Imagine better than the best you know. —Neville Goddard

  

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If it looks like wisdom but is unkind, it’s not wisdom.

If it feels like love but is not wise, it’s not love.

—Lama Surya Das

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all my relations

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In their relationship, plants and mycorrhizal fungi enact a polarity: plant shoots engage with the light and air, while the fungi and plant roots engage with the solid ground. Plants pack up light and carbon dioxide into sugars and lipids. Mycorrhizal fungi unpack nutrients bound up in rock and decomposing material. 

These are fungi with a dual niche: part of their life happens within the plant, part in the soil. They are stationed at the entry point of carbon into terrestrial life cycles and stitch the atmosphere into relation with the ground. To this day, mycorrhizal fungi help plants cope with drought, heat and the many other stresses life on land has presented from the very beginning, as do the symbiotic fungi that crowd into plant leaves and stems. 

What we call ‘plants’ are in fact fungi that have evolved to farm algae, and algae that have evolved to farm fungi.

—Merlin Sheldrake,

Entangled Life: How Fungi Make Our Worlds, Change Our Minds, And Shape Our Futures

 

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The beginning of wisdom, I believe, is our ability to accept an inherent messiness in our explanation of what’s going on. Nowhere is it written that human minds should be able to give a full accounting of creation in all dimensions and on all levels. Ludwig Wittgenstein had the idea that philosophy should be what he called “true enough.” 

I think that’s a great idea. True enough is as true as can be gotten. The imagination is chaos. New forms are fetched out of it. The creative act is to let down the net of human imagination into the ocean of chaos on which we are suspended and then to attempt to bring out of it ideas.

―Rupert Sheldrake

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Chaos is what we've lost touch with. This is why it is given a bad name. It is feared by the dominant archetype of our world, which is Ego; which clenches because its existence is defined in terms of control.

—Terence McKenna

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I need to be silent for a while. Worlds are forming in my heart.

—Meister Eckhart

Daniel Ladinsky version

from Expands His Being

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… stay at the center of the circle and let all things take their course. —Lao Tzu

 

      .

They asked al-Hallaj, "To which religious School do you belong?
he answered, "God's own."

He who limned 
a thousand worlds with paint -
you layabout! - do you expect
He'll use your color or mine?

Our paints and tints
are but opinions and fantasy,
He is colorless
and we must adopt His hue.

Look: a shadow lies crooked upon the ground because the very earth is laid rough; but no, that crookedness is straightness itself, for the perfection, the "straightness" of the eyebrow is in its sinuous curve.

Only because it is bent
is this piece of wood a bow.
Reality is a sphere: wherever you place your finger,
there is its dead center.


—Fakhruddin 'Iraqi
Divine Flashes

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This place where you are right now, 

God circled on a map for you.


—Hafiz

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how trees talk to each other

 

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Like humans, trees are extremely social creatures, utterly dependent on each other for their survival. And, as it is with us, communication is key.

After scientists discovered pine tree roots could transfer carbon to other pine tree roots in a lab, ecology professor Suzanne Simard set out to figure out how they did it. What she discovered was a vast tangled web of hair-like mushroom roots — an information super highway allowing trees to communicate important messages to other members of their species and related species, such that the forest behaves as “a single organism.”

The idea that trees could share information underground was controversial. Some of Simard’s colleagues thought she was crazy. Having trouble finding research funding, she eventually set out to conduct the experiments herself, planting 240 birch, fir and cedar trees in a Canadian forest. She covered the seedlings with plastic bags and filled them with various types of carbon gas. An hour later she took the bags off, ran her Geiger counter over their leaves and heard “the most beautiful sound,” she says in the Ted Talk.

“Crrrrr… It was the sound of Birch talking to Fir,” she said. “Birch was saying, ‘hey, can I help you?’” “And Fir was saying yeah, can you send me some of your carbon? Somebody threw a shade cloth over me.”

She also scanned the cedar’s leaves, and as she suspected — silence. The cedar was in its own world. It was not connected into the fungal web linking birches and firs. The birch and fir were in a “lively two-way conversation,” Simard says. When the fir was shaded by the birch in summer, the birch sent more carbon to it. When the birch was leafless in the winter, the fir sent more carbon to it.

The two trees were totally interdependent, Simard discovered, “like yin and yang.”

That’s when Simard knew she was onto something big… In the past, we assumed trees were competing with each other for carbon, sunlight, water and nutrients. But Simard’s work showed us trees were also cooperators.

They communicate by sending mysterious chemical and hormonal signals to each other via the mycelium, to determine which trees need more carbon, nitrogen, phosphorus and carbon, and which trees have some to spare, sending the elements back and forth to each other until the entire forest is balanced. “The web is so dense there can be hundreds of kilometers of mycelium under a single foot step,” Simard says.

