Wednesday, June 30, 2021

in your body lies a priceless gem —Rumi

 





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Grace is always present. You imagine it is something somewhere high in the sky, far away, and has to descend. It is really inside you, in your Heart, and the moment you effect subsidence or merger of the mind into its Source, grace rushes forth, sprouting as from a spring within you.


—Ramana Maharshi


. . .

 
Images, however sacred
they may be, retain
the attention outside,
whereas at the time of prayer
the attention must be within -
in the heart. The concentration
of attention in the heart -
this is the starting point of prayer.


—Saint Theophan the Recluse
from for lovers of god everywhere
compiled by Roger Housden


. . .



Parting is one of the exactions
of a Mortal Life.
It is bleak - like Dying
but occurs more times.

To escape the former,
some invite the last.
The Giant in the Human Heart
was never met outside.


—Emily Dickinson
from New poems of Emily Dickinson



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human free(dom

 






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... conceive, I beg, that a stone, while continuing in motion, should be capable of thinking and knowing that it is endeavoring, as far as it can, to continue to move. 

Such a stone, being conscious merely of its own endeavor and not at all indifferent, would believe itself to be completely free, and would think that it continued in motion solely because of its own wish. 

This is that human freedom, which all boast that they possess, and which consists solely in the fact that men are conscious of their own desire, but are ignorant of the causes whereby that desire has been determined.


—Baruch Spinoza


. . .



In the green morning
I wanted to be a heart.
A heart. 
And in the ripe evening
I wanted to be a nightingale.

A nightingale. 

(Soul,
turn orange-colored.
Soul,
turn the color of love.)


In the vivid morning
I wanted to be myself.
A heart.


And at the evening's end
I wanted to be my voice.
A nightingale.


Soul,
turn orange-colored.
Soul,
turn the color of love. 


—Federico García Lorca
ditty of first desire 


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out of my heart

 





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Out of my deeper heart a bird rose and flew skyward.
Higher and higher did it rise, yet larger and larger did it grow.

At first it was but like a swallow, then a lark, then an eagle, then as vast as a spring cloud, and then it filled the starry heavens.
Out of my heart a bird flew skyward. And it waxed larger as it flew.
Yet it left not my heart.

—Kahlil Gibran


. . .



I said it to you for the clouds
I said it to you for the tree of the sea
For each wave for the birds in the leaves
For the pebbles of sound
For familiar hands
For the eye that becomes landscape or face
And sleep returns it the heaven of its colour
For all that night drank
For the network of roads
For the open window for a bare forehead
I said it to you for your thoughts for your words
Every caress every trust survives.


—Paul Eluard

 

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Tuesday, June 29, 2021

If you are falling …. dive. —Joseph Campbell

 





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You feel you are hedged in; you dream of escape; but beware of mirages. Do not run or fly away in order to get free: rather dig in the narrow place which has been given you; you will find God there and everything. 

God does not float on your horizon, he sleeps in your substance. Vanity runs, love digs. If you fly away from yourself, your prison will run with you and will close in because of the wind of your flight; if you go deep down into yourself it will disappear in paradise.


—Gustave Thibon


. . .


 
We’re in a freefall into future. We don’t know where we’re going. Things are changing so fast…and anxiety comes along. 

All you have to do to transform your hell into a paradise is to turn your fall into a voluntary act. It’s a very interesting shift of perspective and that’s all it is … joyful participation in the sorrows and everything changes.


—Joseph Campbell


. . .

 
 
The way of love is not a subtle argument.
The door there is devastation.

Birds make great sky-circles of their freedom.
How do they learn it?

They fall, and falling, they're given wings.


—Rumi


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You are that which has the infinite potential to love, yet, you cling to your imagined personality.

 



whale breath




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There is no such thing as a person. 
There are only restrictions and limitations. 
The sum total of these defines the person. 

You think you know yourself when you know what you are. 
But you never know who you are. The person merely appears to be, like the space within the pot appears to have the shape and volume and smell of the pot. 

See that you are not what you believe yourself to be. 
Fight with all the strength at your disposal against the idea that you are nameable and describable. 

You are not. 

Refuse to think of yourself in terms of this or that.
There is no other way out of misery, which you have created for yourself through blind acceptance without investigation. 

Suffering is a call for enquiry, all pain needs investigation. 

—Sri Nisargadatta Maharaj



. . .

