flow

vale

2011-09-12T00:07:00.002-04:00

unconditional goodness

kindness

a gentle place

music by charles tomlinson griffes vale of dreams

little fingers

2011-09-05T08:20:00.000-04:00

i remember

your soft little fingers

buried deep in the flesh

of my palm

our first walk

i remember

the thrill of knowing

that you were mine

and then entirely yourself

alone

together

side-by-side

my pace slowed

to match yours

until you were older

and your hand rarely met mine

and your pace

matched so well

that we were like

each other's shadows

walking

and talking

about matters so removed

from our immediacy

that i wondered

how you could know

about such things

let alone

talk about them

and it was then

that i looked up

and saw you again

for the first time

flow

2011-08-28T08:08:00.006-04:00

after a long silence brought about by my inability to maintain a state of silence within myself for even the shortest period of time as i failed miserably to reconcile the terms of my outer life with those of my inner life

i am bringing this blog back to a life it retreated from in may of this year

when i celebrated the life and music of gil scott-heron.

as the older sister of a blog also long dormant entitled "gone to earth", "flow" holds a place in my heart with

its purpose being to share insight accompanied by images of simple beauty. i welcome other possibilities and have a sense that they may need voice and so - here i am.

where the mother blog "the golden fish" posts on a daily basis, "flow" has a more relaxed approach to posts being driven by what makes itself available to the writer.

welcome back to those of you who have maintained the connection and to those of you new here - welcome!

i'm new here

2011-05-29T18:42:00.002-04:00

two versions

of the same song

could it be that twins

are as convergent

and divergent as this?

could it be that music

was never meant

to emerge from one mouth

one pair of hands

that in its

own telling of the story of itself

it knows no map

to define its journey

follows no signposts

that don't lead away from itself

this song

the words of a man

sung by a man

acccompanied by a man

tell the story of the space

between who we are

and who we wish to be

and then of how

those places

are inseparable

my love to gil's family and friends and admirers who felt his wings as he flew away yesterday

with credits to "smog".

with enough rain

2011-05-15T08:13:00.003-04:00

these stones

placed as carefully as stones will allow

i can call each one

a day

a moment

an experience

i can imagine

each stone

has been placed

to contain the soil

of my self

with enough rain

those stones will bulge outwards

and collapse

revealing the rich world

they have so succesfully contained

glitch too

2011-05-05T22:13:00.003-04:00

the monotone thread

courses harshly through the braided

and woven

involuted edges

of music with

internal parabolas

that arc without meeting

and just as suddenly

coalesce

and deliquesce

Brian Eno - glitch (taken from Drums Between The Bells)

glitch

2011-05-01T00:07:00.000-04:00

in the fragmented instant
a beauty reveals itself

the source image is destroyed

reinventing itself before our eyes

each tiny shape

a revelation

a painting

the whole

an unlikely gallery of possibilities

his heart

2011-04-27T00:07:00.003-04:00

they race blindly along rain-softened red brick alleyways,

the breeze of their passing like silk threads through an ever-expanding eyelet.

turning a right angled corner, she stops.

her arms stretch like soft arrows from the bow of her shoulders.

she extends one leg behind her.

holding the moment, holding the pose, she slowly turns her head as he rounds the corner still running.

his heart races ahead of him - a kaleidoscopic candy-iced orb.

she allows her many-ringed and hennaed hand to descend to her hip.

like a pollen-covered bee, she gently extracts herself from the pose

and then walking towards him

kisses his mouth.

her mouth blooms with a sudden flowering of vanilla, cumin, cherries.

the thin blue-grey edge of a rope of candle smoke circles their heads.

it all returns

2011-04-25T11:16:00.003-04:00

the leaves at the bottom of the pool

shift slowly

side to side

unsettled

in the soft pale brown

of their decaying brothers and sisters

all memories

lost

each gently pushed and pulled

by the rain the wind and the sun

as they await their return to their mother and father's bodies

return to life

2011-04-15T00:07:00.002-04:00

as the doors to spring are flung wide open, the rain, the sun, the birds and animals come rushing through.

it's overwhelming. learning to listen, to see, to smell, to feel, to taste -

well it's like christmas and a birthday rolled into one!

the world returns to life once again.

gradually.

"what shall we do for the boy who prevented the world from coming to an end?"

asked the good-natured corncrake.

"nothing," said the wagtail. do nothing at all for him."

"i'll sing for him," said the goldfinch.

"i'll teach him what the birds say," said the crow.

"yes, yes, yes," said all the birds in the king's garden.

the boy had not gone far when the crow flew after him and lighted on his shoulder. the crow spoke to him in the boy's own language. the boy was surprised. the crow flew to a standing stone

and went on speaking plain words to him.

"oh," said the boy, "i didn't know you could speak."

"why shouldn't i know how to speak," said the crow, "haven't i, for a hundred years and more,

been watching men and listening to their words?

"and you can speak well, ma'am," said the boy, not forgetting his manners.

