Tuesday, August 21, 2018


Marianne Broug - The Emptiness of the Interior



 It was many years ago, long before my spiritual journey had become conscious, that someone first suggested that I look within to find out who I truly was.

I took their suggestion and did indeed look within. And I came to the rather panicked conclusion that there was absolutely nothing there. As far as I could see it was just one big fat gaping hole. And so I quickly discarded that line of inquiry and decided that the person who had made the suggestion was probably woefully misguided in some way.

And yet, many years later, I came to the realization that it is this hole, this emptiness within, that is the key to everything …

… for it is this emptiness that we fill when we awaken.

Over the years I have read countless books about adventurers who have trudged across vast unexplored deserts, labored through impenetrable rainforests or set out on a lone journey across ice or sea. And many times I have thought, “Yes, your story is exciting and inspiring and extraordinarily interesting, but here, here, here, closer than here, each of us have within us, a vast realm of unexplored territory that is just ripe for discovery.”

Our inner world really is the empty continent or the vast unexplored ocean that lies behind the all-too-comfortable shores of our civilization, and as we do the shopping or as we sit around flicking through our emails, it is always there, beckoning and begging us to explore.

And when we do have the courage to travel within, set up camp for a while, claim that desert as our own, and then return into our everyday lives, we most probably won’t get a write-up in National Geographic, nor will we get a knighthood to show off to our family and friends . But as we take our place in this world, knowing ourselves as the Emptiness that is never empty, as a body that is not a body, as a Self that is not a self … we will almost certainly have on our faces an uncaused, unabashed and utterly contented grin that not only stretches from ear to ear, but extends back back back into the enormity of All that we are.

It is not possible for it to be otherwise. For we are Home.





 

Monday, August 20, 2018

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe - Ha! A rush of bliss


Ha! A rush of bliss
flows suddenly through all my senses!
I feel a glow, a holy joy of life
which sets my veins and flesh afire.
Was it a god that drew these signs
which soothe my inward raging
and fill my wretched heart with joy,
and with mysterious strength
reveal about me Nature’s pulse?
Am I a god? The light pervades me so!
In these pure ciphers I can see
living Nature spread out before my soul.
At last I understand the sage’s words:
“The world of spirits is not closed:
your mind is shut, your heart is dead!
Pupil, stand up and unafraid
bathe your earthly breast in morning light!”

How things are weaving one in one;
each lives and works within the other.
Heaven’s angels dip and soar
and hold their golden pails aloft;
with fragrant blessings on their wings,
they penetrate the earthly realm from Heaven
and all make all resound in harmony.

— from Faust, by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe / Translated by Peter Salm




 

Saturday, August 18, 2018

Richard Wehrman - What wants to come



Out of that space that she could not command,
could not direct, could extract nothing from,
except what was given by the space itself,
out it came—what wanted to come in its own way
—and she the bystander, the observer,
the one along on the hurtling ride, though the space itself
was Silence itself, unmoving, unmoved, unmovable
—yet it drew her in, into its very within,
she who had been with-out, powerless, hands pressed
against the glass of its sides, like Alice to the looking-glass,
then she fell, was lifted in, was absorbed into the all
she saw, the all that was that is, heard, smelled, touched, tasted,
though none of these senses were, only the clear light,
yellow on the impending fall, flooding the field,
the transition of the seasonal air, as Summer
shimmered into non-existence, and clarity stood in silent reveling:
color and light and form, falling upon her all.




 

Thursday, August 16, 2018

Traktung Khepa - The secret of this silent fire



I used to talk to sunlight. I would whisper in his ear. Sweet nothings. And he would whisper back about the migration route of arctic wolves, the secretmost intimations of krill, the giggling of school girls.

I spoke with the ocean shore. I stamped out syntax and word with my bare feet, Leapt high for an exclamation, opened arms wide for interrogative. She replied with pounding crashing of surf and the sighs of wave and sand’s relentless union.

I spoke with the grass and it told me of its seduction of poets. It gossiped about the secret life of ants, imparted the hidden meanings of Abulafia.

The ant carried my message deep into the earth and minerals sent telegrams with encouragement and advice.

.

“Who you chose to spend time with speaks everything about your love. Thorn thicket people. Glass bottle people. Fashion magazine people. The people called Encouragers of Waste … and…..

Self Protective Imaginings.

Do not stay three days in the house of anyone who does not fear the movement of the clock’s hands. Do not be fooled by Joseph’s torn coat or listen to negative gossips about Majnun.

Instead, go ask the baby how it knows to suckle the breast. Go ask the sunflower how it knows to turn toward the brightness. Go ask the Lover of Truth why her heart and mind race toward the teacher.”

.

And so I did. The baby said “Listen.” So I closed my mouth. The sunflower said “Deeper still.” So I closed my eyes and ears and heard the sound of the stars movement, the golden mean, the first letter. The Lovers of Truth said “This is only a beginning.” So I sealed up mind wanderings and stood alone in the nothing.

………..

