At the end of the year the stars go out
the air stops breathing and the Sibyl sings
first she sings of the darkness she can see
she sings on until she comes to the age
without time and the dark she cannot see
no one hears then as she goes on singing
of all the white days that were brought to us one by one
that turned to colors around us
a light coming from far out in the eye
where it begins before she can see it
burns through the words that no one has believed
The Pupil, 2001
Thursday, December 31, 2020
With what stillness at lastyou appear in the valleyyour first sunlight reaching downto touch the tips of a fewhigh leaves that do not stiras though they had not noticedand did not know you at allthen the voice of a dove callsfrom far away in itselfto the hush of the morning
so this is the sound of youhere and now whether or notanyone hears it this iswhere we have come with our ageour knowledge such as it isand our hopes such as they areinvisible before us
untouched and still possible—W. S. Merwin
to the new year
Let us celebrate.
The Earth will be going on a long time
Before it finally freezes;
Men will be on it; they will take names,
Give their deeds reasons.
We will be here only
As chemical constituents—
A small franchise indeed.
Right now we have lives,
Corpuscles, Ambitions, Caresses,
Like everybody had once—
Here at the year's end, at the feast
Of birth, let us bring to each other
The gifts brought once west through deserts—
The precious metal of our mingled hair,
The frankincense of enraptured arms and legs,
The myrrh of desperate, invincible kisses—
Let us celebrate the daily
Recurrent nativity of love,
The endless epiphany of our fluent selves,
While the earth rolls away under us
Into unknown snows and summers,
Into untraveled spaces of the stars.
Wednesday, December 30, 2020
We are the children of this beautiful planet that we have lately seen photographed from the moon.We are not delivered into it by some god, but have come forth from it.We are its eyes and mind, its seeing and its thinking.And the earth, together with its sun, this light around which it flies like a moth, came forth, we are told, from a nebula; and that nebula, in turn, from space.So that we are the mind, ultimately, of space …
Myths to Live By
. . .
As long as nothing can be known for sure(no signals have been picked up yet),as long as Earth is still unlikethe nearer and more distant planets,as long as there’s neither hide nor hairof other grasses graced by other winds,of other treetops bearing other crowns,other animals as well-grounded as our own,as long as only the local echohas been known to speak in syllables,as long as we still haven’t heard the wordof better or worse mozarts,platos, edisons, elsewhere,as long as our inhuman crimesare still committed only between humans,as long as our kindnessis still incomparable,peerless even in its imperfection,as long as our heads packed with illusionsstill pass for the only heads so packed,as long as the roofs of our mouths alonestill raise voices to high heavens
– let’s act like very special guests of honourat the district firemen’s ball,dance to the beat of the local oompah bandand pretend that it’s the ballto end all balls.I can’t speak for other –
for me this is misery and happiness enough:
just this sleepy backwater
where even the stars have time to burn
while winking at us
. . .
I have lots of things to teach you now, in case we ever meet, concerning the message that was transmitted to me under a pine tree in North Carolina on a cold winter moonlit night. It said that Nothing Ever Happened, so don’t worry. Everything is ecstasy, inside. We just don’t know it because of our thinking-minds. But in our true blissful essence of mind it is known that everything is alright forever and forever and forever.Close your eyes, let your hands and nerve-ends drop, stop breathing for 3 seconds, listen to the silence inside the illusion of the world, and you will remember the lesson you forgot, which was taught in immense milky ways of cloudy innumerable worlds long ago and not even at all. It is all one vast awakened thing. I call it the golden eternity. It is perfect.We were never really born, we will never really die. It has nothing to do with the imaginary idea of a personal self, other selves, many selves everywhere, or one universal self. Self is only an idea, a mortal idea. That which passes through everything, is one thing. It’s a dream already ended. There’s nothing to be afraid of and nothing to be glad about. I know this from staring at mountains months on end. They never show any expression, they are like empty space.Do you think the emptiness of space will ever crumble away? Mountains will crumble, but the emptiness of space, which is the one universal essence of mind, the one vast awakenerhood, empty and awake, will never crumble away because it was never born.—Jack Kerouac
The moon is a white strange world, a great, white, soft-seeming globe in the night sky, and what she actually communicates to me across space I shall never fully know. But the moon that pulls the tides, and the moon that controls the menstrual periods of women, and the moon that touches the lunatics, she is not the mere dead lump of the astronomist.
