question

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You ask me how to pray to someone who is not.
All I know is that prayer constructs a velvet bridge
And walking it we are aloft, as on a springboard,
Above landscapes the color of ripe gold
Transformed by a magic stopping of the sun.

That bridge leads to the shore of Reversal
Where everything is just the opposite and the word 'is'
Unveils a meaning we hardly envisioned.

Notice: I say we; there, every one, separately,
Feels compassion for others entangled in the flesh
And knows that if there is no other shore
We will walk that aerial bridge all the same.


–Czesław Miłosz
Robert Hass translation

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Tee-a-Wee

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link to this treasure from
brainpickings
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veins of the spirit

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Plants are all chemists, tirelessly assembling the molecules of the world, and in their transactions with insects, birds, animals, and fungi, they find elaborate ways to defend themselves, to seduce pollinators, to confuse.


—Gary Snyder

...

Every tree, every plant, has a spirit. People may say that the plant has no mind. I tell them that the plant is alive and conscious. A plant may not talk, but there is a spirit in it that is conscious, that sees everything, which is the soul of the plant, its essence, what makes it alive. The channels through which the water and sap move are the veins of the spirit.


—Pablo Amaringo

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running on air and water

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Every year a given tree creates absolutely from scratch ninety-nine percent of its living parts. 

Water lifting up tree trunks can climb one hundred and fifty feet an hour; in full summer a tree can, and does, heave a ton of water every day. 

A big elm in a single season might make as many as six million leaves, wholly intricate, without budging an inch; I couldn't make one. 

A tree stands there, accumulating deadwood,  mute and rigid as an obelisk, but secretly it seethes, it splits, sucks and stretches; it heaves up tons and hurls them out in a green, fringed fling. 

No person taps this free power; the dynamo in the tulip tree pumps out even more tulip tree, and it runs on rain and air.

–Annie Dillard

Pilgrim at Tinker Creek

...

The day is real; the sky clicks securely into place over the mountains, locks round the islands, slaps slap on the bay. Air fits flush on farm roofs; it rises inside the doors of barns and rubs at yellow barn windows. Air clicks up my hand cloven into fingers and wells in my ears' holes, whole and entire. I call it simplicity, the way matter is smooth and alone.

–Annie Dillard

Holy the Firm

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Becoming: From zygote to tadpole, in six stunning minutes

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There is a force within
Which gives you life –
seek That.

In your body
Lies a priceless gem –
seek That.

O wandering Sufi,
if you want to find
the greatest treasure
Don’t look outside,
Look inside, and seek That.


–Rumi
Star/Shiva version

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Jan van Ijken
buffleheadcabin
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odd discoveries

 

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Martin Buber quotes an old Hasid master who said, "When you walk across the field with your mind pure and holy, then from all the stones, and all growing things, and all animals, the sparks of their souls come out and cling to you, and then they are purified and become a holy fire in you."

–Annie Dillard
Pilgrim at Tinker Creek

...

We leave traces of ourselves wherever we go, on whatever we touch.

One of the odd discoveries made by small boys is that when two pebbles are struck sharply against each other they emit, briefly, a curious smoky odor.

The phenomenon fades when the stones are immaculately cleaned, vanishes when they are heated to furnace temperature, and reappears when they are simply touched by the hand again, before being struck.


–Lewis Thomas
The Lives of a Cell

...

Go inside a stone

That would be my way.

Let somebody else become a dove

Or gnash with a tiger’s tooth.

I am happy to be a stone.

From the outside the stone is a riddle:

No one knows how to answer it.

Yet within, it must be cool and quiet

Even though a cow steps on it full weight,

Even though a child throws it in a river;

The stone sinks, slow, unperturbed

To the river bottom

Where the fishes come to knock on it

And listen.

I have seen sparks fly out

When two stones are rubbed,

So perhaps it is not dark inside after all;

Perhaps there is a moon shining

From somewhere, as though behind a hill—

Just enough light to make out

The strange writings, the star-charts

On the inner walls.