The mycelium web connects mother trees with baby trees, allowing them to feed their young. A single mother tree can provide nourishment for hundreds of smaller trees in the under-story of her branches, she says. Mother trees even recognize their kin, sending them more mycelium and carbon annd reducing their own root size to make room for their babies.

This new understanding of tree communication had Simard worried about the implications of clear-cutting. When mother trees are injured or dying, they send their wisdom onto the next generation. They can’t do this is if they are all wiped out at once. “You can take out one or two hub trees, but there comes a tipping point, if you take out one too many, the whole system collapses,” she says. Often clear-cut forests are replanted with only one or two species. “These simplified forests lack complexity making them vulnerable to infection and bugs.”

To ensure the survival of the planet’s lungs at a time when they are most crucial, Simard suggests four simple solutions to end the damage caused by clear cutting :

1. Get out in the forest more — this in and of itself will remind us how interdependent we are on this ecosystem.

2. Save old growth forests as repositories of genes, mother trees and mycelium networks.

3. Where we do cut, save the “legacy” trees so they can pass on important information to the next generation.

4. Regenerate cut patches with diverse native species

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bee(loved

 

  

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A pink gentian grows in southern Africa, which is pollinated by handsome, furry carpenter bees. The flowers of the gentian spread their petals wide, revealing to all a curving white style and three large stamens. Each stamen ends in a long thick anther that seems to be covered in yellow pollen, an obvious temptation to any passing pollen-feeding insect. But that is something of an illusion.

The yellow anther is hollow, and the pollen is held inside. The only way it can escape is through a tiny hole right at the top of the anther and there is only one way of extracting it. The bee knows how.

As it alights on an anther, it continues beating its wings but lowers the frequency so that the note of its buzz falls to approximately middle C. This causes the anther to vibrate at just the right frequency needed to release the pollen and the grains spout out of the hole at the top of the yellow fountain. The bee then industriously gathers it up and packs it into the carrying baskets on its back legs.


—Sir David Attenborough

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Wo La So, the beginning of a journey

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ངང་པ་མཚོ་ལ་ཆགས་ནས། རེ་ཞིག་སྡད་དགོས་བསམས། མཚོ་མོ་དར་ཁ་བཅགས་་ནས། རང་སེམས་ཁོ་ཐག་ཆོད།

In love with the lake, the swan wishes to stay longer. But ice covers the lake, And the swan flies With no regrets. 

'The album title, Yeshi Dolma, is the name of Tenzin’s late mother, and is a tribute to her strength and the hardship she endured and her generation endured after fleeing their homeland after the Communist China occupied Tibet. Yeshi Dolma raised nine children on her own, five survived. She also fostered a hundred orphaned Tibetan children in exile. Homage to all the elder generations. 

Written during lockdown in 2020, Wo La So is about non-attachment. Based on a poem by the Sixth Dalai Lama, the song paints a beautiful picture of letting go and accepting change.'

—Tenzin Choegyal and Camerata, Queensland’s Chamber Orchestra
composed by Tenzin Choegyal and Katherine Philp,
arranged Katherine Philp

Recorded at the Concert Hall, QPAC 

Filmed by Pixelframe

new album, Yeshi Dolma

 

 

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streaming

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When the path ignites a soul,
there's no remaining in place.
The foot touches ground,
but not for long.
The way where love tells its secret
stays always in motion,
and there is no you there, and no reason.

The rider urges his horse to gallop,
and so doing, throws himself
under the flying hooves.
In love-unity there's no old or new.
Everything is nothing.
God alone is.

For lovers the phenomena-veil is very transparent,
and the delicate tracings on it cannot
be explained with language.
Clouds burn off as the sun rises,
and the love-world floods with light.
But cloud-water can be obscuring,
as well as useful.
There is an affection that covers the glory,
rather than dissolving into it.

It's a subtle difference,
like the change in Persian
from the word "friendship"
to the word "work."
That happens with just a dot
above or below the third letter.

There is a seeing of the beauty
of union that doesn't actively work
for the inner conversation.
Your hand and feet must move,
as a stream streams, working
as its Self, to get to the ocean.

Then there's no more mention
of the search.
Being famous, or being a disgrace,
who's ahead or behind, these considerations
are rocks and clogged places
that slow you. Be as naked as a wheat grain
out of its husk and sleek as Adam.
Don't ask for anything other
than the presence.

Don't speak of a "you"
apart from That.
A full container cannot be more full.
Be whole, and nothing.

—Hakim Sanai (1044? - 1150?)
Coleman Barks version

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owner(ship

 

  

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The moment when, after many years
of hard work and a long voyage
you stand in the centre of your room, 
house, half-acre, square mile, island, country,
knowing at last how you got there,
and say, I own this,

is the same moment the trees unloose
their soft arms from around you,
the birds take back their language,
the cliffs fissure and collapse,
the air moves back from you like a wave
and you can't breathe.

