Saturday, July 8, 2017

Dorothy Hunt - Silence


Silence cannot really be described. It is not the absence of sound. It makes it possible to notice sound. It is still, but its stillness is constantly moving. It is nothing, but a nothing filled with everything. It is aware, but may move unaware. It is love, but a love that lets hatred be. It is wise, but its wisdom only fools can know. It has a shape, the shape of this moment. It has its own sound, but can only be heard when the mind is still. Unceasingly, it speaks Truth without uttering a single word.

This Silent Mystery is prior to mind. It also moves as mind, but the mind cannot imagine what it is to disappear into Silence. That is why it is so often afraid of deep silence. Yet it is in silence that we can discover the truth of what is always here, always undivided, and always in peace, even if the moment does not seem peaceful. The Silence of our true nature is deeply, profoundly, and unceasingly present. It cannot be lost by the mind’s confusions nor gained by its clarity, for this awake and eternal Silence does not come and go.

We do not need long years on a meditation cushion to ask ourselves: What is here when we are not trying to arrive there? What is here, so close we do not notice? Who am I when I don’t go to my mind for an answer? What knows cannot be known except to Itself. It is a Mystery prior to any and all concepts. We might say it is what silences every thought and every concept—even those called truth, God, Buddha, world, or the concept of a “me;” yet it is simultaneously their source.

In This that dreams the world and the play of existence each moment, everything continually appears and disappears into an ever-present Silence that knows no separation between background and foreground, divine and human, teacher and student, enlightened and unenlightened, God and flea. It is undivided Silence, empty of nothing, continually moving, continually still. It is what we are. It is where the mind cannot go, where mind must remain in unknowing. 

Robert Wolfe - Ajata: Nothing from the Start

Friday, July 7, 2017

Hafiz - At This Party

I don’t want to be the only one here
Telling all the secrets –
Filling up all the bowls at this party,
Taking all the laughs.

I would like you
To start putting things on the table
That can also feed the soul
The way I do.

That way
We can invite
A hell of a lot more

Farid Ud-Din Attar - The Valley of Gnosis

The Valley of Gnosis has neither beginning nor end.
No other road is like the road which is hidden therein,
nor any road there like any other road there,
but the traveller in the body is other than the traveller in the spirit.
Soul and body are for ever in a state of deficiency or perfection
according to their strength and weakness.
Therefore, of necessity, the road is revealed to each one
according to his capacity for that revelation.
On this road, trodden by Abraham, the friend of God,
how could the feeble spider be a companion to the elephant ?
The progress of each will be in accordance with his spiritual state.
Though the gnat were to fly with all its might, could it ever equal the perfection of the wind ?
Since, then there are different ways of making the journey, no two birds will fly alike.
Each finds a way of his own, on this road of mystic knowledge,
one by means of the Mihrab and another through the idols.
When the Sun of Gnosis shines forth from the heaven above,
on to this most blessed road, each is enlightened according to his capacity
and finds his own place in the knowledge of the Truth. 

Wednesday, July 5, 2017

Alan Jacobs - Song of enlightenment

 I’m full as a mountain lake after summer rain
That’s fed the sacred stream and source of holy wisdom,
A flame sent by God to ignite his planet from above.
The golden glow of heat on burnished plain,
Gilds leaves on this path down pilgrim’s lane,
Warming earth, her gritty ochre clay,
Water, sea of mercy, so green and grey.
Air, the sweet breath of life that’s free from pain,
Crystalline beyond any loss or gain.
I am without a central ‘I-notion’ resident at home,
There’s no me to be elated or badly hurt by fear,
Pleased, perplexed, precious, pouting, proud, or simply here
To feel depressed, anxious but a soul free to roam
On inward seascape of bubbles, froth and foam.
Abidance in the heart, Real Self, there's no need for lofty tracts.