"you know one language, but i know many languages," said the crow, "for i know what people say,

and i know what all the birds say."

the old crow sat there looking so wise and so friendly that the boy began to talk to her at his ease.

and after a while the boy said, "ma'am, do you think i could ever learn what the birds say?"

"you would, if you had me to teach you," said the crow.

"and will you teach me, ma'am?" said the boy.

"i will," said the crow.

then every day after that the crow would sit upon the standing stone and the boy would stand beside it. when the crow had eaten the boiled potato that the boy always brought she would tell him about the languages of the different birds. he learnt the language of this bird and that bird, and as he learnt their languages, many's and many's the good story he heard them tell each other.

illustration and text excerpted from "the boy who knew what the birds said" by padraic colum

i draw hope

2011-04-09T00:07:00.001-04:00

i draw hope in

pencil-thin scratchy tracings

lines that meander

from purpose

to insight

smudged and smeared

shaded for depth

coloured to appeal

then tucked away in a drawer

hopefulness

2011-03-26T00:07:00.002-04:00

among the soft words of the place

i know as home

so many are spoken

so kindly

so truthfully

that they compel through their mere existence

the need to be addressed

among them and most especially i know

the voice that passes through me

and honouring that voice

amid the turbulent divergence

and diversions

that i know as life

gives me hope

hope sings its song

in the language of every listener

shaping its body to the form of the cup

from which i drink

of life's experiencing

hope asks me to see

by the flickering candle flame that is the short-lived gift of my life

the great and small possibilities

that i am

and to love and respect

each as fully as my very own children

hope compels me

to embrace

my reflection

in the wine

that is this world

circulation

2011-03-19T00:07:00.002-04:00

to see the possibility of what i intuited could happen so many years ago when i mistakenly assumed that the emerging digital connection was the very edge of what was possible or even necessary . . .

a manifestation of connectedness that speaks in one voice through many hands, minds, and hearts

the guitar circle of europe ~ circulation

possibilities

2011-03-12T00:07:00.000-05:00

when i see myself stopped

and consider

the harmony or dissonance

in the echoes of my actions

when i watch myself stopped

and see the sometimes synchronous sometimes chaotic

dance of my choices

swirling outwards and intersecting

even melding

with the choices of others

i'm drawn into the kaleidoscope

of real and imagined worlds

possibilities

and actualities

even as they fall

around me like rain

and soak into the soil of this world's becoming self

benevolence

2011-03-03T17:52:00.011-05:00

trees love themselves and extend that knowing of love into their sense of all othernesses

in whatever form they may take.

i know this as loving kindness.

it's a pairing of words that bears reflection and consideration.

loving kindness.

loving kindness allows for the possibility of a state of care that is unconcerned

with like or dislike, right or wrong.

loving kindness is entirely present in the possibility that maybe, just maybe, everything, all things,

are features, perhaps even signs pointing to the process of love that emerges unimaginably

and without condition from a creative moment we express as "the creation".

the creation manifests in our own experiencing as a sort of creative infinitude that embraces the tiniest plankton, the most ancient joshua tree, the most beautiful sunset and everything in-between,

despite and other.

all are expressions of love.

the creation is an unfolding gift within which it is possible to refine the presence of the soul that in this incarnation manifests as the youness of you.

and so as i stand on a streetcorner (as i did this very day) and watch the sun break through clouds painted pale violet and the softest of sienna and (if you can imagine)

turning my head ever so slightly to look further south

i watch a frostbow form and see the colours that will become spring fall to the earth

i am keenly aware of the finite features of my bodies' life and then the ebb and flow of the seasons and the larger cycles of our planet which in turn sing of the orbiting of the worlds comprising our very tiny place in this universe which even as it becomes and fills the space in its plentitude is already aware of the necessity of its return to the essence of love from which it exploded.

please understand that the extraordinary and almost unbearably beautiful forms that i am so graced to share this place with leave me filled with the overwhelming compulsion and desire to share the deep feelings of gratitude and awe that i would wish to contain but whose ownership i cannot isolate and so as an echo of the unconditional loving kindness which they reflect, i choose to share them inside my emerging understanding here.

ashore

2011-02-28T00:07:00.002-05:00

charles sprague pearce reading by the shore

she brought herself to this place

already knowing

the nonchalant pose

even the title of the book being read

last night

she had been reading poetry

and drinking wine

alone

in a small candle-shadowed apartment

drifting aimlessly

in that moment of then

the air moved slowly

through an open window

she could see

rain

falling

thick and golden

in the gaslight flare

in this moment of now

she is remembering

holding the rice paper umbrella's

lacquered stiffness

and forming

soft words with her eyes

sand and water

whispering

its coming and going

and she lies

still

as if washed ashore

tangled and overlooked

like so much seaweed

smooth

2011-02-17T00:07:00.000-05:00

if you polish the rough edges off

the outside of my inside

does some of the surface smoothness

descend inside?

