Saturday, April 30, 2016

Mooji - Silence


There is a Silence that is totally impersonal.
It is not the fruit of anybody’s work.
Peace is there, but there is no peacekeeper.
This Peace is only known 
when the noise of the person
is not present.
In the absence of the 'person' 
there are no distractions.
Only the ever-pure Awareness prevails.
The Ultimate is nobody’s achievement at all.

Jiddu Krishnamurti - Freedom from the known

As human beings we are all capable of inquiry, of discovery, 
and this whole process is meditation. 
Meditation is inquiry into the very being of the meditator. 
You cannot meditate without self-knowledge, 
without being aware of the ways of your own mind, 
from the superficial responses to the most complex subtleties of thought. 
I am sure it is not really difficult to know, to be aware of oneself, 
but it is difficult for most of us because we are so afraid to inquire, to grope, to search out. 
Our fear is not of the unknown, but of letting go of the known. 
It is only when the mind allows the known to fade away that there is complete freedom 
from the known, and only then is it possible for the new impulse to come into being.  

The Collected Works, Vol. X",255,Choiceless Awareness

Thursday, April 28, 2016

Rumi - Like a fool I dance

From all that was familiar,
I broke away
Now I am lost, without a place,
With no music like a fool I dance
and clap my hands.
How am I to live without You?
You are everywhere but
I cannot see You 

Wednesday, April 27, 2016

Chuck Surface - It is

Q: Is the mirror separate from the images reflected on it?
A: Only in the mind of the beholder
Q: Is the beholder separate from that which is beheld?
A: Only in the mind of the beholder.
Q: Is the mind of the beholder separate from the beholder?
A: Only in the mind of the beholder.
Q: Is the mind of the beholder real?
A: As real as the beholder.
Q: Is the beholder really the Beholder?
A: It is.
Q: Is it not also the beheld?
A: It is.
Q: And... what is its nature?
A: It Is.

Tuesday, April 26, 2016

Bernadette Miller - Belonging

Belonging is a river
not a goal.
Every point is holy--
but you cannot linger there
without losing yourself
for you are the motion
of your journey.
No idea,
no attainment,
no goal,
can encompass
the truth
which lives only as it dies
into new life.
Your are the pain--
let it go.
Your are the joy--
let it go.
You are actions taken and not taken--
let them go.
Your are the dream--
let it go.
Move with the mark
of the unknown upon you
and life will enter your blood like a river.
This world was always holy
and you were always a rising flame
upon its altar.

Monday, April 25, 2016

Bayazid Bustami - The woman who was the Master

It is said that when Bayazid Bustami was asked who his master was, he explained:

She was an old woman. One day, I was possessed by such ecstasy and yearning and sense of unity that not even a hair of anything else could be found in me. In this selfless mood, I went for a stroll in the desert, where I happened to meet an elderly lady burdened with a bag of flour.

She asked me to carry the flour for her, but I was incapable of taking it, so I beckoned to a lion to take the load. The lion came up to me and I laid the sack upon its back. I then asked the old lady what she intended to say to the townspeople since I did not want them to apprehend who I was.

"I'll tell them," she replied, "that I met a vain tyrant."

"What are talking about?" I exclaimed.

The lady explained thus, first asking: "Has the lion been put to trouble or not?"

"No," I answered. -

"Except for the fact that you burden down those whom God Himself has not burdened!" she objected. "Is that not oppression?"

"So it is", I admitted.

"And, despite this", she continued, "still you desire the townspeople to know that you have subjected a lion and are a miracle worker. Is that not vanity?"

"Yes, it is", I confessed.

So I repented, experiencing abasement from my former exaltation. Indeed that old woman's words performed the function of a spiritual guide and master for me.

source text 

D. H. Lawrence - Nonentity

The stars that open and shut
Fall on my shallow breast
Like stars on a pool.

The soft wind, blowing cool
Laps little crest after crest
Of ripples across my breast.

And dark grass under my feet
Seems to dabble in me
Like grass in a brook.

Oh, and it is sweet
To be all these things, not to be
Any more myself.

For look,
I am weary of myself!