Seated in the temple shrine of the spiritual heart,
Nestling on the dexter side of my heaving breast,
Not on the left where the fleshy pump pulses in the chest,
Dwells ‘I Am’ which wakens Self to start.
Oh, what is oneness, truth and wisdom’s art,
Into which God shot love’s rose-flowered dart?
Who's bound or free as honoured friend and conscious guest,
Behind the nervous body-mind and now at last unfurled,
Space for a universe to happen in, lustrous and impearled?

Deep in my spiritual heart, I am the one, unborn,
Uncaused, deathless, I am, uniquely perfect, new, absolutely free!
I ask what is this tempestuous, stormy, troubled sea?
Where mind froth foams spuming from dusk to dawn,
On the ocean of Self lit by a fiery morn.
What is creation, world dissolution?
I ponder, and search for some solution.
Who and what is seeking?
King, bishop, queen or pawn,
Sporting on this chequered emerald palace lawn?
What is the goal of seeking?
Is it peace, freedom, liberty?
Who is the bold seeker who craves this final absolution?
Has he found an answer,
An ultimate resolution?

Yes, I am pristine, pure as the driven Himalayan snow,
Or pellucid stream pouring from pinnacle’s height,
Chaste, flawless, stainless, without blame, blemish, and wintry white.
I trickle down the mountain valley’s flow,
Free! I’m curious, what is there to know?
By what dubious method is knowledge gained,
To what spurious end when it’s attained?
I have no problems here, now or there below,
I’ve surmounted grief, all sorrow born of woe,
Simply stated, I know what's meant by wrong and right.
Our universe by creation, preservation, is maintained
By grace of god and his mighty will, all creatures are sustained.
Here, awakened now, I'm steady and perfectly still.
As an adamantine rock in the restless ocean stands,
Unmoved by cyclonic gale, tidal wave or shifting sands,
What of oppositions, healthy or ill,
Pleasure, pain, to heal quickly or to kill,
Distraction, perturbation, meditation,
Reflection, negation, confirmation?

I welcome all as God’s almighty will
He accepts ‘what is’, as gracious grist to time's grinding mill.
Gently by grace of god, in mercy he breaks all bondage bonds,
In a great paean of praise and total affirmation,
He rests with consciousness, his Self, the great consummation.

I have lost the monotonous merry-go-round of thought,
The perpetual treadmill of self-opinion and words,
Mainly cynicism and lies, the parroting chirp of birds,
A poisonous brew so bitterly fraught
With the mistaken idea that I ought
To cherish the mind as chief,
And then be mugged by thought, the villainous thief!

So that is the lesson my dear Master brought,
Ignore the scorpion stings of concepts wrought
With such inner discussion and debate.
Here's consciousness, consciousness is here.
A precious gift beyond all belief,
The ending of thought.
Now there's peace, ultimate joy and relief.

I am clarity, bright as a diamond, crystal, lily-white.
So what is illusion? To this question I meekly yield,
Finite mind can’t understand the infinite field,
The magic of Maya is but a slick trick of light.

So my Master gently wipes away all sad grief and tears,
All is well, unfolding as it should to allay such foolish fears.
With not the slightest hint of duality,
One without two,
Unity, wholeness, existence, holistic, all seamless,
Without separation, pure consciousness, love, awareness,
No division between me and you,
Emanating from the primal source, who
Am I, but that? I am eternal, the same
Being as truth and God without a name.

At last i know the little ‘me’ who can never do,
All that happens is the will of God right through and through.
I rest in the spiritual heart, blissful, benign and blameless,
So what is my greater Self to the mighty god of flame?
So my master to his students does plead,
Be still, motiveless when you perform a deed.
Forget all those books, aims, efforts, teaching and kneeling,
After all the hard years you’ve zealously worked and toiled,
Open wide, relax, and never by the worldly snake be coiled.
I’ve no limits or borders, I’m no longer bound,
No hedges, fences, verges, remain for spacious me,
Nothing arises, I am empty capacity for all to see
That all is well, my true Self I've found.