to be becoming

2011-02-11T00:07:00.000-05:00

there are places of confluence

of intersection

placess of mutual support

and places

that slow growth

until we move past

and looking back

at each

as a waystation

a place

in which we were negotiating

our path

looking back

at each

as a place in which

our intentions

were forestalled

altered

modified

halted

or sent

in an entirely unexpected direction

we can see

these places

as layers

that have over time

settled beneath the surface

of our experiencing

perhaps still affecting

our trajectory

our path

we are what we were

to be becoming

a place of silence

2011-02-04T00:07:00.000-05:00

i have a strong sense

of passing through this place

in the life i am living as steven

but i know that i am not steven

well, not exclusively

not precisely

not only

i know that

steven is "i"

the first few layers

i also know

that unpacking the "i" of steven

you'll find a collection of maps

of the knowing of himself

as perceived by himself

and then also

as perceived by others

steven is a history of events and ideas

that have been borrowed

and assembled

to create something

that is

almost an object

as real as can be sensed by the senses

felt by the heart

and known by the mind

but pull all of that away

and put it

in the drawer

of the one great moment

and i bet that there's a silence

deeper than any winter woods

no tell-tale footprints left behind

whose stories can be tracked and told

no fluttering of the wings of worldly wisdom

no birdsongs of revelation

just a place of silence

i am the wind that wavers
you are the certain land
i am the shadow that passes
over the sand

italicized words excerpted from "i am the wind" by zoe akins

the wooden hill

2011-01-28T19:02:00.002-05:00

the paint on the front door

is older than my eyes

pushing against the door's heavy body

i follow

the staircase's cautious winding

upwards

and away from the street

edward hopper stairway at 48 rue de lille, paris

moving side-to-side

i can hear the soft giving creak

and feel the curved metal edge

of each stair

my hands curl and

grip the thick softness of the railing

even as my tongue

draws thickly against

cracked dry lips

that crave nothing more

than wine

bread

and sleep

on the landing

the number seven

tilts slightly

on a red door

thick with age

the smells of cooked cabbage

and fish

swim grey and thin

in air long-yellowed

and tarnished

by hope long forgotten

pressing the key

into the lock

the handle turns reluctantly

admitting me through its dark frame

i am home

the frayed signposts

of a well-worn track

lead

toward the window

through which

i see snow

painting the softest pale-grey

light on the rooftops

pressing my lips to the window

i watch my breath

spread outwards like an island

on a glassy sea

gustav caillebotte rooftops with snow

every window a wall, every wall a window

2011-01-22T17:04:00.010-05:00

norman clark from an upstairs window

i am

sent outside

to play

on this dove grey sunday morning

even the sun is cold

behind me my mother

watches from the upstairs window

her sight of me

framed by

cream and butter yellow curtains

filmed with coal soot

and soft with dust

i like to let my sight of the world

be framed

by the garden walls

each moss-coated brick

has stories

of migrations

flowerings

fairy tales

but even the walls are silent

caught

like me

in the hollowness

of this day

the ground is frost hardened

and tumbling with hummocky grass

if he were still here

it would have flattened

under the weight

of his lawn roller

each blade

would have known the sharp snick of his shears

the sudden flapping of wings

draws my eyes skyward

where tendril branches

grope across the grey expanse

each in search of its opposite

the wind is the music for a sort of dance

and i find my own arms and legs

waving and flailing

until

self-conscious i stop

and slowing my breathing

pat the dog's head

he looks at me

with orange-brown eyes

as if seeking something

i think that if he could speak

he'd explain so much of all of this

the cold finds its way past my clothes

so i turn and open the door to the shed

inside

the darkness is comforting

a single window leaks light

onto workbenches

furred with shavings

the sweet smells of cedar

and machine oiled metal

weave in orange and blue threads

i sit on the floor

and think of my father

and my grandfather

they worked here

they both dreamed of the inexplicable immensity

of this place

this world of worlds

within and without

bisected by the single thin thread of work

sitting on the floor

of the wooden shed

i sit still and listen

to the sounds

rising from other gardens

the song

2011-01-13T19:05:00.001-05:00

in the bowed strings

of a day

the consonant braids

with the dissonant

the whole

sees its mirror

in the part

and the song

that is the passage of my soul

through this world

melds

seamlessly

with all others

in a place

defined entirely

by silence

"music is the wine that fills the cup of silence. "

robert fripp

visual prompt provided by tess kincaid at magpie tales

closer

2011-01-09T00:07:00.001-05:00

charles sprague pearce solitude

each small puff of dust at footfall

the hovering hush of late-summer grass

all the feather borne spectral threads of birdsong

are like bookmarks

holding the page

containing the revelation

small birds

2011-01-04T00:07:00.004-05:00

andrew wyeth wind from the sea

small birds

and tiny flowers

etched like frost on the waving silk

pale grey birds and flowered shadows

chase

around her candlelit room

rutted parabolas

mark the route

of his departure

across

the pale yellow field

her eyes

find the dark corners

robert fripp live at the world trade centre dec. 4. 2010

2011-01-01T00:07:00.004-05:00

music courtesy of wnyc.

the open window

2010-01-01T00:01:00.002-05:00

i am leaving

for a while

through the open window

that the golden fish blog offers.

flow was always a place to

see what i could see.

to know what i could share.

to feel what was possible.

it is now feeding

the golden fish blog

with words

and art

and ideas

and a quality of presence that i value.

so followers of flow

might like to visit the golden fish.

for now.

flow will remain available as a resource for anyone wishing to visit.

see you sometime.

someplace.

with love of course.

steven

2009-11-08T17:39:00.003-05:00

you may have noticed that "flow" has gone quiet.

quiet is a state flow exists in -

just outside of silence.

but this has been very quiet.

