You sit in your body, quietly making blood
Bird of the world
–Emily Kendal Frey
I am part of the sun as my eye is part of me.
That I am part of the earth my feet know perfectly,
and my blood is part of the sea.
There is not any part of me that is alone and absolute except my mind, and we shall find that the mind has no existence by itself, it is only the glitter of the sun on the surfaces of the water.
–D. H. Lawrence
Your mind is the knife that cuts the continuum of space and time into neat slices of linear experience.
At this moment, you are seamlessly flowing with the cosmos. There is no difference between your breathing and the breathing of the rain forest, between your bloodstream and the world’s rivers, between your bones and the chalk cliffs of Dover.
In the ocean are many bright strands and many dark strands like veins that are seen when a wing is lifted up.
Your hidden self is blood in those, those veins that are lute strings that make ocean music – not the sad sound of surf, but the sound of no shore.
A tree says: A kernel is hidden in me, a spark, a thought, I am life from eternal life. The attempt and the risk that the eternal mother took with me is unique, unique the form and veins of my skin, unique the smallest play of leaves in my branches and the smallest scar on my bark. I was made to form and reveal the eternal in my smallest special detail.
A tree says: My strength is trust. I know nothing about my fathers, I know nothing about the thousand children that every year spring out of me. I live out the secret of my seed to the very end, and I care for nothing else. I trust that God is in me. I trust that my labor is holy. Out of this trust I live.
The sun and stars that float in the open air... the appleshaped earth and we upon it... surely the drift of them is something grand;I do not know what it is except that it is grand, and that it is happiness,And that the enclosing purport of us here is not a speculation, or bon-mot or reconnoissance,And that it is not something which by luck may turn out well for us, and without luck must be a failure for us,And not something which may yet be retracted in a certain contingency.
Put out my eyes, and I can see you still;
slam my ears to, and I can hear you yet;
and without any feet can go to you;
and tongueless, I can conjure you at will.
Break off my arms, I shall take hold of you
and grasp you with my heart as with a hand;
arrest my heart, my brain will beat as true;
and if you set this brain of mine afire,
upon my blood I then will carry you.
–Rainer Maria Rilke
from The Book of Hours
Oncea single cellfound that it was full of lightand for the first time there was seeingwhenI was a birdI could see where the stars had turnedand I set out on my journeyhighin the head of a mountain goatI could see across a valleyunder the shining trees something movingdeepin the green seaI saw the two sides of the waterand swam between themIlook at youin the first light of the morningfor as long as I can
–W. S. Merwin
Be helpless, dumbfounded
Unable to say yes or no.
Then a stretcher will come from grace to gather us up.
We are too dull-eyed to see that beauty.
If we say we can, we’re lying.
If we say No, we don’t see it, that No will behead us
And shut tight our window onto spirit.
So let us rather not be sure of anything,
Beside ourselves, and only that, so
Miraculous beings come running to help.
Crazed, lying in a zero circle, mute,
We shall be saying ﬁnally,
With tremendous eloquence,
When we have totally surrendered to that beauty,
We shall be a mighty kindness.
This morning as I walked along the lakeshore,
I fell in love with a wren
and later in the day with a mouse
the cat had dropped under the dining room table.
In the shadows of an autumn evening,
I fell for a seamstress
still at her machine in the tailor’s window,
and later for a bowl of broth,
steam rising like smoke from a naval battle.
This is the best kind of love, I thought,
without recompense, without gifts,
or unkind words, without suspicion,
or silence on the telephone.
The love of the chestnut,
the jazz cap and one hand on the wheel.
No lust, no slam of the door –
the love of the miniature orange tree,
the clean white shirt, the hot evening shower,
the highway that cuts across Florida.
No waiting, no huffiness, or rancor –
just a twinge every now and thenfor the wren who had built her nest
on a low branch overhanging the water
and for the dead mouse,
still dressed in its light brown suit.
But my heart is always propped up
in a field on its tripod,
ready for the next arrow.
After I carried the mouse by the tail
to a pile of leaves in the woods,
I found myself standing at the bathroom sink
gazing down affectionately at the soap,so patient and soluble,
so at home in its pale green soap dish.