No, they whisper. You own nothing.
You were a visitor, time after time
climbing the hill, planting the flag, proclaiming.
We never belonged to you.
You never found us.
It was always the other way around.


—Margaret Atwood
the moment

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january

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Time exists in order that everything doesn’t happen all at once …

and space exists so that it doesn’t all happen to you.

―Susan Sontag

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your(self

 

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Be melting snow.

Wash yourself of yourself.


—Rumi

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the nothing that is

  

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One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.


—Wallace Stevens
the snow man

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needful Icelandic words

  

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afdrif, the fate of somebody
afturganga, a ghost, “one who walks again”
álfadans, dance of the elves
átt, the direction of the wind
augabragð, the twinkling of an eye
álfatrú, belief in fairies
bíldóttur, having black spots around the eyes of animals
blámóða, blue mist
blika, a cover of clouds, often foreboding storm or rain
blær, soft, calm wind 

draugagangur, the walking of ghosts, a haunting
draumaland, land of dreams
dúnalogn, calm as death
dýjamosi, bright green moss growing in quagmires
fenna, to fill with snow 

fjallavættur, a mountain spirit
fjúka, carried away by the wind 

flygja, a ghost who accompanies a certain person
föl, a thick film of snow covering the ground
galdraöld, the age of magic
grængolandi, deep and dark green
gullbúinn, adorned with gold
hlakka, the cry of a bird of prey
hrafnagervi, the outward form of ravens 

huldurdalur, hidden valley
kaf, to plunge into deep water
kollgáta, the true answer to the riddle
kossleit, looking for kisses
leirskáld, a bad poet 

lumma, a pancake, or, the palm of a small hand
mói, ground covered with heather
morgungyðja, the goddess of the morning
mosavaxinn, overgrown with moss
náttúrufegurð, the beauty of nature
norðankaldi, a light breeze from the north
rammgöldróttur, full of witchcraft and wizardry 
rósóttur, with a design of roses
selslíki, the shape of a seal
sjódraugur, the ghost of a drowned man 

smáminnka, getting smaller and smaller
sólskin, sunshine
stirndur, set full of stars
sumarsól, the sun in the summer
sæbrattur, rising steeply out of the sea
sælurdalur, the valley of bliss
undirsæng, a soft feather mattress
veturnætur, a few days before the first day of winter

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kossleit

💗

when logic won't quite do

   

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“Logic is a very elegant tool,” he [Gregory Bateson] said, “and we’ve got a lot of mileage out of it for two thousand years or so. The trouble is, you know, when you apply it to crabs and porpoises, and butterflies and habit formation” – his voice trailed off, and he added after a pause, looking out over the ocean – “you know, to all those pretty things” – and now, looking straight at me [Capra] – “logic won’t quite do … because that whole fabric of living things is not put together by logic. You see when you get circular trains of causation, as you always do in the living world, the use of logic will make you walk into paradoxes.” 

... He stopped again, and at that moment I suddenly had an insight, making a connection to something I had been interested in for a long time. I got very excited and said with a provocative smile: “Heraclitus knew that! … And so did Lao Tzu.”

“Yes, indeed; and so do the trees over there. Logic won’t do for them.”

“So what do they use instead?”

“Metaphor.”

“Metaphor?”

“Yes, metaphor. That’s how the whole fabric of mental interconnections holds together. Metaphor is right at the bottom of being alive.”

—Fritjof Capra

Uncommon Wisdom: Conversations with remarkable people

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Reality is a cliché from which we escape by metaphor. —Wallace Stevens

 

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We recognize things, as in poetry, through resemblances.
Through metaphors. 

This way we gather them into wider systems so that they don’t dangle alone.


—Anna Kamienska

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When a poet carries the mind into a context of meanings and then pitches it past those, one knows that marvelous rapture that comes from going past all categories of definition. Here we sense the function of metaphor that allows us to make a journey we could not otherwise make, past all categories of definition.

—Joseph Campbell

Thou Art That

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Our lives, it seems, are a memory 

we had once in another place. 

Or are they its metaphor? 

The trees, if trees they are, seem the same, 

and the creeks do. 

The sunlight blurts its lucidity in the same way, 

And the clouds, if clouds they really are, 

still follow us, 

One after one, as they did in the old sky, in the old place. 

I wanted the metaphor, if metaphor it is, to remain 

always the same one. 

I wanted the hills to be the same, 

And the rivers too, 

especially the old rivers, 

The French Broad and Little Pigeon, the Holston and Tennessee, 

And me beside them, under the stopped clouds and stopped stars. 