"the golden fish"

(my main blog)

is consuming much of the energy

and time

that i can devote

to blog writing -

which for me is

the outer edge of my journal writing.

so i am leaving "flow"

alone for a while.

strangely,

and interestingly,

a third blog

has been knocking

at the door

recently

but i have to move slowly

in terms of

answering the door.

it will blend

the golden fish

and flow together

into something

new.

my love to all of you

who have so

generously

read and commented on my posts here.

steven

rumi

2009-09-30T00:01:00.002-04:00

today marks eight hundred and one years since the birth of the great sufi poet and mystic jalalu'ddin rumi, also known as mevlana. he lived in thirteenth century konya in central turkey, where the mevlevi order of dervishes (commonly known as whirling dervishes) have their origin.

his work was to share a message:

why should i seek?

i am the same as he.

his essence speaks through me.

i have been looking for myself!

much of rumi's writing uses the metaphor of the passion of lovers to describe the relationship between man and God.

the inner pilgrim wraps himself in the light of the holy spirit, transforming his material shape into the inner essence, and circumambulating the shrine of the heart, inwardly reciting the name of God. he moves in circles because the path of the essence is not straight but circular. its end is its beginning. abdul qadir jelani (about ad 1077)

rumi saw inside the metaphor of love and passion and in that seeing he sank deep into the connection between all things in all ways.

it is entirely about love. it is entirely about passion. the terms of those two states become richer and more beautiful as the knowing of them becomes less connected to this earthly existence (needs and wants and expectations) and more about becoming aware of and connected to the wholeness of everything.

if you could get rid of yourself just once, the secret of secrets would open to you. the face of the unknown, hidden beyond the universe would appear on the mirror of your perception.

search, no matter what situation you are in. o thirsty one, search for water constantly. finally, the time will come when you will reach the spring.

the minute i heard my first love story i started looking for you not knowing how blind i was. lovers don’t finally meet somewhere. they’re in each other all along.

and if he closes before you all the ways and passes, he will show you a hidden way which nobody knows.

keep strenuously toiling along this path, do not rest until the last breath; for that last breath may yet bring the blessings from the knower of all things.

like the hunter, the sufi chases game; he sees the tracks left by the musk deer and follows them. for a while it is the tracks which are his clues, but later it is the musk itself which guides him.

choose a master, for without him this journey is full of tribulations, fears, and dangers. with no escort, you would be lost on a road you would have already taken. do not travel alone on the path.

whoever travels without a guide needs two hundred years for a two-days’ journey.

last night my teacher taught me the lesson of poverty: having nothing and wanting nothing.

and a poem

not only the thirsty seek the water, the water as well seeks the thirsty.

the garden of

love

is green without

limit

and yields many

fruits

other than sorrow

and joy.

love is beyond either

condition:

without spring,

without autumn,

it is always fresh.

-- jelaluddin rumi

i have been here before

2009-09-22T00:06:00.007-04:00

"i have been here before.
but when or how i cannot tell:
i know the grass beyond the door,
the sweet keen smell,
the sighing sound, the lights around the shore."

dante gabriel rossetti sudden light (1854)

the elevation

2009-09-19T00:03:00.004-04:00

it sometimes helps to rise above as much of what we know as "it all" as is possible. the rewards are often short and just as often quickly forgotten. but the feeling of release from the tangled webs of daily life is palpable and healing.

the elevation

above the valleys, over rills and meres,
above the mountains, woods, the oceans, clouds,
beyond the sun, past all ethereal bounds,
beyond the borders of the starry spheres,

my agile spirit, how you take your flight!
like a strong swimmer swooning on the sea
you gaily plough the vast immensity
with manly, inexpressible delight.

fly far above this morbid, vaporous place;
go cleanse yourself in higher, finer air,
and drink up, like a pure, divine liqueur,
bright fire, out of clear and limpid space.

beyond ennui, past troubles and ordeals
tthat load our dim existence with their weight,
happy the strong-winged man, who makes the great
leap upward to the bright and peaceful fields!

the man whose thoughts, like larks, take to their wings
each morning, freely speeding through the air,
- who soars above this life, interpreter
of flowers' speech, the voice of silent things!

charles baudelaire
translated by james mcgowan

hazard

2009-09-15T00:01:00.003-04:00

welcoming chance as my friend.

to be open to possibilities that come in the door

unbidden and yet welcome,

while immersed in features of the world that are predicated on predictability.

to have the personal and professional skillset

that not only allows the possibility of chance events

but also to embrace and apply the learning

that arrives inside those events.

to be in this world but not of it.

