nods. 'We’re going to give you a hand,' says Terry. So three men from the recovery house next door help him to his feet, walk him to the halfway house and put him in the shower. They wash his clothes and shoes and give him their things to wear while he waits. They give him coffee and dinner, and they give him respect. I talked to these other men later, and even though they had very little sobriety, they did not cast this other guy off for not being well enough to be there. Somehow this broken guy was treated like one of them, because they could see that he was one of them. No one was pretending he wasn’t covered with shit, but there was a real sense of kinship. And that is what we mean when we talk about grace.

Back at the meeting at the Episcopal Cathedral, I was just totally amazed by what I had seen. And I had a little shred of hope. I couldn’t have put it into words, but until that meeting, I had thought that I would recover with men and women like myself; which is to say, overeducated, fun to be with and housebroken. And that this would happen quickly and efficiently. But I was wrong. So I’ll tell you what the promise of Advent is: It is that God has set up a tent among us and will help us work together on our stuff. And this will only happen over time."


—Anne Lamott
from her old “Mothers Who Think” column on Salon
(Copyright © 2000 Salon.com All rights reserved.
Posted by Fred Clark on Dec 25, 2008



.
.





Friday, December 16, 2022

The Neurons Who Watch Birds







.



 
There are more like us. All over the world

there are confused people, who can’t remember

the name of their dog when they wake up, and people

who love God but can’t remember where

he was when they went to sleep. It’s

all right. The world cleanses itself this way.


—Robert Bly
from People Like Us 



.    .    .




We have to think now what it would be like
To be old. Some funny little neurons,
Developed for high-speed runners, and quick
Handed bowmen, begin to get tired. They fire

But then lay down their bows and watch birds.
The kidney cells - "Too much thinking!" the Chinese
Say - look around for help, but the kids have
All gone to the city. Your friends get hit by lightning,

And your enemies live on. This isn't going to get
Better. Crows yelling from the telephone wires
Don't include you in the stories they tell, and they seem
To remember some story that you haven't heard.

What can you do? We'll have to round up
All those little people wandering about
In the body, get them to sit up straight, and study
This problem: How do we die?


—Robert Bly
December 23, 1926 – November 21, 2021 
Morning Poems



.





.








Thursday, December 15, 2022

a winter night







.


 

The storm puts its lips to the house
and blows to make a sound.
I sleep restlessly, turn over, with closed
eyes read the book of the storm.

But the child's eyes grow huge in the dark
and the storm whimpers for the child.
Both love to see the swinging lamp.
Both are halfway toward speech.

Storms have childlike hands and wings.
The caravan bolts off toward Lapland
and the house senses the constellation of nails
holding its wall together.

The night is quiet above our floor
(where all the died-away footsteps
are lying like sunken leaves in a pond)
but outside the night is wild!

A more serious storm is moving over us all.
It puts its lips to our soul
and blows to make a sound. We're afraid
the storm will blow everything inside us away.



—Tomas Tranströmer
Robert Bly version



.






Wednesday, December 7, 2022

  


Sunday, December 4, 2022

little vessel without lights








.



1


I wake in the night,
An old ache in the shoulder blades.
I lie amazed under the trees
That creak a little in the dark,
The giant trees of the world.

I lie on earth the way
Flames lie in the woodpile,
Or as an imprint, in sperm or egg, of what is to be.
I love the earth, and always
In its darkness I am a stranger.


2


6 A.M. Water frozen again. Melted it and made tea. Ate a raw egg and the last orange. Refreshed by a long sleep. the trail practically indistinguishable under 8" of snow. 9:30 A.M. Snow up to my knees in places. Sweat begins freezing under my shirt when I stop to rest. The woods are filled, anyway, with the windy noise of the first streams. 10:30 A.M. the sun at last. The snow starts to melt off the boughs at once, falling with little ticking sounds. Mist clouds are lying in the valleys. 11:45 A.M. Slow, glittering breakers roll in on the beaches ten miles away, very blue and calm. 12 noon. An inexplicable sense of joy, as if some happy news had been transmitted to me directly, by-passing the brain. 2 P.M. From the top of Gauldy I looked back into Hebo valley. Castle Rock sticks into a cloud. A cool breeze comes up from the valley, it is a fresh, earthly wind and tastes of snow and trees. It is not like those transcendental breezes that make the heart ache. It brings happiness. 2:30 P.M. Lost the trail. A woodpecker watches me wade about through the snow trying to locate it. The sun has gone back of the trees. 3:10 P.M. Still hunting for the trail. Getting cold. From an elevation I have an open view to the SE, a world of timberless, white hills, rolling, weirdly wrinkled. Above them a pale half moon. 3:45 P.M. Going on by map and compass. A minute ago a deer fled touching down every fifteen feet or so. 7:30 P.M. Made camp near the heart of Alder Creek. Trampled a bed into the snow and filled it with boughs. Concocted a little fire in the darkness. Ate pork and beans. A slug or two of whiskey burnt my throat. The night very clear. Very cold. That half moon is up there and a lot of stars have come out among the treetops. The fire has fallen to coals.