I wanted to walk in that metaphor, 

untouched by time's corruption. 

I wanted the memory adamantine, never-changing. 

I wanted the memory amber, 

and me in it,

A figure among its translucent highlights and swirls, 

Mid-stride in its glittery motions. 

Wanted the memory cloud-sharp and river-sharp, 

My place inside it transfiguring, ever-still, 

no wind and no wave.

But memory has no memory. Or metaphor. 

It moves as it wants to move, 

and never measures the distance. 

People have died of thirst in crossing a memory. 

Our lives are summer cotton, it seems, 

and good for a season. 

The wind blows, the rivers run, and waves come to a head. 

Memory's logo is the abyss, and that’s no metaphor. 

—Charles Wright
Transparencies, Scar Tissue

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i contain multitudes

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Today, and tomorrow, and yesterday, too
The flowers are dyin' like all things do
Follow me close, I'm going to Bally-na-Lee
I'll lose my mind if you don't come with me
I fuss with my hair, and I fight blood feuds
I contain multitudes

Got a tell-tale heart like Mr. Poe
Got skeletons in the walls of people you know
I'll drink to the truth and the things we said
I'll drink to the man that shares your bed
I paint landscapes, and I paint nudes
I contain multitudes

A red Cadillac and a black mustache
Rings on my fingers that sparkle and flash
Tell me, what's next? What shall we do?
Half my soul, baby, belongs to you
I rollick and I frolic with all the young dudes
I contain multitudes

I'm just like Anne Frank, like Indiana Jones
And them British bad boys, The Rolling Stones
I go right to the edge, I go right to the end
I go right where all things lost are made good again
I sing the songs of experience like William Blake
I have no apologies to make
Everything's flowing all at the same time
I live on a boulevard of crime
I drive fast cars, and I eat fast foods
I contain multitudes

Pink pedal-pushers, red blue jeans
All the pretty maids, and all the old queens
All the old queens from all my past lives
I carry four pistols and two large knives
I'm a man of contradictions, I'm a man of many moods
I contain multitudes

You greedy old wolf, I'll show you my heart
But not all of it, only the hateful part
I'll sell you down the river, I'll put a price on your head
What more can I tell you? I sleep with life and death in the same bed
Get lost, madame, get up off my knee
Keep your mouth away from me
I'll keep the path open, the path in my mind
I'll see to it that there's no love left behind
I'll play Beethoven's sonatas, and Chopin's preludes
I contain multitudes

 

—Bob Dylan 

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to the present tense

 

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By the time you are
by the time you come to be
by the time you read this
by the time you are written
by the time you forget
by the time you are water through fingers
by the time you are taken for granted
by the time it hurts 
by the time it goes on hurting
by the time there are no words for you
by the time you remember
but without names
by the time you are in the papers
and on the telephone
passing unnoticed there too

who is it 
to whom you come  
before whose very eyes 
you are disappearing 
without making yourself known


—W. S. Merwin

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it’s all one thing

 

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What goes too long unchanged destroys itself. 

The forest is forever because it dies and dies and so lives.

—Ursula Le Guin
Tales From Earthsea: Dragonfly

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Time says “Let there be”
every moment and instantly
there is space and the radiance
of each bright galaxy.

And eyes beholding radiance.
And the gnats’ flickering dance.
And the seas’ expanse.
And death, and chance.

Time makes room
for going and coming home
and in time’s womb
begins all ending.

Time is being and being
time, it is all one thing,
the shining, the seeing,
the dark abounding.


—Ursula Le Guin 1929-2018
Hymn to Time

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to the new year

   

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With what stillness at last

you appear in the valley

your first sunlight reaching down

to touch the tips of a few

high leaves that do not stir

as though they had not noticed

and did not know you at all

then the voice of a dove calls

from far away in itself

to the hush of the morning

so this is the sound of you

here and now whether or not

anyone hears it this is

where we have come with our age

our knowledge such as it is

and our hopes such as they are

invisible before us
untouched and still possible

—W. S. Merwin
to the new year

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This World, Facing the River

 

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It appears that it was all a misunderstanding.
What was only a trial run was taken seriously.
The rivers will return to their beginnings.
The wind will cease in its turning about.
Trees instead of budding will tend to their roots.
Old men will chase a ball, a glance in the mirror -
They are children again.
The dead will wake up, not comprehending.
Till everything that happened has unhappened.
What a relief! Breathe freely, you who have suffered much.


—Czesław Miłosz
This World, Facing the River

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The year's doors open
like those of language,
toward the unknown. 

Last night you told me: tomorrow
we shall have to think up signs,
sketch a landscape, fabricate a plan
on the double page
of day and paper. 

Tomorrow, we shall have to invent,
once more,
the reality of this world.

—Octavio Paz

January First
Elizabeth Bishop version

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