 

You cannot fight pain and pleasure on the level of consciousness.  
To go beyond them you must go beyond consciousness, which is possible only when you look at consciousness as something that happens to you and not in you, as something external, alien, superimposed. 
Then, suddenly you are free of consciousness, really alone, with nothing to intrude. 

And that is your true state.


—Sri Nisargadatta Maharaj



. . .



The best time is late afternoon
when the sun strobes through
the columns of trees as you are hiking up,
and when you find an agreeable rock
to sit on, you will be able to see
the light pouring down into the woods
and breaking into the shapes and tones
of things and you will hear nothing
but a sprig of birdsong or the leafy
falling of a cone or nut through the trees,
and if this is your day you might even
spot a hare or feel the wing-beats of geese
driving overhead toward some destination.


But it is hard to speak of these things
how the voices of light enter the body
and begin to recite their stories
how the earth holds us painfully against
its breast made of humus and brambles
how we who will soon be gone regard
the entities that continue to return
greener than ever, spring water flowing
through a meadow and the shadows of clouds
passing over the hills and the ground
where we stand in the tremble of thought
taking the vast outside into ourselves.


—Billy Collins
Directions (excerpt)
The Art of Drowning



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question








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You must always keep in mind that a path is only a path.
Each path is only one of a million paths.
If you feel that you must now follow it,
you need not stay with it under any circumstances.
Any path is only a path. 
There is no affront to yourself or others in dropping a path
if that is what your heart tells you to do. 
But your decision to keep on a path or to leave it 
must be free of fear and ambition. 
I caution you: look at every path closely and deliberately. 
Try it as many times as you think necessary.
Then ask yourself and yourself alone this one question.
Does this path have a heart? 

All paths are the same. They lead nowhere.
They are paths going through the brush or into the brush
or under the brush of the Universe. 
The only question is: Does this path have a heart? 
If it does, then it is a good path.
If it doesn’t, then it is of no use.



—Carlos Castaneda



. . .



The body is not you, the name is not you.
The body is the food you have consumed;
the taste of the food is the knowledge ‘I am’.
That is Self, the feeling ‘I am’,
that is the love to be. 
How amazing, how incredible, it has no name, but you give many names to it. 
It is the Self, the love to be. 
That love to be is all pervading. 
Before you conceptualize anything, you are. 
Even before the knowingness, you are.


—Nisargadatta



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Monday, June 28, 2021

messages







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A story is like water
that you heat for your bath.
It takes messages between the fire
and your skin. It lets them meet,
and it cleans you!
Very few can sit down
in the middle of the fire itself
like a salamander or Abraham. 
We need intermediaries.

A feeling of fullness comes,
but it usually takes some bread
to bring it.
Beauty surrounds us,
but usually we need to be walking
in a garden to know it.
The body itself is a screen
to shield and partially reveal
the light that’s blazing
inside your presence. 

Water, stories, the body,
all the things we do, are mediums
that hide and show what’s hidden.

Study them,
and enjoy being washed
with a secret we sometimes know,
and then not.


—Rumi
Coleman Barks version

 

. . .



For what is a man, what are we all, but bits of time caught for a moment in a tangle of blood, bones, skin, and brain? She was time. Mauser was time. I am a sorry bit of time myself. We are time’s containers. Time pours into us and then pours out again. In between the two pourings we live our destiny.


—Louise Erdich
Four Souls


. . .



Cannot you see clearly that everything that appears to happen happens in consciousness? It is all imaginary, a temporary hallucination. Don’t be led astray, none of it reflects your true state.


—Nisargadatta



.
 
 



the world is a phenomenon

 





 .

 

You see various scenes passing on a cinema screen: fire seems to burn buildings to ashes; water seems to wreck ships; but the screen on which the pictures are projected remains unburnt and dry. Why? Because the pictures are unreal and the screen real.

Similarly, reflections pass through a mirror but it is not affected at all by their number or quality.

In the same way, the world is a phenomenon upon the substratum of the single Reality which is not affected by it in any way. 

Reality is only One.

Talk of illusion is due only to the point of view. Change your viewpoint to that of Knowledge and you will perceive the Universe to be only Brahman. Being now immersed in the world, you see it as a real world; get beyond it and it will disappear and Reality alone will remain.


—Sri Ramana Maharshi


. . .