When we describe the moon as dead, we are describing the deadness in ourselves. When we find space so hideously void, we are describing our own unbearable emptiness.
We and the cosmos are one. The cosmos is a vast body, of which we are still parts. The sun is a great heart whose tremors run through our smallest veins. The moon is a great gleaming nerve-centre from which we quiver forever.
Who knows the power that Saturn has over us or Venus? But it is a vital power, rippling exquisitely through us all the time… Now all this is literally true, as men knew in the great past and as they will know again.
—D. H. Lawrence
She kept a diary, in which she wrote impulsive thoughts.
Seeing the moon in the sky, her own heart surcharged,
she went and wrote:
‘If I were the moon, I know where I would fall down.’
—D. H. Lawrence
Tuesday, December 29, 2020
In Persian poetry the poet often refers to himself or herself by name at the end of a poem as a sort of signature. Rumi’s variation on this is to refer instead to Shams (over a thousand poems end this way) or to silence. He gives the poetry to its true authorship, including the emptiness after as part of the poem. Five hundred odes conclude with khamush, silence. Rumi is less interested in language, more attuned to the sources of it. He keeps asking Husam, ‘Who’s making this music?’ He sometimes gives the wording over to the invisible flute player: ‘Let that musician finish this poem.’ Words are not important in themselves, but as resonators for a center. Rumi has a whole theory of language based on the reed flute (ney). Beneath everything we say, and within each note of the reed flute, lies a nostalgia for the reed bed. Language and music are possible only because we’re empty, hollow, and separated from the source. All language is a longing for home. Why is there not a second tonality, he muses, a note in praise of the craftsman’s skill, which fashioned the bare cylinder into a ney, the intricate human form with its nine holes?
The Essential Rumi
. . .
Make a place to sit down.
Sit down. Be quiet.
You must depend upon
affection, reading, knowledge,
skill — more of each
than you have — inspiration,
work, growing older, patience,
for patience joins time
to eternity. Any readers
who like your poems,
doubt their judgment.
Breathe with unconditional breath
the unconditioned air.
Shun electric wire.
Communicate slowly. Live
a three-dimensioned life;
stay away from screens.
Stay away from anything
that obscures the place it is in.
There are no unsacred places;
there are only sacred places
and desecrated places.
Accept what comes from silence.
Make the best you can of it.
Of the little words that come
out of the silence, like prayers
prayed back to the one who prays,
make a poem that does not disturb
the silence from which it came.
how to be a poet (to remind myself)
In the very essence of poetry there is something indecent:a thing is brought forth which we didn’t know we had in us,so we blink our eyes, as if a tiger had sprung outand stood in the light, lashing his tail.—Czeslaw Milosz
. . .
A book is a physical object in a world of physical objects. It is a set of dead symbols. And then the right reader comes along, and the words—or rather the poetry behind the words, for the words themselves are mere symbols—spring to life, and we have a resurrection of the word.—Jorge Luis Borges
This Craft of Verse
. . .
In your light I learn how to love.
In your beauty, how to make poems.
You dance inside my chest,
where no one sees you,
but sometimes I do,
and that sight becomes this art.
I have been many things,
Before becoming as I am.
I have been a narrow multi-colored sword.
I have been a tear in the air.
I have lived as the faintest of stars.
I have been a word among letters,
A book among words.
—Taliesin, 500 ACE
. . .
All fluid activities are in resonance. They mutualize and inform each other. The fluid inside this biosphere called Earth and the fluids of our bodies are in constant rapport.
. . .
Every phrase and every sentence is an end and a beginning,Every poem an epitaph. And any actionIs a step to the block, to the fire, down the sea’s throatOr to an illegible stone: and that is where we start.—T.S. Eliot
. . .
The poem of the mind in the act of finding
What will suffice. It has not always had
To find: the scene was set; it repeated what
Was in the script.
Then the theatre was changed
To something else. Its past was a souvenir.
It has to be living, to learn the speech of the place.