3


The coals go out,
The last smoke weaves up
Losing itself in the stars.
This is my first night to lie
In the uncreating dark.

In the heart of a man
There sleeps a green worm
That has spun the heart about itself,
And that shall dream itself black wings
One day to break free into the beautiful black sky.

I leave my eyes open,
I lie here and forget our life,
All I see is we float out
Into the emptiness, among the great stars,
On this little vessel without lights.

I know that I love the day,
The sun on the mountain, the Pacific
Shiny and accomplishing itself in breakers,
But I know I live half alive in the world,
Half my life belongs to the wild darkness.


—Galway Kinnell
middle of the way



.









Saturday, December 3, 2022

Initiation Song from the Finders' Lodge

 






.



Please bring strange things.
Please come bringing new things.
 
Let very old things come into your hands.
Let what you do not know come into your eyes.
Let desert sand harden your feet.
Let the arch of your feet be the mountains.
Let the paths of your fingertips be your maps
and the ways you go be the lines on your palms.
 
Let there be deep snow in your inbreath
and your outbreath be the shining of ice.
May your mouth contain the shapes of strange words.
May you smell food cooking you have not eaten.
May the spring of a foreign river be your navel.
May your soul be at home where there are no houses.
 
Walk carefully, well loved one,
walk mindfully, well loved one,
walk fearlessly, well loved one.
Return with us, return to us,
be always coming home.


—Ursula Le Guin
Always Coming Home


.






Sunday, November 13, 2022

questions








.




He kept falling backward every time
He was about to reach the top 

Now they tell him that he has no free will 
That bacteria inside his gut have goals 
That don’t jibe with his
Or as the scientist says, “Microbial manipulations might fill in 
Some of the puzzling holes 
In our understandings about food cravings” 
In other words, 
For his microbiome he is just a delivery system that 
Brings them sugar 
For them his body is a bakery 
Is there no end to subservience?


—Ishmael Reed 
The Diabetic Dreams of Cake, excerpt
the paris review



.






Wednesday, April 20, 2022

my dear

 






.




You have not danced so badly, my dear,
Trying to hold hands with the Beautiful One.

You have waltzed with great style,
My sweet, crushed angel,
To have ever neared God's heart at all.
Our Partner is notoriously difficult to follow,
And even His best musicians are not always easy
To hear.

So what if the music has stopped for a while.
So what
If the price of admission to the Divine
Is out of reach tonight. 
So what, my dear,
If you do not have the ante to gamble for
Real Love. 

The mind and the body are famous
For holding the heart ransom,
But Hafiz knows the Beloved's eternal habits. 
Have patience,
For He will not be able to resist your longing For Long. 

You have not danced so badly, my dear,
Trying to kiss the Beautiful One. 
You have actually waltzed with tremendous style,
O my sweet, O my sweet crushed angel.


—Hafiz


.







Tuesday, April 19, 2022

the keeper of flocks, excerpt








.



Metaphysics?
What metaphysics do these trees have?

That of being green and having crowns and branches
And that of giving fruit at their hours, 
– which is not what makes us think – us, 
who don't know to be aware of them.

But what better metaphysics than theirs,
Which is not knowing why they live
And not knowing they don't know? 


—Fernando Pessoa



.






Sunday, April 17, 2022

for a birthday (alive again today)








.




i thank You God for this most amazing
day:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky;and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes

(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun's birthday;this is the birth
day of life and love and wings:and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)

how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any-lifted from the no
of all nothing-human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?

(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened


—E. E. Cummings



.







Description Without Place

 






.




In a description hollowed out of hollow-bright,
The artificer of subjects still half night. 

It matters, because everything we say
Of the past is description without place, a cast 

Of the imagination, made in sounds;
And because what we say of the future must portend, 

Be alive with its own seemings, seeming to be
Like rubies reddened by rubies reddening.


—Wallace Stevens
closing lines to section V


 
.

 





Friday, April 1, 2022

note to self










Problems that remain persistently insoluble should always be suspected as questions asked in the wrong way.


—Alan Wilson Watts 









Thursday, March 31, 2022

you are that









Jesus said, “If those who lead you say to you, ‘See, the kingdom is in the sky,’ then the birds of the sky will precede you.

If they say to you, ‘It is in the sea,’ then the fish will precede you.

Rather, the kingdom is inside of you, and it is outside of you. When you come to know yourselves, then you will become known, and you will realize that it is you who are the sons of the living father.

But if you will not know yourselves, you dwell in poverty and it is you who are that poverty."


—The Gnostic Gospel of Thomas



.






Wednesday, March 23, 2022

all my relations

 





.




When we take a step on the green grass of spring, we walk in such a way that allows all our ancestors to take a step with us. Our peace, our joy, our freedom, which are in each step, penetrate each generation of our ancestors and each generation of our descendants. If we can walk like that, that is a step taken in the highest dhyana. 

When we take one step we see hundreds and thousands of ancestors and descendants taking a step with us, and when we take a breath we are light, at ease, calm. We breathe in such a way that all the generations of ancestors are breathing with us and all the generations of our descendants are also breathing with us […] if we breathe like that, only then are we breathing according to the highest teachings. 