I could feel myself falling again
as I felt its turning in my wet hands
and caught the scent of lavender and stone.
The moment you start talking you create a verbal universe, a universe of words, ideas, concepts and abstractions, interwoven and inter-dependent, most wonderfully generating, supporting and explaining each other and yet all without essence or substance, mere creations of the mind.
Words create words, reality is silent.
Time is only an idea. There is only the Reality.
Whatever you think it is, it looks like that. If you call it time, it is time.
If you call it existence, it is existence, and so on. After calling it time, you divide it into days and nights, months, years, hours, minutes, etc.
Time is immaterial for the Path of Knowledge. But some of these rules and discipline are good for beginners.
―Sri Ramana Maharshi
In the inmost of the smallest of all spacesruns a mute and constant play of color, inaccessible to eyes.
It is the light shut in that once in the moment of creationwas born inward and abode there, going on, once it had broken
up into the smallest of spectra in keeping with prismatic law at
frequencies that by the sighted would be called colorsif they encountered eyes able to see.It moved in periods unimaginably small for time and spacebut still with time and space enough for the least of the small.In fact it found it had ample room and time.It moved in cycles of nanoseconds and microspacesfrom white light and the colors of the spectrum and back to white light.A kind of breathing for light.The photons breathed and pulsated with one another,alternating signs and levels.So the light kept going in spectral balancefrom dense light to split and back to dense light and split,in spectral cycles infinitely repeated.It was like a play of fans,in keeping with the same law that holds for rainbows,but with spread and folded fans alternating with one anotherin keeping with the law of light inscribed in them.It was the light when it dances enclosedwhen it is not traveling abroad and seen.It belongs to the nature of light that it can be shut in and
still not die out in its movement,that it preserves itself thus in the darkness as thought, intent
and aptitude, that it remembers its changesand performs its dance, its interplay.With this art the light keeps together the innumerable
swarms of matter and sings with light's spectral wings the
endless song in honor of the fullness of the world.–Harry Martinson
Where there is a duality, as it were, there one sees another; there one smells another; there one tastes another; there one speaks to another ...
But where everything has become just one's own self, then whereby and whom would one see? Then whereby and whom would one smell? then whereby and to whom would one speak? then whereby and whom would one hear? then whereby and of whom would one think? then whereby and whom would one touch?
then whereby and whom would one understand?
–Brihadaranyaka Upabishad (2.4.14)
... 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
In a description hollowed out of hollow-bright,
The artificer of subjects still half night.
It matters, because everything we say
Of the past is description without place, a cast
Of the imagination, made in sounds;
And because what we say of the future must portend,
Be alive with its own seemings, seeming to be
Like rubies reddened by rubies reddening.
closing lines to section V
Sitting over words
very late I have heard a kind of whispered sighing
like a night wind in pines or like the sea in the dark
the echo of everything that has ever
still spinning its one syllable
between the earth and silence
... the wind has its reasons. We just don't notice as we go about our lives. But then, at some point, we are made to notice. The wind envelops you with a certain purpose in mind, and it rocks you. The wind knows everything that's inside you. And not just the wind. Everything, including a stone. They all know us very well. From top to bottom. It only occurs to us at certain times. And all we can do is go with those things. As we take them in, we survive, and deepen.
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.
The moon came to me last night
With a sweet question.
“The sun has been my faithful lover
For millions of years.
Whenever I offer my body to him
Brilliant light pours from his heart.
Thousands then notice my happiness
And delight in pointing
toward my beauty.
Is it true that our destiny
Is to turn into Light
And I replied,
Now that your love is maturing,
We need to sit together
Close like this more often
So I might instruct you
How to become
Long before spring
king of the black cranes
rises one day
from the black
on the white plain
under the white sky
the crown turns
and the eye
drilled clear through his head
it is north everywhere
come out he says
come out then
the light is not yet
it is a long way
to the first
come even so
we will start
bring your nights with you
The Carriers of Ladders,
Pulitzer Prize for poetry, 1971