Wei Wu Wei - The Inconceivable

art Autumn Skye Morrison

THE  SPACE-TIME,  subject-object  phenomenal  universe 
is  a manifestation of mind, of which day and sleep dreaming
are examples in a second degree.
The result of this individualisation process, based on seriality,
which all degrees of dreamers know as “reality,”
has no objective  resemblance  to  that  which  causes  it  to  appear,
because that which causes it to appear has no objective quality at all.
Therefore that is totally inaccessible to any form of objective cognition,
let alone of description. The only words that can indicate it at all are
This, Here, Now, and Am, and in a context which is entirely abstract.
The negative method is provisional only; it turns from the
positive to its counterpart, and then negates both. That wipes out
everything objective and leaves an emptiness which represents  fullness, 
total  absence  which  represents  total  presence.
Here the thinking (and not-thinking) process ends,
and the absence itself of that IS the Inconceivable.
Inconceivable  for  whoever  attempts  to  conceive  it. 
But who suggested that we should do that? 

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Mirabai Starr - Longing for the Beloved

There is a longing that burns at the root of spiritual practice. This is the fire that fuels your journey. The romantic suffering you pretend to have grown out of, that remains coiled like a serpent beneath the veneer of maturity. You have studied the sacred texts. You know that separation from your divine source is an illusion. You subscribe to the philosophy that there is nowhere to go and nothing to attain, because you are already there and you already possess it.

But what about this yearning? What about the way a poem by Rilke or Rumi breaks open your heart and triggers a sorrow that could consume you if you gave in to it? You’re pretty sure this is not a matter of mere psychology. It has little to do with unresolved issues of childhood abandonment, or codependent tendencies to falsely place the source of your wholeness outside yourself. The longing is your recognition of the deepest truth that God is love and that this is all you want. Every lesser desire melts when it comes near that flame.

You realize that not everyone experiences this. For some people, the spiritual journey is not so dramatic. It’s less about the overwhelming desire for union with some invisible Beloved than it is about quietly waking up. It’s about developing compassion, rather than suffering passion. There are people who never doubt that God is with them, and so there is nothing to long for.

But there are those, like you, who have felt the Divine move like an ocean inside them, and, incapable of sustaining an unbroken relationship with that vastness, feel they have been banished to the desert when the wave recedes. There is a tribe of holy lovers, who have tasted the glorious sweetness that lies on the other side of yearning, when the boundaries of the separate self momentarily melt into the One, before the cold wind of ordinary consciousness blows through again, and restores your individuality. You would risk everything to rekindle that annihilating fire. You would leave your shoes at the door and run after the cosmic flute player, if only you could hear that music one more time.

You give up everything for one glimpse of the Beloved’s face. You sneak into his chamber in the middle of the night and say, “Here I am. Ravish me.” But when you awake the next morning, swooning and alone, you realize you missed the entire encounter. You throw your clay cup on the cobblestones and it shatters. You thought you would marry, bear babies, make a career in broadcasting. You wander city streets during siesta hour and wonder where he is sleeping. Your longing and your satisfaction are reciprocal. The moan of separation is the cry of union. . . .

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Zenkei Shibayama - Blooming

Silently a flower blooms,
In silence it falls away;
Yet here now, at this moment, at this place,
The world of the flow, the whole of
the world is blooming.
This is the talk of the flower,
the truth of the blossom;
The glory of eternal life is fully shining
here.

 

Jeff Foster - I AM

I am, and I am not.

I have no form. And that is why I cherish this form so deeply.

I have no body. And so I can inhabit my body so completely.

I have no age. And so I can live these precious years so fully, never knowing when the movie called 'Me' will end, timeless yet in love with time, surrendered to the Moment.

I am unlimited. I have no limits. And so I limit myself in ingenious ways. I play with boundaries and edges, multiplicity and Oneness. I love dancing in the in-betweens, bridging gaps, holding on and letting go, grabbing and releasing. All movements are dear to me. I have no bias. I love the opening and the closing too.

I am perfection, and so I love making mistakes. I have nothing to lose, no image to uphold.

I am divinity and I am a mess. I am God and I am a weird, original, flawed, unfinished painting of a human being.

I am life. I am play. I am the joy of discovery.

I witness through the eyes of a newborn, through the eyes of a dying man, through YOUR eyes.

I am pure paradox, complete mystery, utter wonder.

You will never capture me! And yet I am here, always!

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Mirabai - Why undertake fasts and pilgrimages?

O my mind,
Worship the lotus feet of the Indestructible One!
Whatever thou seest twixt earth and sky
Will perish.

Why undertake fasts and pilgrimages?
Why engage in philosophical discussions?
Why commit suicide in Banaras?
Take no pride in the body,
It will soon be mingling with the dust.

This life is like the sporting of sparrows,
It will end with the onset of night.
Why don the ochre robe
And leave home as a sannyasi?

Those who adopt the external garb of a Jogi,
But do not penetrate to the secret,
Are caught again in the net of rebirth.
Mira's Lord is the courtly Giridhara.
Deign to sever, O Master.
All the knots in her heart.

 

Thomas Merton - Shadow

In humility is the greatest freedom.
As long as you have to defend the imaginary self
that you think is important, you lose your peace of heart.
As soon as you compare that shadow
with the shadows of other people, you lose all joy,
because you have begun to trade in unrealities
and there is no joy in things that do not exist.

 

Shabkar - A Song by a Yogi in Solitude

Free indeed is the yogi
who lives everywhere with abandon:
in cave houses atop mountains,
in the shade of blossoming trees,
in a hut amid the open fields,
in a small white cotton tent.

I will sing from afar
a song of joy and peace:

Because of you, O guru, most sublime and wise,
whose kindness surpasses even the Buddha's,
I understand the truth:
that all events and happenings --
the union of form and emptiness --
are nothing but the play of the mind.

Mysterious, incomprehensible,
I realize, is my mind --
the root of prison and freedom,
ungraspable, without substance.

Living in solitude I place my mind
with natural ease upon suchness --
this mind, as light as a wisp of cotton fluff.
The darkness of unknowing
recedes at its own pace,
and the vast sky of the infinite real
wakes with the light of dawn.

"Whether it is or it is not" --
doubts engendered by skepticism --
are qualms with no significance,
questions the Buddhas wouldn't answer.

Oh, the great congregation:
yogis of the mahamudra, famed and wise,
who see the naked face of the real,
while residing atop Tsari Mountain,
a heavenly realm, true abode of dakinis,
where all mystic events flow spontaneous.

Oh, enter the four features
of dharmakaya -- the Reality Essence:
empty as space, brilliant as sun,
transparent as mirror, sharp as eyes.

Let us then travel together
to the realm of the real itself.
As the discourse of philosophers,
conducted by all-knowing scholars
in the debating courtyards,
is a melodious tune to the ear,
so too are songs of experience
sung in solitude by yogis
who have entered the Great Oneness --
mahamudra and Zokpa Chenpo

Poetry Chaikhana