"the kind of association that arises from meeting hazard is like making a move in a game and once that move is made, it is made, and a new situation arises. you do not think you would somehow improve the game by playing the same move over and over, yet people often think that somehow a society would be improved if it could be perpetuated or a relationship would somehow become more merely by its continuing. so long as the situation that makes the relationship right exists, it can be right; when it does not exist, it cannot be right." anthony blake

the world like a passer-by

2009-09-12T00:05:00.000-04:00

"newberry window" william conger 1990.

"i sit at my window this morning where the world like a passer-by stops for a moment, nods to me and goes." rabindranath tagore

there are days when the world passes by as i sit and listen to the sound of my own voice. the voice unpacks the days and nights - useless heaps of information and experience that shouldn't have happened, don't need to be there, have no value. somehow they fill an emptiness - it's the emptiness that i seek.

in that emptiness is all the fullness i've ever craved - the fullness that has occupied my every waking thought and which i have tried to fool myself into believing has been fulfilled through all the transitory distractions this world has to offer.

sometimes i just want to sit and look through the window of steven and hear nothing. nothing at all. and then allow the allness of everything to flood in.

fear of the inexplicable

2009-09-08T00:02:00.000-04:00

i was never comfortable with the social niceties of friendship. i knew the terms but didn't learn them.

by choice.

perhaps that's unhealthy, perhaps that's incomprehensible to most. perhaps that's wrong.

despite moments of self-recrimination and self-doubt - particularly questions related to self-worth i have held fast to this relational piece.

i see myself as connected to people with whose lives i was intended to intersect - for better or for worse (and i think that's why inpart, in the orthodoxy of christian marriage that phrase is so pointedly there!), adding the artifical architecture of friendship to these connections would trivialize their significance.

my deepest and most profound relationships are timeless - they are not judged by the terms of this world - they are enriched by the terms of this world and others. they enrich this world and others.

i have been blessed to know extraordinary and beautiful people spirits who have brought unconditional love and joy into my life and for whom i have felt unconditional love and shared my joy in their very presence. sometimes these people spirits leave or are left. our connection ends. in the terms of this world there is sadness, loss, anger, hurt.

rainer maria rilke unpacked this soulful experience in his prose work fear of the inexplicable.

but fear of the inexplicable has not alone impoverished the existence of the individual; the relationship between one human being and another has also been cramped by it, as though it had been lifted out of the riverbed of endless possibilities and set down in a fallow spot on the bank, to which nothing happens. for it is not inertia alone that is responsible for human relationships repeating themselves from case to case, indescribably monotonous and unrenewed: it is shyness before any sort of new, unforeseeable experience with which one does not think oneself able to cope.

but only someone who is ready for everything, who excludes nothing, not even the most enigmatical, will live the relation to another as something alive and will himself draw exhaustively from his own existence. for if we think of this existence of the individual as a larger or smaller room, it appears evident that most people learn to know only a corner of their room, a place by the window, a strip of floor on which they walk up and down. thus they have a certain security. and yet that dangerous insecurity is so much more human which drives the prisoners in poe's stories to feel out the shapes of their horrible dungeonsand not be strangers to the unspeakable terror of their abode.

we, however, are not prisoners. no traps or snares are set about us, and there is nothing which should intimidate or worry us. we are set down in life as in the element to which we best correspond, and over and above this we have through thousands of years of accommodation become so like this life, that when we hold still we are, through a happy mimicry, scarcely to be distinguished from all that surrounds us. we have no reason to mistrust our world, for it is not against us. has it terrors, they are our terrors; has it abysses, those abysses belong to us; are dangers at hand, we must try to love them. and if only we arrange our life according to that principle which counsels us that we must always hold to the difficult, then that which now still seems to us the most alien will become what we most trust and find most faithful. how should we be able to forget those ancient myths about dragons that at the last moment turn into princesses; perhaps all the dragons of our lives are princesses who are only waiting to see us once beautiful and brave. perhaps everything terrible is in its deepest being something helpless that wants help from us.

rainer maria rilke

i am this one walking beside me

2009-09-05T00:06:00.000-04:00

juan ramon jimenez was born into a banker's family but left much of that world behind when he took up writing.
(otto freundlich 1924)

a powerful sense of self and selflessness is revealed in his poem "i am not i" . . . .

i am not i.
i am this one
walking beside me whom i do not see,
whom at times i manage to visit,
and whom at other times i forget;
the one who remains silent while i talk,
the one who forgives, sweet, when i hate,
the one who takes a walk when i am indoors,
the one who will remain standing when i die.

that takes flight in his expansive poem "full consciousness" . . . (paul klee "ancient sound")

you are carrying me, full consciousness, god that has desires,
all through the world.
here, in the third sea,
i almost hear your voice: your voice, the wind,
filling entirely all movements;
eternal colors and eternal lights,
sea colors and sea lights.

your voice of white fire
in the universe of water, the ship, the sky,
marking out the roads with delight,
engraving for me with a blazing light my firm orbit:
a black body
with the glowing diamond in its center.

an excellent and insightful overview and critique of juan's thinking and work can be found here. a beautiful meditation on his writing can be found here.

finding equilibrium

2009-09-01T00:04:00.002-04:00

all night long listening to the winds wandering through the streets.
all night long listening to this house creaking and cracking.
all night long listening to the sound of my own thinking.

thinking about the place of work in my life.

sleep is not an option.

how to waken on my own terms?

i came across this image years ago - it's familiar to many who love impressionist art. entitled "a bar at the folies bergere" it is the work of edouard manet alternately reviled and revered for his depictions of nineteenth-century parisian life.

