Wednesday, May 31, 2017

one thing






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It is the hand that lifts, but you say “I lift”.
The eyes see but you say, “I see”.
The nose smells, but you say, “I smell”.
All this is the power of the Self and yet you say, “I did it”.
That power belongs to God.

Who is this ego arrogating ‘I’?
He has no place in the palace, but once admitted inside, he
overrules the king and affirms his own existence.
After some enquiry, this ego’s existence is easily disproved.
Then the king once again affirms, “I am Reality.”

There is one thing about this condition – there is bliss.
If there are two, then there is pain.
Where there is One, there is bliss.



–Sri Siddharameshwar Maharaj



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question





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What do you have to do?
Pack your bags,
Go to the station without them,
Catch the train,
And leave your self behind.

–Wei Wu Wei


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Tuesday, May 30, 2017

intersection





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The human skin is an artificial boundary: the world wanders into it, and the self wanders out of it, traffic is two-way and constant.

–Bernard Wolfe



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your self




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Be kind to yourself;
it is the only one and perishable.

—Allen Ginsberg



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Sunday, May 28, 2017

words for love







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Sanskrit has ninety-six words for love; ancient Persian has eighty, Greek three, and English only one. This is indicative of the poverty of awareness or emphasis that we give to that tremendously important realm of feeling.

Eskimos have thirty words for snow, because it is a life-and death matter to them to have exact information about the element they live with so intimately.

If we had a vocabulary of thirty words for love … we would immediately be richer and more intelligent in this human element so close to our heart. 

An Eskimo probably would die of clumsiness if he had only one word for snow; we are close to dying of loneliness because we have only one word for love. 

Of all the Western languages, English may be the most lacking when it come to feeling. 


–Robert Johnson
The Fisher King and the Handless Maiden




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A Brighter Word Than Bright






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Words are substance strange. Speak one and the air ripples into another's ears. Write one and the eye laps it up. But the sense transmutes, and the spoken word winds through the ear's labyrinth into a sense that is no longer the nerve's realm.

The written word unfolds behind the eye into the world, world's image, and the imagination sees as the eye cannot see - thoughtfully.


–Dan Beachy-Quick


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exposed on the cliffs of the heart






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Exposed on the cliffs of the heart. Look, how tiny down there,
look: the last village of words and, higher,
(but how tiny) still one last
farmhouse of feeling. Can you see it?

Exposed on the cliffs of the heart. Stoneground
under your hands. Even here, though,
something can bloom; on a silent cliff-edge
an unknowing plant blooms, singing, into the air.

But the one who knows? Ah, he began to know
and is quiet now, exposed on the cliffs of the heart.
While, with their full awareness,
many sure-footed mountain animals pass
or linger. And the great sheltered bird flies, slowly
circling, around the peak's pure denial. - But
without a shelter, here on the cliffs of the heart...



–Rainer Maria Rilke



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Saturday, May 27, 2017

listen





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Be quiet. Ra is in the wind.
He speaks when the earth is silent and he alone existed until he named the names of things.
River, he said, and River lived.
Nile. Mountain. Beetle. Fisherman.
From his tongue springs words of water.
The river quakes with the sound of his voice.
Air escaping from his nose. Breathe deep.
The wind a sigh from his mother.
Such things are made everyday:
Duck, Mandrake, Raisin.
Grape, Pomegranate, Melon.
Cypress, Palm, Osiris.


–The Egyptian Book of the Dead



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Friday, May 26, 2017

In a Dark Time, excerpt





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In a dark time, the eye begins to see,
I meet my shadow in the deepening shade;
I hear my echo in the echoing wood -
A lord of nature weeping to a tree.
I live between the heron and the wren,
Beasts of the hill and serpents of the den.

What's madness but nobility of soul
At odds with circumstance? The day's on fire!
I know the purity of pure despair,
My shadow pinned against a sweating wall.
That place among the rocks - is it a cave,
Or winding path? The edge is what I have.


–Theodore Roethke



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the soul of the universe






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You are the soul of the soul of the universe,
and your name is Love.


—Rumi



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Thursday, May 25, 2017

prana





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Man has no Body distinct from the Soul!
for that Body is a portion of the Soul
discerned by the five Senses,
the chief inlets to the Soul in this age.

Energy is the only life and is from the Body;

and reason is the bound or outward
circumference of energy.
Energy is eternal delight.



–William Blake
18th century












Looking Across the Fields and Watching the Birds Fly






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Among the more irritating minor ideas
Of Mr. Homburg during his visits home
To Concord, at the edge of things, was this:

To think away the grass, the trees, the clouds,
Not to transform them into other things,
Is only what the sun does every day,

Until we say to ourselves that there may be
A pensive nature, a mechanical
And slightly detestable operandum, free

From man's ghost, larger and yet a little like,
Without his literature and without his gods . . .
No doubt we live beyond ourselves in air,

In an element that does not do for us,
so well, that which we do for ourselves, too big,
A thing not planned for imagery or belief,

Not one of the masculine myths we used to make,
A transparency through which the swallow weaves,
Without any form or any sense of form,

What we know in what we see, what we feel in what
We hear, what we are, beyond mystic disputation,
In the tumult of integrations out of the sky,

And what we think, a breathing like the wind,
A moving part of a motion, a discovery
Part of a discovery, a change part of a change,

A sharing of color and being part of it.
The afternoon is visibly a source,
Too wide, too irised, to be more than calm,

Too much like thinking to be less than thought,
Obscurest parent, obscurest patriarch,
A daily majesty of meditation,

That comes and goes in silences of its own.
We think, then as the sun shines or does not.
We think as wind skitters on a pond in a field

Or we put mantles on our words because
The same wind, rising and rising, makes a sound
Like the last muting of winter as it ends.