–Charles Simic
The Voice at 3 A.M.

  

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if we lose our way

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[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
[i carry your heart with me(i carry it in

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red thread

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This must be well grasped: the world hangs on the thread of consciousness. No consciousness, no world.

–Sri Nisargadatta Maharaj

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On foot
I had to walk through the solar system
before I found the first thread of my red dress.
Already, I sense myself.
Somewhere in space hangs my heart,
sparks fly from it, shaking the air, 
to other reckless hearts.

–Edith Södergran (1892-1923)
Stina Katchadourian translation

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Paris by night, 
from the International Space Station
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heat

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Behind matter there is some kind of heat, around and behind things,

so that what we experience is not the turtle nor the night only,

not the rising whirlwind, not the certainty, 

nor the steady gaze.

–Robert Bly 

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invitation

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Let us look for secret things

somewhere in the world

on the blue shores of silence.

...

I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.

–Pablo Neruda

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relish

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Betrothed to Righteousness might be

An Ecstasy discreet

But Nature relishes the Pinks

Which she was taught to eat


–Emily Dickinson

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lesson

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Wait for her with an azure cup.
Wait for her in the evening at the spring, among perfumed roses.
Wait for her with the patience of a horse trained for mountains.
Wait for her with the distinctive aesthetic knowledge of a prince.
Wait for her with the seven pillows of cloud.
Wait for her with strands of womanly incense wafting.
Wait for her with the manly scent of sandalwood on horseback.
Wait for her and do not rush.

If she arrives late, wait for her.
If she arrives early, wait for her.

Do not frighten the birds in her braided hair.
Wait for her so that she may sit in a garden at the peak of its flowering.
Wait for her so that she may breathe this air so strange to her heart.
Wait for her to lift her garment from her leg cloud by cloud. 
And wait for her.

Take her to the balcony to watch the moon drowning in milk.
Wait for her and offer her water before wine.
Do not glance at the twin partridges sleeping on her chest.
Wait and gently touch her hand as she sets a cup on marble.
As if you are carrying the dew from her wait.
Speak to her as a flute would to a frightened violin string,
As if you knew what tomorrow would bring.

Wait, and polish the night for her ring by ring.

Wait for her until night speaks to you thus:

There is no one alive other than the two of you.

So take her gently to the death you so desire,

and wait.

–Mahmoud Darwish

Lesson From The Kamasutra
Translated by Carolyn Forché 

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Existence leans its mouth toward me, because my love cares for it. –Meister Eckhart

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To kiss a forehead is to erase worry.

I kiss your forehead.

To kiss the eyes is to lift sleeplessness.

I kiss your eyes.

To kiss the lips is to drink water.

I kiss your lips.

To kiss a forehead is to erase memory.

I kiss your forehead.

–Marina Tsvetaeva

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your catfish friend

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If I were to live my life
in catfish forms
in scaffolds of skin and whiskers
at the bottom of a pond 
 

and you were to come by 
one evening
when the moon was shining 
down into my dark home 

and stand there at the edge 
of my affection
and think, "It's beautiful 
here by this pond. I wish 
somebody loved me,"

I'd love you and be your catfish 
friend and drive such lonely 
thoughts from your mind 
and suddenly you would be
at peace,

and ask yourself, "I wonder 
if there are any catfish 
in this pond? It seems like 
a perfect place for them."

–Richard Brautigan

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air

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Breathing, all creatures are 

Brighter than the brightest star 

You are by far 

You come right inside of me 
Close as you can be 

You kiss my blood 
And my blood kiss me.


–Mike Heron
(The Incredible String Band)

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My wish is that you may be loved to the point of madness. —André Breton

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Find that flame, that existence,
That wonderful woman
Who can burn beneath the water. 

No other kind of light
Will cook the food you
Need.


–Hafiz

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