"suzon stands alone in a crowded room. the look on her face is detached, melancholy, distracted from her job serving at the bar in the vast crowded room reflected in the glass behind her. there is a locket around her neck that is a token of another life, a love a long way from this job.

this is an unusual portrait because it is of someone at work, and someone who to our eyes is defined by her work and is profoundly unhappy with it. she is alienated from her surroundings, as if there is a glass pane between her and everyone else in the room - the drinkers, chatters-up, lovers, liars, thieves and businessmen.

she has both hands firmly on the bar as if she needs to touch something solid, in case she should be carried away by the vortex of light and shapes reflected in the mirror.

there is no attempt to make the image cohere: there is, as contemporary critics pointed out, an inconsistency to the relationship between the reflections in the mirror and the real things.

the dislocation of suzon's world is deliberate. paris is a hall of mirrors where suzon floats helplessly, clinging to her bar."
(excerpted from an article by jonathon jones in the guardian)

it is this dislocation and incoherence that reaches out from the painting to echo once again the question that revolved in my head throughout the night. how can i make sense of my daily work in my life? what place and purpose does it hold in allowing me to develop both my inner and outer life?

an answer . . . .

"one’s career in life"

"what is truly useful is to be able to accept that one’s limitations in outer life can act as a hindrance to engaging in the search. it’s very hard to accept this, but i can tell you that this acceptance can give an extraordinary impulse for development to both the inner and the outer life.

as to the question of what kind of work to choose, there is no ready-made answer. it depends. a person should examine the situation and consider why he might decide to do this or that. but on the whole it can be said that we need a relationship with the outer world. we need to find something to do that we care about. we need to be appreciated, we need to feel useful, to feel that what we do has a value.

it is not an easy challenge in a society which is not made for this inner work, which doesn’t understand anything about it, where people spend all their energy on their careers. so how to manage?

those who really accept the challenge will have to find a way to their own equilibrium. they will have to discover how to obtain what they want and to keep enough time and energy and emotional freedom for their inner search. they will become wiser, more apt. and they will develop abilities which have been lying dormant in them.

but an individual who seeks to develop his life capacities must be sure to keep in his mind and in his feelings the reason for which he is doing this. he must not allow himself to be devoured by his efforts to improve his outer life. in this, he will also be better able to understand his fellow human beings, because he himself will always be feeling tempted by life, tempted to go further and further in that direction. and if he goes too far, life will swallow him up, because life is like that. it’s always pressing us to give more to it.

in anything we do, we must never forget our aim, our central, essential value: to return again and again to this inner presence which opens us to a broader dimension.

we see from all we have said that this work has to do with living, an art of living with oneself, with opposite tendencies—those of our automatism and those which will open us to another dimension and create a harmony, a balance, and a better functioning of the whole of our nature".

pauline de dampierre

a power stronger than itself

2009-08-27T00:47:00.000-04:00

paul klee "insula dulcamara". 1938.

i have loved music for as long as i can remember . . . love, in the sense that i have been grateful for its presence as a reminder of the goodness that connects all and everything. the first time i was aware of the possibility that music didn't necessarily emanate from its players came with my listening to the music of keith jarrett. jarrett has observed that "his best performances were during the times where he had the least amount of preconception of what he was going to play at the next moment. an apocryphal account of one such performance had jarrett staring at the piano for several minutes without playing; as the audience grew increasingly uncomfortable, one member shouted to jarrett, "d sharp!", to which the pianist responded, "thank you!," and launched into an improvisation at speed."

it was something jarrett said, (and the exact words escape me) but its essence was that the real work of the musician is to get out of the way of the music.

extend that into the larger states of living and being. how do i get out of the way of the 'doing' of life and allow the 'being' to become.

robert fripp's aphorism "may we trust the inexpressible benevolence of the creative impulse" is revealed on a daily basis as i listen to music that (as fripp also points out) so needs to be heard that despite the extraordinary odds against its arriving, somehow manages to do so.

music and love are synonymous in my understanding . . . rabindranath tagore says that "love is the only reality and it is not a mere sentiment. it is the ultimate truth that lies at the heart of creation." it is from the heart of the creation that music flows without condition.

the freedom of clouds

2009-08-24T00:15:00.002-04:00

the world but seems to be
yet is nothing more
than a line drawn
between light and shadow.
decipher the message
of this dream-script
and learn to distinguish time
from eternity.

fakhruddin iraqi

clouds

clouds in the skies above, heavenly wanderers,
long strings of snowy pearls stretched over azure plains!
exiles like i, you rush farther and farther on,
leaving my dear north, go distances measureless.

