Saturday, February 4, 2017

Clare Blanchflower - Fierce Grace

What will it take
to rest
all your weight on to the foot
that walks the divine life?

What will it take
to saturate the
fear of living
With the peace
of loving presence?
To dance in
the freedom of reality

Dive deeper
than this surface
of mind that thinks
it knows something
Stop questioning
the grace that life
is spilling out
and rest

What will it take
to feel,
to truly feel
it all
Right down to the
bones of clarity
And admit
you know not
what to do
Know not how to
Crack open

Rest your forehead
to the ground
Bow at the feet of life
In the glory of
your personal
Meet the true power
that you are
The richness
of love
that swoons in the
heart of Being

Allow praise
to dance on the
tip of your tongue
Allow gratitude to tumble
from your lips
Trust the
the idiosyncrasies
of life
are happening
for you
by you
are you
This is IT

Fall into the silence that is
roaring with aliveness
Drowning out
the voice in
your head that wants you
to dance a small dance
In a circle
around and around

What will it take
to recognize
that life is
blessing you with
the honour
of unfolding
from your smallness
into the largesse of Being

Allow awe to take up residence
Be taken
by your unknowing
May the tears of surrender
swirl into a river of flowing love
that carries you
right to the heart of your
inner most Being

facebook awakening wholeness

Thursday, February 2, 2017

Arthur Osborne - Brief Eternity

Suddenly I was not. Seeing remained,
Not any one who saw. Thoughts still appeared...
No one to think. And all this was not new,
No change of state, for I not only was not
But never had been; only through some spell—
Ignorance—suffering—sin—what name you will—

I imagined that I was.

Or just as well
It could be said that suddenly I was,
For Being, Self, whatever name you give,
Just was, and I was That, no other self.

It is a simple thing—no mystery.
The wisdom of the Sages all comes down
To simple being.

Again this state was lost.
Sisyphus-like, the heavy stone rolled down.
Again was need to tear my love from others,
Alone through the night, with much toil to strive
To the lost homeland, to the Self I am.

Though a world appear, yet will I not cling to it;
Though thoughts arise, yet will I cherish them not.
More deep the mischief of the imposter me
That sees himself and them—or thinks he sees,
He who complains he has not yet achieved.
Who is it that achieves? Or who aspires?
What is there to achieve, when being is
And nothing else beside, no second self?

from " Be Still, It Is The Wind That Sings"

Monday, January 30, 2017

Longchenpa - Land of natural perfection

 “The land of natural perfection
is free of buddhas and sentient beings;

the ground of natural perfection
is free of good and bad;

the path of natural perfection
has no length;

the fruition of natural perfection
can neither be avoided nor attained;

the body of natural perfection
is neither existent nor nonexistent;

the speech of natural perfection
is neither sacred nor profane;

and the mind of natural perfection
has no substance nor attribute.

The space of natural perfection
cannot be consumed nor voided;

the status of natural perfection
is neither high nor low;

the praxis of natural perfection
is neither developed nor neglected;

the potency of natural perfection
is neither fulfilled nor frustrated;

the display of natural perfection
is neither manifest nor latent;

the actuality of natural perfection
is neither cultivated nor ignored;

and the gnosis of natural perfection
is neither visible nor invisible.

The hidden awareness of natural perfection
is everywhere,

its parameters beyond indication,
its actuality incommunicable;

the sovereign view of natural perfection
is the here-and-now, naturally present
without speech or books, irrespective
of conceptual clarity or dullness,
but as spontaneous joyful creativity
its reality is nothing at all.”

Jan Richardson - Epiphany Day: Where the Map Begins

Image: An Ancient Light © Jan Richardson

 This is not
any map you know.
Forget longitude.
Forget latitude.
Do not think
of distances
or of plotting
the most direct route.
Astrolabe, sextant, compass:
these will not help you here.

This is the map
that begins with a star.
This is the chart
that starts with fire,
with blazing,
with an ancient light
that has outlasted
generations, empires,
cultures, wars.

Look starward once,
then look away.
Close your eyes
and see how the map
begins to blossom
behind your lids,
how it constellates,
its lines stretching out
from where you stand.

You cannot see it all,
cannot divine the way
it will turn and spiral,
cannot perceive how
the road you walk
will lead you finally inside,
through the labyrinth
of your own heart
and belly
and lungs.

But step out
and you will know
what the wise who traveled
this path before you
the treasure in this map
is buried
not at journey’s end
but at its beginning.

—Jan Richardson

Circle of Grace


Sunday, January 29, 2017

Mark Nepo - Pathways

pic Intao

 I don’t know why I was born
with this belief in something
deeper and larger than we can
see. But it’s always called. Even as
a boy, I knew that trees and light
and sky all point to some timeless
center out of view. I have spent my
life listening to that center and filtering
it through my heart. This listening
and filtering is the music of my soul,
of all souls. After sixty years, I’ve run
out of ways to name this. Even now,
my heart won’t stand still. In a moment
of seeing, it takes the shape of
my eye. In a moment of speaking, the
shape of my tongue. In a moment of
silence, it slips back into the lake of
center. When you kiss me, it takes
the shape of your lip. When our dog
sleeps with us, it takes the shape of
her curl. When the hummingbird
feeds her baby, it takes the shape
of her beak carefully dropping
food into our throats.