Showing posts with label John O'Donohue. Show all posts
Showing posts with label John O'Donohue. Show all posts

Thursday, January 9, 2025

My Clothes Lie Folded for the Journey

    






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Dreamed some rain so I could sleep.
Dreamed the wind left-handed
so I could part its mane and enter
the dance that carries the living, the dead, and the unborn
in one momentum through the trillion gate.

Dreamed a man and woman
in different attitudes of meeting and parting
so I could tell the time,
the periods of the sun,
and which face my heart showed,
and which is displayed to a hidden fold.

Dreamed the world an open book of traces
anyone could read who knew the language of traces.
Dreamed the world is a book. And any page
you pause at finds you
where you breathe now,
and you can read the open
secret of who you are. As you read,

and other pages go on turning, falling
through the page before you, the sound of them the waves
of the waters you walk beside
in your other dreams of the world

as story, world as song, world

you dreamed you were not dreaming.
Dreamed my father reading out loud to me,
my mother sewing beside me, singing
a counting song,
so I wouldn't be afraid to turn
from known lights toward the ancestor of light.


—Li-Young Lee 


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The world cannot be discovered by a journey of miles, no matter how long, but only by a spiritual journey, a journey of one inch, very arduous and humbling and joyful, by which we arrive at the ground at our feet, and learn to be at home.

It is a journey we can make only by the acceptance of mystery and of mystification – by yielding to the condition that what we have expected is not there.


—Wendell Berry
The Unforeseen Wilderness, excerpt



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If there were a spiritual journey, it would be no more than a quarter of an inch long, though many miles deep.   


—John O'Donohue


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Thursday, January 2, 2025

love is not all

   


Agnes Martin, Friendship, 1963






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Real friendship or love is not manufactured or achieved by an act of will or intention. Friendship is always an act of recognition. 


—John O'Donohue



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Love is not all: It is not meat nor drink
Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain,
Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink
and rise and sink and rise and sink again.

Love cannot fill the thickened lung with breath
Nor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone;
Yet many a man is making friends with death
even as I speak, for lack of love alone.

It well may be that in a difficult hour,
pinned down by need and moaning for release
or nagged by want past resolutions power,
I might be driven to sell your love for peace,
Or trade the memory of this night for food.

It may well be. I do not think I would.


—Edna St. Vincent Millay




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