I traced my ‘I thought’ like a hunting hound
And knew my primal source the light of day,
And now as consciousness I’m free to play.
I rest in the heart on a sacred mound,
Where my naked feet walk on holy ground.
I am freedom, enlightenment, joy, bliss and liberty!

Nothing ever was, I am God, what more is left to say?
I am that, absolute, unique, ever primeval one,
As consciousness, love, awareness, effortless bliss,
Embraced by the love of God,
Blest by his all gracious kiss.
In light of glory, radiant as the sun,
I am homogeneous, second to none.

What care I now for freedom or liberation?
In life or death or gaining Self Realisation?
Or for my destiny predisposed to run,
Reborn in another womb 'till kingdom come?
And after transmigration, at-one-ment I may miss.
My master halts this baffling mental perturbation,
I let go, abiding in my heart of silent adoration.

Irving Karchmar - The poetry of life/Jerusalem

Love is the poetry of life
Gratitude its prose

Kindness the sentences
In patience composed

Prayer is the syntax
As Heaven knows

Be silent then, or
Speak truly

As the moon does
As the river flows

As each breath
Of our life goes

And each day
Of loving kindness

Is better than
The one before

And life itself
Becomes a poem

Until our last breath
And the farther shore

O Pilgrim, seek Me not
In the desert places
The ruined hills
The crumbling walls
Of ancient wailing

I am gone from
The city of violence
The streets of fear
The houses of anger
And sorrow

Look, look here!
O Pilgrim
On the Path of Love
Here is the City of David
The Temple of Solomon

Where the seeker dwells
I am
The soul’s delight
Of the heart



Shane Jagger - Love

Love is and always will be
the greatest mystery

That ultimate ground of being
where all beauty is held
in a singular moment

Still, silent and turning
with the dignity
of a majestic heart

Love is one and all
encompassing the reason
for all existence


Mystic Meandering - Rendez-vous with The Great Silence

Rendezvous with The Great Silence
through the Inner Window
of your Heart -
the portal to "The Mystery."

Sit quietly and listen deeply,
with no agenda or expectation,
leaving the window of your heart open -
waiting for the song of Silence...

Feel the caress of Silence begin,
inviting you in
with Her gentle breath,
breathing in your Heart...

The Silence that is always there
opens HerSelf to you - always.
Turn inward to the Inner Window,
bow to the Sacred Silence within and
enter Her Cosmic Mystery,
Her endless Vastness...

Settle into the Rhythm of Primordial Silence.
Feel the soft dance of intimacy absorb you,
in this silent rendezvous...

Nothing disturbs The Great Silence.
Nothing disturbs the depths of It.
Nothing prevents Its Song
from being sung...

Everything occurs within this Great Mystery of Silence.
All life, all breath, all death , all movement.

In the intimate awareness of Silence
know that everything is living according to Its
natural order, is following Its
natural Rhythm,
the Rhythm of The Tao of Life,
including this life you think you have created...

All life is being lived by the Great Mystery...

All is the pulse of Silence...
The pulse of the Cosmos.

Mystic Meandering
May 2016

Thank you Christine

Tuesday, July 4, 2017

Chuck Surface - What matters name and form?

 I dare not speak of this Inner Presence,
This Radiant, Rapturous Sublimity,
This Warmth, this Richness,
This Fullness, Completion, and Bliss.

Oh, and I dare not say that She Resides,
In the Secret Garden of my Heart,
The Mystical Tavern of The Beloved,
In the Deepest Interiority of my Being.

For in Temple, Church, or Mosque,
The orthodox will assail me with “beliefs”,
Of this Mystery that defies conceptualization,
Shining within the Inner Sanctum.

With fingers pointing, I am "taught",
Prescribed what I must do,
Proscribed what I must not do,
"Reality" described, “Truth” asserted.

One will say, with certitude,
"This is the Holy Spirit!"