what drives you southward? is't envy that covertly
prods you or malice whose arrows strike openly?
destiny is it? a crime hanging over you?
or friendship's honeyed but poisonous calumny?

no! o'er those barren wastes heedlessly journeying,
passion you know not or anguish or punishment;
feeling you lack, you are free - free eternally,
you have no homeland, for you there's no banishment.

mikhail lermentov 1840

still as the mosses that glow

2009-08-21T00:05:00.000-04:00

a wind sways the pines,
and below
not a breath of wild air;
still as the mosses that glow
on the flooring and over the lines
of the roots here and there.

from "dirge in woods" by george meredith

a hero of our time

2009-08-19T00:34:00.005-04:00

"solitude" judy mackey

from the head, hand and heart of mikhail lermontov - writer and artist - come the following words excerpted and then reassembled as a text-collage to create a place and a time . . .

the full moon was shining on the little reed-thatched roof and the white walls of my new dwelling. in the courtyard, which was surrounded by a wall of rubble-stone, there stood another miserable hovel, smaller and older than the first and all askew. the shore descended precipitously to the sea, almost from its very walls, and down below, with incessant murmur, plashed the dark-blue waves. the moon gazed softly upon the watery element, restless but obedient to it, and i was able by its light to distinguish two ships lying at some distance from the shore, their black rigging motionless and standing out, like cobwebs, against the pale line of the horizon.

i entered the hut. its whole furniture consisted of two benches and a table, together with an enormous chest beside the stove. the sea-wind burst in through the broken window-pane. i drew a wax candle-end from my portmanteau, lit it, and began to put my things out.

about an hour passed thus. the moon shone in at the window and its rays played along the earthen floor of the hut. suddenly a shadow flitted across the bright strip of moonshine which intersected the floor. i raised myself up a little and glanced out of the window. again somebody ran by it and disappeared — goodness knows where! it seemed impossible for anyone to descend the steep cliff overhanging the shore, but that was the only thing that could have happened. i rose, threw on my tunic, girded on a dagger, and with the utmost quietness went out of the hut.

meanwhile the moon was becoming overcast by clouds and a mist had risen upon the sea. the lantern alight in the stern of a ship close at hand was scarcely visible through the mist, and by the shore there glimmered the foam of the waves, which every moment threatened to submerge it.

i confess that, much as i tried to make out in the distance something resembling a boat, my efforts were unsuccessful. about ten minutes passed thus, when a black speck appeared between the mountains of the waves! at one time it grew larger, at another smaller. slowly rising upon the crests of the waves and swiftly descending from them, the boat drew near to the shore.
reflecting thus, i gazed with an involuntary beating of the heart at the poor boat. it dived like a duck, and then, with rapidly swinging oars — like wings — it sprang forth from the abyss amid the splashes of the foam. “ah!” i thought, “it will be dashed against the shore with all its force and broken to pieces!” but it turned aside adroitly and leaped unharmed into a little creek.

about an hour passed thus, perhaps even longer. suddenly something resembling a song struck upon my ear. it was a song, and the voice was a woman’s, young and fresh — but, where was it coming from?. . . i listened; it was a harmonious melody — now long-drawn-out and plaintive, now swift and lively. i looked around me — there was nobody to be seen. i listened again — the sounds seemed to be falling from the sky. i raised my eyes. on the roof of my cabin was standing a young girl in a striped dress and with her hair hanging loose — a regular water-nymph. shading her eyes from the sun’s rays with the palm of her hand, she was gazing intently into the distance. at one time, she would laugh and talk to herself, at another, she would strike up her song anew.

i have retained that song in my memory, word for word:

at their own free will
they seem to wander
o’er the green sea yonder,
those ships, as still
they are onward going,
with white sails flowing.
and among those ships
my eye can mark
my own dear barque:
by two oars guided
(all unprovided
with sails) it slips.
the storm-wind raves:
and the old ships — see!
with wings spread free,
over the waves
they scatter and flee!
the sea i will hail
with obeisance deep:
“thou base one, hark!
thou must not fail
my little barque
from harm to keep!”
for lo! ’tis bearing
most precious gear,
and brave and daring
the arms that steer
within the dark
my little barque.

i had to return home; but i confess i was rendered uneasy by all these strange happenings, and i found it hard to await the morning.

the full text is available at the university of adelaide

learn the transformations

2009-08-11T00:01:00.000-04:00

being
don paterson

silent comrade of the distances,
know that space dilates with your own breath;
ring out, as a bell into the earth
from the dark rafters of its own high place –

then watch what feeds on you grow strong again.
learn the transformations through and through:
what in your life has most tormented you?
if the water's sour, turn it into wine.

our senses cannot fathom this night, so
be the meaning of their strange encounter;
at their crossing, be the radiant centre.

and should the world itself forget your name
say this to the still earth: i flow.
say this to the quick stream: i am.

from orpheus: a version of rilke's die sonette an orpheus (london: faber and faber, 2006).