A new scholar replacing an older one reflects
A moment on this fantasia. He seeks
For a human that can be accounted for.

The spirit comes from the body of the world,
Or so Mr. Homburg thought: the body of a world
Whose blunt laws make an affectation of mind,

The mannerism of nature caught in a glass
And there become a spirit's mannerism,
A glass aswarm with things going as far as they can.


–Wallace Stevens




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Sunday, May 21, 2017

I, the Beloved, and Love





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In those days before a trace of the two worlds,
no "other" yet imprinted on the Tablet of Existence,
I, the Beloved, and Love lived together
in the corner of an uninhabited cell.

–Fakhruddin 'Iraqi
Divine Flashes



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Saturday, May 20, 2017

all my relations






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Consciousness is reflected in a word as a sun in a drop of water. A word relates to consciousness as a living cell relates to a whole organism, as an atom relates to the universe. A word is a microcosm of human consciousness.

Lev Vygotsky
Thought and Language, 2012, p.271



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and then you are






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And then You are like this:

A small bird decorated
With orange patches of light
Waving your wings near my window,
Encouraging me with all of existences's love --
To dance.

And then You are like this:

A cruel word that stabs me
From the mouth of a strange costume You wear;
A guise You had too long tricked me into thinking
Could be other -- than You.

And then You are...

The firmament
That spins at the end of a string in Your hand
That You offer to mine saying,
"Did you drop this -- surely
This is yours."

And then You are, O then You are:

The Beloved of every creature
Revealed with such grandeur -- bursting
From each cell in my body,
I kneel, I laugh,
I weep, I sing,
I sing.


–Hafiz



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Wednesday, May 17, 2017

all things






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In the point of rest at the center of our being, we encounter a world where all things are at rest in the same way

Then a tree becomes a mystery, a cloud a revelation, each man a cosmos of whose riches we can only catch glimpses.


—Dag Hammarskjöld


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rebirth, excerpt




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In our souls everything
moves guided by a mysterious hand.

We know nothing of our own souls
that are ununderstandable and say nothing.


The deepest words
of the wise man teach us

the same as the whistle of the wind when it blows


or the sound of the water when it is flowing.


–Antonio Machado



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image Riitta Ikonen
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Tuesday, May 16, 2017

this mystery





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And yet, though we strain
against the deadening grip
of daily necessity,
I sense there is this mystery:
All life is being lived.

Who is living it then?
Is it the things themselves,
or something waiting inside them,
like an unplayed melody in a flute?

Is it the winds blowing over the waters?
Is it the branches that signal to each other?

Is it flowers
interweaving their fragrances
or streets, as they wind through time?


–Rainer Maria Rilke
Book of Hours, excerpt
Anita Barrows and Joanna Macy version



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be the mystery

 



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Be the mystery.
In this uncontainable night,
be the mystery at the crossroads of your senses,
the meaning discovered there.

And if the world has ceased to hear you,
say to the silent earth: I flow.
To the rushing water, speak: I am.



–Rainer Maria Rilke




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Friday, May 12, 2017

inter-being





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You are me, and I am you.
Isn’t it obvious that we “inter-are”?
You cultivate the flower in yourself,
so that I will be beautiful.
I transform the garbage in myself,
so that you will not have to suffer.

I support you;
you support me.
I am in this world to offer you peace;
you are in this world to bring me joy.


–Thich Nhat Han


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I ... am beginning to feel an immense need to become a savage and create a new world. –Strindberg






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We are one, after all, you and I.

Together we suffer, together exist,
and forever will recreate each other.


–Pierre Teilhard de Chardin


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Thursday, May 11, 2017

hey!






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I am yours.
Don’t give myself back to me.

—Rumi


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Sunday, May 7, 2017

how does a single-celled embryo grow up to be a differentiated biological body of organs?

 



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An embryo expands by cell division, making an exact replica of itself with all the same DNA, the same genes. But in the adult body, the cells are differentiated as to their functions.

... The proteins a cell makes determine cellular function; the genes have the code to make the proteins. ... But the source of the programs is not part of the DNA.
... Rupert Sheldrake (1981) has shown how nonlocal and nonphysical morphogenic fields are essential to understand biological form-making from the one-celled embryo. The instructions of form-making, cell-differentiation (all cells contain the same genes, yet toe cell genes are activated very differently from brain cell genes), are nowhere to be found in the physical body, and that includes the genes (which are more or less instructions for protein-making).


–Amit Goswami
Quantum Doctor


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