It has to face the men of the time and to meet
The women of the time. It has to think about war
And it has to find what will suffice. It has
To construct a new stage. It has to be on that stage,
And, like an insatiable actor, slowly and
With meditation, speak words that in the ear,
In the delicatest ear of the mind, repeat,
Exactly, that which it wants to hear, at the sound
Of which, an invisible audience listens,
Not to the play, but to itself, expressed
In an emotion as of two people, as of two
Emotions becoming one. The actor is
A metaphysician in the dark, twanging
An instrument, twanging a wiry string that gives
Sounds passing through sudden rightnesses, wholly
Containing the mind, below which it cannot descend,
Beyond which it has no will to rise.It mustBe the finding of a satisfaction, and may
Be of a man skating, a woman dancing, a woman
Combing. The poem of the act of the mind.
—Wallace StevensOf Modern Poetry
Monday, December 28, 2020
Of what is the body made? It is made of emptiness and rhythm. At the ultimate heart of the body, at the heart of the world, there is no solidity.
Once again, there is only the dance. At the unimaginable heart of the atom, the compact nucleus, we have found no solid object, but rather a dynamic pattern of tightly confined energy vibrating perhaps 1022 times a second: a dance …
Wake up and Laugh!
... We perceive only a negligible portion of the vibrating ocean in which we are immersed.
We fail to detect the infrared and the ultraviolet, infrasound and ultrasound, and in general the very high and very low frequencies; we can’t even detect the X rays, gamma rays, radioactivity, and cosmic rays, which all still affect our bodies. And so many frequencies are still unknown.
The senses are therefore incomplete; our neural circuits can’t process the majority of inputs in order to translate them into images. According to some, our senses comprehend only 5 percent of the signals from the world, which means that we miss 95 percent of our environment.
–Citro Massimo, M.D.
The Basic Code of the Universe:
The Science of the Invisible in Physics, Medicine, and Spirituality
Today a young man on acid realized that all matter is merely energy condensed to a slow vibration, that we are all one consciousness experiencing itself subjectively, there is no such thing as death, life is only a dream, and we are the imagination of ourselves. Here’s Tom with the weather.
Sanskrit is an ancient Indian language that is based on sounds and vibrations. Each alphabet with its pronunciation has a specific meaning; like ku denotes earth, khE is sky etc.
OM is the first and foremost of all mantras. It is the sound of cosmic energy housing all the sounds. The spiritual efficacy of OM is heard, not by the ears but by the heart. It surcharges the innermost being of man with vibrations of the highest reality.
All galaxies (including ours) are believed to rotate around the sound frequency resonating with OM.
Frequency of OM is 7.83 Hz, which is inaudible to the human ear with its double strand DNA that cannot discern sounds of frequency less than 20 hertz. Birds, dogs and a few other animals can hear it however.
OM has been adapted into other religions as AMEN, the numerical- 786 (OM symbol shown in mirror), SHALOM, OMKAR/ONKAR etc, but they do NOT work like the original OM. While OM releases Nitric Oxide, Amen and Shalom only emit a sound.
Frequencies of various Beej Mantras are -
OM – 7.83 Hz
Gam – 14 Hz
Hleem – 20 Hz
Hreem – 26 Hz
Kleem – 33 Hz
Krowm – 39 Hz
Sreem – 45 Hz
These cosmic sounds were heard by 12 strand DNA maharishis in their spiritual trances which broadened their sense spectrums. However, our brain can register only the vibrations.
. . .
Om (also spelled Aum) is a Hindu Sacred Sound that is considered the greatest of all Mantras. The syllable Om is composed of the three sounds a-u-m (in Sanskrit, the vowels a and u combine to become o) and the symbol’s threefold Nature is central to its meaning. It represent several important triads:
The Three Worlds - Earth, Atmosphere, and Heaven
The Three Major Hindu Gods - Brahma, Vishnu, and Siva
The Three Sacred Vedic Scriptures - Rg, Yajur, and Sama
Om Mystically embodies the Essence of the entire Universe. This meaning is further deepened by the Indian Philosophical belief that God first created Sound and the Universe arose from it. As the most Sacred Sound, Om is the Root of the Universe and everything that exists and it continues to hold everything together.
Sunday, December 27, 2020
Our conversations imitate those that the stubborn crystals, molecules, clouds, rock faces and rivers incessantly entertain between themselves. We live as slices of the world [parts du monde].