An ant crawled along the edge of creation and void and dropped a telegram from deep earth. It said:

"Listening is fruitless unless it becomes a fire. Silence and Love become a furnace burning away the dross; sunlight is all that is left. If you want to know what fire is then go and speak to Layla ." - The telegram was signed, Gold.

I went to Layla to ask her the secret of this silent fire but merely the sight of her face and my Heart burst into flame. The hidden meaning of names was revealed and syllables opened my confusion .... The Love Bird flew into the sky.

Now all that remains is heaven, I have become the ink on the telegram, the paper, the reader and the author and the open sky. 


Traktung Khepa 's facebook

 
 

Wednesday, August 15, 2018

Hafiz - Becoming human



Once a man came to me and spoke for hours about
“His great visions of God” he felt he was having.

He asked me for confirmation, saying,
Are these wondrous dreams true?”

I replied, “How many goats do you have?”
He looked surprised and said,
“I am speaking of sublime visions
And you ask
About goats!”

And I spoke again saying,
“Yes, brother – how many do you have?”

“Well, Hafiz, I have sixty-two.”

“And how many wives?”

Again he looked surprised, then said,
“Four.”

“How many rose bushes in your garden,
How many children,
Are your parents still alive,
Do you feed the birds in winter?”

And to all he answered.

Then I said,
“You asked me if I thought your visions were true,
I would say that they were if they make you become
More human,

More kind to every creature and plant
That you know.”



 

Friday, August 10, 2018

Bob O’Hearn - Song of the Beloved




Beloved,

I have wandered deep and far
in the dreamy landscape of myself,
swept out into an ocean of forgetfulness,
drowned to peace in that sea of mystery,
rocked in the bosom of vast emptiness.

Now, here I am with you,
washed ashore on the waves
of your gracious indulgence, singing
these little songs of remembrance.

Perhaps at night one of these tiny tunes
may insinuate itself into some neglected pocket
of your longing, and you will gently awaken
with a single tear streaming from your eye.

Shining softly within that tear is everything
I have come here for, everything I am.

That tear is a kind gift from you to yourself –
the same self we share in this dream of each other,
spun from our womb of deep intimacy.

Shall we welcome this sublimity
and feel all the way to infinity?

Everything is seeking,
yet seeking only for itself.

Beyond these words, persist —
unless we can get to the marrow,
we will leave this table dissatisfied.

While standing on the beach,
can we stop a ship out on the sea?

Having boldly pushed out
from the safe shore of certainty
into the surging current of rippling life,
whichever way we look we are confronted
with the lies of what we thought we knew,
and the confounding truth of what we don’t.

Once we’ve embarked upon the maiden voyage
of our soul’s deepest longing, we may find
that there is something which Love
wants to do with us.

Who is willing to listen to Her soft whisper,
so familiar, like the evening chimes
in some forsaken ruin of a temple,
the temple of our longing?

Can you hear Her now?
Her tears, Her calling?

The constant music streaming, soaring between
and behind our thoughts, caresses these tears
now glistening down our cheek, and yet
it seems all we ever really want
is to just go back to sleep.

Resounding all around us,
the unsettled snores of discontent
rise and fall in a cacophonous chaos
of bleary limbo, echoing the plight
of those still lost in dreaming.

You, who
now open your eyes
in the midst of this dream –
let all of your cares melt away
like the lingering remains of winter
in the glow of spring’s warming sun.

In our natural state,
we can sing like little children
at the beauty of this incomparable sunlight
pouring through our windows, weaving together
the shadows and light that playfully illuminate
our own innocence – a true and simple song
of forgetting who and what we are,
all for the sake of once again
awaking and remembering.

Songs love to be sung.

Can we be the song
that our soul wants to sing –
the song of the heart’s yearning,
and yearning’s surest satisfaction?

I am here to sing it with you,
our longing is not different.

We can remember our original voice.

It is the voice that has never been bound,
never been limited, never been compromised,
and never despaired at the poignant fragility
of all that transpires from birth to death.

It is the lyrical call that has never faltered,
even though the most supernal beauty
is destined to fade and rot.

The closer that things approach
their point of vanishing, the more
transparent and exquisite they become.

Your exquisiteness makes me weep!

There is a gleaming questing in your eyes
that only magnifies your tenderness.

This magnificent tenderness is yet a stranger
to those who prolong the war with themselves –
the dark fiction of division and separation.

We can relinquish such fantasies, because
we have felt Her Lips pressed against the soft,
vulnerable tissues of our heart, and not resisted.

In this same way we’ll come to recognize
that, in the end, all knowing must submit itself
to the open-armed embrace of Mystery,
resting here, at home, at peace.

This is the song of remembrance.
This is the song of our Self.

Tracing back to the origin of anything,
everything meets right here.

We sit before each other now as This,
the traceless root of light itself, needing
nothing more, not one more word,
not one more “I love you”.

Spring, summer, autumn, winter –
in the cave of sky that shapes
a heart around us,
we are still.