Another will declare, knowingly,
"This is Mother Shakti!"

Nondualists will curl their lips,
"This is mere phenomenality!”

Others will insist,
"This is the Touch of God."

And others will dismiss,
"You are simply delusional."

All that they hold forth, is to me,
Mere Words and images,
Each possibly true, possibly,
Each possibly false possibly.

I have no idea "what" She is,
This Beloved that inhabits my Heart,
This Exquisite Rapture,
Without center or periphery.

Perhaps She is the Holy Spirit,
For She both comforts the Heart,
And teaches the mind and spirit,
Illumining the Whole of Being.

Perhaps She is Mother Shakti,
For although formless,
She moves within and as this form,
The Mover of this river’s waters.

Perhaps She is the "Self",
The Ground of Being,
What I Am, before the World and I,
Before all of Creation arose.

Perhaps She is the Touch of God,
For Union was nothing short of Heaven,
And Her lingering Presence, here,
Healing and Benediction immeasurable.

And perhaps... perhaps...
I am simply delusional,
"Possessed", as Ramana felt, early on,
By a most Beneficent Demon.

What matters the name,
What matters the imagined form,
And dare I speak blasphemy...
What matters "Truth" or "Reality".
As our Beloved Attar has said,
Risking the wrath of the orthodox,
"The sea will be the sea,
Whatever the drop's philosophy."

Monday, July 3, 2017

Eric Baret - Only live with what is there

" why would you want to free yourself from suffering, violence, depression
These are gifts we receive for questioning.
There's nothing to change in there.
It's because there is a form of maturation, opening that these gifts come.
To think that we must free ourselves from suffering, free from violence, that is violence.
It's a form of adjournment.
There's nothing we need to get out of.
The image is absolutely necessary; when it has fulfilled its role, it eliminates like the rest.
A spiritual approach is to live with what is there;
it is not seeking to transform, to change, to free itself.
These things are part of psychology. It's a leak.
It's about living with what you feel and not living with the hypothetical body,
with the body you should have, which you want to have, but with the body that's there.
Live with what is felt, not with a hypothetical, quiet, purified psyche,
which should be like this and like that, which should be open.
No. No. Live with what's here: with agitation, fear, depression.
Welcoming these elements brings the transformation.
No room for any change, for any journey; only live with what is there.
What is there is no other than beauty, but it requires listening, being watched.
Any attempt to break free is that suffering."


Tony Titshall - The Sadness of Knowing

The Sadness of Knowing

The Passion, the Heart, the Voice, the Cry

I have taught them and revealed the mysteries of the kingdom,
shown a harvest so great, yet the laborers are few.
I lived and moved among them, and they knew me not,
I still do, and they still don’t,
for given eyes, they cannot see.
The Son of man hath no place to lay his head.

I have fed them, healed them, embraced them, loved them.
I have stilled their storms and restored their peace,
I have straightened their paths, and eased their minds.
I have opened their eyes to the truth of themselves.
For which of these things do they now stone me?

I have gone before them to prepare a place.
I have carried their burdens and removed their fears,
I have called unto me the heavy laden and given them rest.
I have even raised them from the dead, yet they still do not believe.
Father, take this cup from my hands.

Father forgive them, for they know not what they do.
Not only do they not hear what I say, they know not who I AM.
Not only do they not understand, they cannot hear the truth of who they are.
Yet, despite all this, how unbearably great is my love for them all.
Jerusalem, oh Jerusalem.

Unknown among my own people, I am scourged and mocked.
Even by those closest to me, I am doubted, denied, betrayed.
Called a blasphemer, how heavy is my heart, how troubled my soul.
Have I been so long with you, and you still do not know me?
Oh ye of little faith.

My God, my God, why hast Thou forsaken me?
A prophet without honor in his own city,
will I burst, that what is in me
give birth to the silent storms of Revelation,
too close to see, to speak the way,
too loud to hear, too soft to say
The Sadness of Knowing.