Temps, usure: feux et signaux de brume
Time, wear and tear: lights and fog signals
. . .
I have learned so much from God that I can no longer call myself a Christian, a Hindu, a Muslim, a Buddhist, a Jew.
The Truth has shared so much of Itself with me that I can no longer call myself a man, a woman, an angel, or even a pure Soul.
Love has befriended me so completely it has turned to ash and freed me of every concept and image my mind has ever known.—Hafez
. . .
There is only one true love;
The love of God and of each other;And there is only one true religion;The religion which is founded on love like this.—Dr. E.V. KenealyThe Book of Fo
In Sunday school, I learned to think of God as a very old white-bearded man on a throne, who stood above creation and occasionally stirred it with a stick. When I am dreaming quantum dreams, what I see is an infinite web of relationship, flung across the vastness of space like a luminous net. It is made of energy, not thread. As I look, I can see light moving through it as a pulse moves through veins. What I see “out there” is no different from what I feel inside. There is a living hum that might be coming from my neurons but might just as well be coming from the furnace of the stars. When I look up at them there is a small commotion in my bones, as the ashes of dead stars that house my marrow rise up like metal filings toward the magnet of their living kin.
Where am I in this picture? I am all over the place. I am up there, down here, inside my skin and out. I am large compared to a virus and small compared to the sun, with a life that is permeable to them both. Am I alone? How could I ever be alone? I am part of a web that is pure relationship, with energy available to me that has been around since the universe was born.
Where is God in this picture? God is all over the place. God is up there, down here, inside my skin and out. God is the web, the energy, the space, the light—not captured in them, as if any of those concepts were more real than what unites them—but revealed in that singular, vast net of relationship that animates everything that is.
At this point in my thinking, it is not enough for me to proclaim that God is responsible for all this unity. Instead, I want to proclaim that God is the unity—the very energy, the very intelligence, the very elegance and passion that make it all go. This is the God who is not somewhere but everywhere, the God who may be prayed to in all directions at once. This is also the God beyond all directions, who will still be here (wherever “here” means) when the universe either dissipates into dust or swallows itself up again.
—Barbara Brown Taylor
The Luminous Web: Essays on Science and Religion
(Cowley Publications: 2000), 73–74
Children In the Snow, Japan, 1950’s,
The coincidence of the menstrual cycle with that of the moon is a physical actuality structuring human life and a curiosity that has been observed with wonder. It is in fact likely that the fundamental notion of a life-structuring relationship between the heavenly world and that of man was derived from the realization, both in experience and in thought, of the force of the lunar cycle.
The mystery, also, of the death and resurrection of the moon, as well as of its influence on dogs, wolves and foxes, jackals and coyotes, which try to sing to it: this immortal silver dish of wonder, cruising among the beautiful stars and racing through the clouds, turning waking life itself into a sort of dream, has been a force and a presence even more powerful in the shaping of mythology than the sun, by which its light and its world of stars, night sounds, erotic moods, and the magic of dream, are daily quenched.
Saturday, December 26, 2020
We give thanks for the blessing of winter:
Season to cherish the heart.
To make warmth and quiet for the heart.
To make soups and broths for the heart.
To cook for the heart and read for the heart.
To curl up softly and nestle with the heart.
To sleep deeply and gently at one with the heart.
To dream with the heart.
To spend time with the heart.
We give thanks for the blessing of winter:
Season to cherish the heart.
. . .
My relationship with the other as neighbor gives meaning to my relations with all the others.—Emmanuel LevinasOtherwise Than Being or Beyond Essence
. . .
Believing means: to release the indestructible in oneself, or more exactly: to be released, or more exactly: to be indestructible, or more exactly to be.
—Kafka, Newspapers, 1917
If each day falls
inside each night,
there exists a well
where clarity is imprisoned.
We need to sit on the rim
of the well of darkness
and fish for fallen light
. . .
The changing of bodies into light and light into bodies is very comfortable to the course of nature which seems delighted with transmutations.
—Sir Isaac Newton
. . .
Use your own light and return to the source of light.
This is called practicing eternity.