We just need a little mindfulness, a little concentration and then we can look deeply and see. At first we use the method of visualization and we see, as we walk, all the ancestors putting their foot down as we put our foot down, and gradually we don’t need to visualize any more – each step we take, we see that that step is the step of people in the past.


—Thich Nhat Hanh


.






Monday, March 21, 2022

my life is not mine

 





.
 



When you are out walking in the sunlight,
see the love covering all.


—Rumi




.     .     .



 
Spring, and everything outside is growing,
even the tall cypress tree.
We must not leave this place.

Around the lip of the cup we share, these words,
"My Life Is Not Mine."

If someone were to play music, it would
have to be very sweet.
We're drinking wine, but not through lips.
We're sleeping it off, but not in bed.

Rub the cup across your forehead.
This day outside is living and dying.
Give up wanting what other people have.
That way you're safe.
"Where, where can I be safe?" you ask.

This is not a day for asking questions,
not a day on any calendar.

This day is conscious of itself.
This day is a lover, bread, and gentleness,
more manifest than saying can say.

Thoughts take form with words,
but this daylight is beyond and before
thinking and imagining. 

Those two, they are so thirsty, but this gives
smoothness to water. 
Their mouths are dry, and they are tired.

The rest of this poem is too blurry
for them to read.


—Rumi
Coleman Barks version



.








Sunday, March 20, 2022









Thursday, March 17, 2022

you are that

 




 

.




Remember, you are entirely on your own.

You must realize first of all that you are the proof of everything, including yourself. 

None can prove your existence, because this existence must be confirmed by you first. 

Your being and knowing you owe nobody. 

You are entirely on your own. 

You do not come from somewhere, you do not go anywhere.

You are timeless being and awareness.


—Sri Nisargadatta Maharaj




.







Wednesday, March 16, 2022

during a storm

 





.



You too are a tree. During a storm of emotions, you should not stay at the level of the head or the heart, which are like the top of the tree. You have to leave the heart, the eye of the storm, and come back to the trunk of the tree. 
Your trunk is one centimeter below your navel. Focus there, paying attention only to the movement of your abdomen, and continue to breathe.


—Thích Nhất Hạnh


.
 




Tuesday, March 15, 2022

family tree






.



Everything that's made of wood was once a tree
And it's clearly understood by fools like me
While you're sitting on a chair, feeling nice and cozy there
You're not really sitting on a chair; you're sitting on a tree

Somebody yelled timber and a tree came tumbling down
Whether it's a door or a chair or the floor
The roots are still in the ground
Everything that's made of wood was once a tree



.





spring paints the countryside

 






.



It’s the season of spring, let us be cheek to cheek with the east wind 
Let us be friends with the rose, and companions of its scent 
It is the time of the wild tulip

With pure hearts let us take up the cup
Like the narcissus, let us be drunk without pretense 


—Sheyhi
from The Gathering of Desire,
Ottoman Lyric Poetry: An Anthology



.



Spring paints the countryside.

Cypress trees grow even more beautiful,

but let's stay inside.


Lock the door.

Come to me naked.

No one's here.


—Rumi

.






Monday, March 14, 2022


Thursday, March 10, 2022






.







Thursday, March 3, 2022

garden notes

 




.



All day in the garden
and at night when I wake to it
at its moment I hear a sound
sometimes little more than a whisper
of something falling
arriving
fallen
a seed in its early age
or a great frond formed
of its high days and nights
looking at the sky
made of daybreak the morning sun
and the whole of daylight
the moon and the stars and the clouds
and of the rain descending out of itself
coming down to its own leaf
there is no trace of regret
in the sound or in the stillness
after the falling
no sound
of hesitation on the way
no question and no doubt


—W.S. Merwin

Monday, February 14, 2022

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in

 





 .



i carry your heart with me(i carry it in 
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere 
i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done 
by only me is your doing,my darling) 
                                                      i fear 
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want 
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true) 
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant 
and whatever a sun will always sing is you 

here is the deepest secret nobody knows 
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud 
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows 
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide) 
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart 

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

—E. E. Cummings


.






you being in love







.



you being in love
will tell who softly asks in love,

am i separated from your body smile brain hands merely
to become the jumping puppets of a dream? oh i mean:
entirely having in my careful how
careful arms created this at length
inexcusable, this inexplicable pleasure–you go from several
persons: believe me that strangers arrive
when i have kissed you into a memory
slowly, oh seriously
–that since and if you disappear

solemnly
myselves
ask “life, the question how do i drink dream smile

and how do i prefer this face to another and
why do i weep eat sleep–what does the whole intend”
they wonder. oh and they cry “to be, being, that i am alive
this absurd fraction in its lowest terms
with everything cancelled
but shadows
–what does it all come down to? love? Love
if you like and i like,for the reason that i
hate people and lean out of this window is love,love
and the reason that i laugh and breathe is oh love and the reason
that i do not fall into this street is love.” 


—E. E. Cummings


.
Vladimir Bobri
.