In essence, the ideas of space and time are creations of the mind that serve as the screen upon which we project the contents of the depths of our mind, both conscious and unconscious. 
Being constructs of consciousness as well as the receptacles for its projections, space and time serve as consciousness’s own way of providing a context for its contents so that they can be revealed, brought to light, reflected upon, and contemplated by a consciousness that is forever getting to know itself in new ways.


—Paul Levy
Quantum Revelation


. . .
 


This is the pipe that pierces the dam
that holds back the universe,

that takes off some of the pressure,
keeping the weight of the unknown

from breaking through
and washing us all down the valley.

Because of this small tube,
through which a cold light rushes

from the bottom of time,
the depth of the stars stays always constant

and we are able to sleep, at least for now,
beneath the straining wall of darkness.


—Ted Kooser
telescope


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song of my(self







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Now I will do nothing but listen,
To accrue what I hear into this song, to let sounds contribute toward it. 

I hear bravuras of birds, bustle of growing wheat, gossip of flames,
clack of sticks cooking my meals,
I hear the sound I love, the sound of the human voice,
I hear all sounds running together, combined, fused or following,
Sounds of the city and sounds out of the city, sounds of the day and night,
Talkative young ones to those that like them, the loud laugh of
work-people at their meals,
The angry base of disjointed friendship, the faint tones of the sick,
The judge with hands tight to the desk, his pallid lips pronouncing
a death-sentence,
The heave’e’yo of stevedores unlading ships by the wharves, the
refrain of the anchor-lifters,
The ring of alarm-bells, the cry of fire, the whirr of swift-streaking
engines and hose-carts with premonitory tinkles and color’d lights,
The steam-whistle, the solid roll of the train of approaching cars,
The slow march play’d at the head of the association marching two and two,
(They go to guard some corpse, the flag-tops are draped with black muslin.)
I hear the violoncello, (’tis the young man’s heart’s complaint,)
I hear the key’d cornet, it glides quickly in through my ears,
It shakes mad-sweet pangs through my belly and breast.

I hear the chorus, it is a grand opera,
Ah this indeed is music — this suits me.

A tenor large and fresh as the creation fills me,
The orbic flex of his mouth is pouring and filling me full.

I hear the train’d soprano (what work with hers is this?)
The orchestra whirls me wider than Uranus flies,
It wrenches such ardors from me I did not know I possess’d them,
It sails me, I dab with bare feet, they are lick’d by the indolent waves,
I am cut by bitter and angry hail, I lose my breath,
Steep’d amid honey’d morphine, my windpipe throttled in fakes of death,
At length let up again to feel the puzzle of puzzles,
And that we call Being.


—Walt Whitman
song of myself
Section 26


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Sunday, June 27, 2021

i drool all over :)






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From Alto Cedro I go to Marcané,
Then to Cueto, I go to Mayarí
 
The love I have for you
I can't deny it
I drool all over
And I can't help it
 
When Juanica and Chan Chan
Sifted sand in the sea
The way she was shaking the "sieve"1
was making Chan Chan embarrassed!
 
Clear the road of straws
'Cause I want to sit down
On this trunk that I see
And I can't arrive there that way
 
From Alto Cedro I go to Marcané,
Then to Cueto, I go to Mayarí



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wait
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the world, said the Buddha, is an ever-burning fire

 


  





You don’t ask what a dance means, you enjoy it. You don’t ask what the world means, you enjoy it. You don’t ask what you mean, you enjoy yourself; or at least, so you do when you are up to snuff.

But to enjoy the world requires something more than mere good health and good spirits; for this world, as we all now surely know, is horrendous. ‘All life,’ said the Buddha, 'is sorrowful’; and so, indeed, it is. Life consuming life: that is the essence of its being, which is forever a becoming. 'The world,’ said the Buddha, 'is an ever-burning fire.’ And so it is. And that is what one has to affirm, with a yea! a dance! a knowing, solemn, stately dance of the mystic bliss beyond pain that is at the heart of every mythic rite.


—Joseph Campbell
Myths to Live By

 

. . . 



A thousand times I have ascertained and found it to be true: the affairs of this world are really nothing into nothing.

Still though, we should dance.


—Hafiz


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costing not less than every(thing

   





And all shall be well and
All manner of thing shall be well


—Julian of Norwich, 1342 – 1416



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We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
Through the unknown, unremembered gate
When the last of earth left to discover
Is that which was the beginning;

At the source of the longest river
The voice of the hidden waterfall
And the children in the apple-tree
Not known, because not looked for
But heard, half-heard, in the stillness
Between two waves of the sea.