A person is a fluid process, not a fixed and static entity; a flowing river of change, not a block of solid material; a continually changing constellation of potentialities, not a fixed quantity of traits.—Carl Rogers
Becoming a Person
. . .
日日事無別 In my daily life there are no other chores than
惟吾自偶諧 Those that happen to fall into my hands.
頭頭非取捨 Nothing I choose, nothing reject.
處處沒張乖 Nowhere is there ado, nowhere a slip.
朱紫誰爲號 I have no other emblems of my glory than
邱山絶塵埃 The mountains and hills without a spot of dust.
神通並妙用 My magical power and spiritual exercise consists in
運水及搬柴 Carrying water and gathering firewood.
—P'ang Chü-shihSteven Mitchell version
. . .
Make love of yourself perfect. Deny yourself nothing – give yourself infinity and eternity and discover that you do not need them;you are beyond.
Thursday, December 24, 2020
May we sing together, always
May our voice be soft
May our singing be music for others
And may it keep others aloft
Sing, sing gently, always
Sing, sing as one (as one)
May we stand (may we stand) together, always
May our voice be strong
May we hear the singing and
May we always sing along (along)
Sing, sing gently, always
Sing, sing as one (as one)
Singing gently as one—Eric WhitacreSing Gently
Today the Magi find, crying in the manger, the one they have followed as he shone in the sky.
Today the Magi see clearly, in swaddling clothes, the one they have long awaited as he lay hidden among the stars.
Today the Magi gaze in deep wonder at what they see: heaven on earth, earth in heaven, man in God, God in man, one whom the universe cannot contain now enclosed in a tiny body.
As they look, they believe and do not question, as their symbolic gifts bear witness: incense for God, gold for a king, myrrh for one who is to die.
—St Peter Chrysologus
In my entire scientific life, extending over forty-five years, the most shattering experience has been the realization that an exact solution of Einstein’s equations of general relativity, discovered by the New Zealand mathematician, Roy Kerr, provides the absolutely exact representation of untold numbers of massive black holes that populate the universe.This shuddering before the beautiful, this incredible fact that a discovery motivated by a search after the beautiful in mathematics should find its exact replica in Nature, persuades me to say that beauty is that to which the human mind responds at its deepest and most profound.—S. Chandrasekhar (1910 - 1995)
Written on Christmas Eve, 1513
I salute you. I am your friend, and my love for you goes deep. There is nothing I can give you which you have not. But there is much, very much, that, while I cannot give it, you can take.
No heaven can come to us unless our hearts find rest in it today. Take heaven! No peace lies in the future which is not hidden in this present little instant. Take peace!
The gloom of the world is but a shadow. Behind it, yet within our reach, is joy. There is radiance and glory in darkness, could we but see. And to see, we have only to look. I beseech you to look!
Life is so generous a giver. But we, judging its gifts by their covering, cast them away as ugly or heavy or hard. Remove the covering, and you will find beneath it a living splendor, woven of love by wisdom, with power.
Welcome it, grasp it, and you touch the angel's hand that brings it to you. Everything we call a trial, a sorrow or a duty, believe me, that angel's hand is there. The gift is there and the wonder of an overshadowing presence. Your joys, too, be not content with them as joys. They, too, conceal diviner gifts.
Life is so full of meaning and purpose, so full of beauty beneath its covering, that you will find earth but cloaks your heaven. Courage then to claim it; that is all! But courage you have, and the knowledge that we are pilgrims together, wending through unknown country home.
And so, at this time, I greet you, not quite as the world sends greetings, but with profound esteem and with the prayer that for you, now and forever, the day breaks and shadows flee away.
the Virgin will come walking down the road
pregnant with the holy
“I need shelter for the night, please take me inside your heart,
my time is so close.”
Then, under the roof of your soul, you will witness the sublime
intimacy, the divine, the Christ
as she grasps your hand for help, for each of us
is the midwife of God, each of us.
Yes there, under the dome of your being does creation
come into existence externally, through your womb, dear pilgrim—
the sacred womb of your soul,
as God grasps our arms for help; for each of us is
His beloved servant
If you want, the Virgin will come walking
down the street pregnant
with Light and
sing . . .
—St. John of the Cross
Daniel Ladinsky version,
Love Poems from God
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.