Quick now, here, now, always—
A condition of complete simplicity
(Costing not less than everything)

And all shall be well and
All manner of thing shall be well

When the tongues of flame are in-folded
Into the crowned knot of fire
And the fire and the rose are one. 

—T. S. Eliot
Little Gidding





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Saturday, June 26, 2021

the frightful reality of things

 




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Desperation is the raw material of drastic change. 
Only those who can leave behind everything they have ever believed in can hope to escape.


―William S. Burroughs






The frightful reality of things
Is my everyday discovery.
Each thing is what it is.
How can I explain to anyone how much
I rejoice over this, and find it enough?

To be whole, it is enough to exist.

I have written quite a number of poems
And may write many more, of course.
Each poem of mine explains it,
Though all my poems are different,
Because each thing that exists is always proclaiming it.

Sometimes I busy myself with watching a stone,
I don’t begin thinking whether it feels.
I don’t force myself to call it my sister,

But I enjoy it because of its being a stone,
I enjoy it because it feels nothing,
I enjoy it because it is not at all related to me.

At times I also hear the wind blow by
And find that merely to hear the wind blow makes
it worth having been born.

I don’t know what others will think who read this;
But I find it must be good because I think it
without effort,
And without the idea of others hearing me think,
Because I think it without thoughts,
Because I say it as my words say it.

Once they called me a materialist poet
And I admired myself because I never thought
That I might be called by any name at all.
I am not even a poet: I see.
If what I write has any value, it is not I who am
valuable.
The value is there, in my verses.
All this has nothing whatever to do with any will
of mine.


—Fernando Pessoa



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deny yourself nothing






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A thinking mind is not swallowed up by what it comes to know. It reaches out to grasp something related to itself and to its present knowledge (and so knowable in some degree) but also separate from itself and from its present knowledge (not identical with these). In any act of thinking, the mind must reach across this space between known and unknown, linking one to the other but also keeping visible to difference. It is an erotic space.


—Anne Carson
Eros the Bittersweet


. . .



Make love of yourself perfect. Deny yourself nothing – give yourself infinity and eternity and discover that you do not need them; you are beyond


—Nisargadatta Maharaj


every song the heart should cry

 





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I have come into this world to see this: the sword drop from men's hands even at the height of their arc of anger because we have finally realized there is just one flesh to wound and it is the Beloved's.

I have come into this world to see this: all creatures hold hands as we pass through this miraculous existence we share on the way to an even greater being of soul, a being of just ecstatic light, forever entwined and at play with Him.

I have come into this world to hear this: every song the earth has sung since it was conceived in the Divine's womb and began spinning from His wish, every song by wing and fin and hoof, every song by hill and field and tree and woman and child, every song of stream and rock, every song of tool and lyre and flute, every song of gold and emerald and fire, every song the heart should cry with magnificent dignity to know itself as God: for all other knowledge will leave us again in want and aching -  only imbibing the glorious Sun will complete us. 

I have come into this world to experience this: men so true to love they would rather die before speaking an unkind word, men so true their lives are His covenant - the promise of hope.

I have come into this world to see this: the sword drop from men's hands even at the height of their arc of rage because we have finally realized there is just one flesh we can wound.


—Hafiz

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Friday, June 25, 2021

Earth-like biospheres on other planets may be rare






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A new analysis of known exoplanets has revealed that Earth-like conditions on potentially habitable planets may be much rarer than previously thought. The work focuses on the conditions required for oxygen-based photosynthesis to develop on a planet, which would enable complex biospheres of the type found on Earth. The study is published today in Monthly Notices of the Royal Astronomical Society.

The number of confirmed planets in our own Milky Way galaxy now numbers into the thousands. However planets that are both Earth-like and in the habitable zone - the region around a star where the temperature is just right for liquid water to exist on the surface - are much less common.

At the moment, only a handful of such rocky and potentially habitable exoplanets are known. However the new research indicates that none of these has the theoretical conditions to sustain an Earth-like biosphere by means of ‘oxygenic’ photosynthesis - the mechanism plants on Earth use to convert light and carbon dioxide into oxygen and nutrients.

Only one of those planets comes close to receiving the stellar radiation necessary to sustain a large biosphere: Kepler−442b, a rocky planet about twice the mass of the Earth, orbiting a moderately hot star around 1,200 light years away.


spacetimewithstuartgary



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