the moments

2009-08-05T00:01:00.003-04:00

"never be afraid of the moments

thus sings the voice of the everlasting"

rabindranath tagore

the shape of your eyes

2009-07-31T00:42:00.002-04:00

rene magritte
le faux miroir, 1928

the first eyes i would have seen would have been my mother's. crystal blue like her own mothers. with the sound of her voice would have come the first understanding of how comfort, security and the eyes are linked. a connection that extends through all other like circumstances, where the intimacy of connection that includes the considerations of need, have arisen in my life.

you have heard the phrase, "the eyes tell stories".

stories hover in and around the eyes, as paul eluard's 1926 poem "the shape of your eyes" attests . . .

the shape of your eyes goes round my heart, 
a round of dance and sweetness. 
halo of time, cradle nightly and sure 
no longer do I know what I've lived, 
your eyes have not always seen me.

leaves of day and moss of dew,
 reeds of wind and scented smiles,
 wings lighting up the world, 
boats laden with sky and sea, 
hunters of sound and sources of colour,

scents the echoes of a covey of dawns
 recumbent on the straw of stars, 
as the day depends on innocence 
the world relies on your pure sight
 all my blood courses in its glance.

there are even greater stories . . .

the eyes are like the waistline of an hourglass. at either end of the narrowing there is an infinite perceptual opening. each moment, each atom is similarly constructed.

though the worlds are eighteen thousand and more,
not every eye can see them.
every atom is indeed a place of the vision of God,
but so long as it is unopened,
who says, "there is a door"?
[I, 3756; 3766] rumi

and so it is that other stories the eyes can tell are deeper, richer. in the telling of these stories, the eyes are like alice in wonderland's tunnel: "the rabbit hole went on like a tunnel for some way, and then dipped suddenly down, so suddenly that alice had not a moment to think about stopping herself before she found herself falling down a very deep well.

either the well was very deep, or she fell very slowly, for she had plenty of time as she went down to look about her and to wonder what was going to happen next."

when the mirror of your heart becomes clear and pure,
you'll behold images which are outside this world.
you will see the image and the image-maker,
both the carpet of the spiritual expanse
and the one who spreads it.
[II, 72-3] rumi

kristine schomaker
"down the rabbit hole"

at the end of the tunnel, "alice opened the door and found that it led into a small passage, not much larger than a rat-hole: she knelt down and looked along the passage into the loveliest garden you ever saw. how she longed to get out of that dark hall, and wander about among those beds of bright flowers and those cool fountains, but she could not even get her head through the doorway;"

it is in being available to the moment, to the door that presents itself, to the intuition that unfurls into insight that awakening takes place.

deer fence

2009-07-27T00:05:00.002-04:00

isaac levitan the watermill at sunset 1880.

sound.

there are so many magical sounds. lying inside a tent listening to the sound of rain. the wind whistling through a little opening. leaves rustling in a summer breeze on a hot day. i have a long list . . . .

walking through the nearby woodlot i hear voices - children riding bikes, climbing trees, building forts, playing chase games. what i love is that i can’t see the source of the voices - just the voices, muffled in the leaves and undergrowth. so, even though i know i’m sharing the woods with countless other people, i still feel alone. sharing a space.

wang wei captures this experience in his beautiful poem “deer fence”.

deer fence

in the empty mountains

 i see no one, 

but hear the sound 

of someone's voice.

slanting sunlight 

enters deep forest, 

and shines again 

on green moss.

wang wei  trans. greg whincup

intoxication

2009-07-24T00:47:00.009-04:00

rene magritte

the month of the grape harvest . 1959

in this painting, a group of similar looking men stare into a very sparsely and plainly decorated room. they are looking through opened windows. each face bares a similar expression.

what is it that they see?

how many can see beyond what they see?

in 1860 emily dickinson was intoxicated by the beauty that binds this world and wrote, "i taste a liquor never brewed".

i taste a liquor never brewed --

from tankards scooped in pearl --

not all the vats upon the rhine

yield such an alcohol!

inebriate of air -- am i --

and debauchee of dew --

reeling -- thro' endless summer days --

from inns of molten blue --

when "landlords" turn the drunken bee

out of the foxglove's door --

when butterflies -- renounce their "drams" --

i shall but drink more!

till seraphs swing their snowy hats --

and saints -- to windows run --

to see the little tippler

leaning against the sun

beyond the relational surface lie riches such as are seen and felt in these words from fiona robyn

a triangle of wine left in the glass

darker than the night window

where the reflection of fairy lights

are light rain on a clear pond.

intoxication in all its forms, physical, emotional, spiritual . . . are metaphorically braided in rabindranath tagore's words . . .

take my wine in my own cup, friend.

it loses its wreath of foam when poured in that of

others.

the words of hafiz take us deeper still . . .

where have you taken your sweet song?

come back and play me a tune.

i never really cared for the things of this world.

it was the glow of your presence

that filled it with beauty.

and finally it is rumi who offers the ecstatic rendering of the experience of intoxication when he declares "you only need smell the wine!"

you only need smell the wine

for vision to flame from each void--

such flames from wine's aroma!

imagine if you were the wine.

i am a dance

2009-07-20T00:08:00.002-04:00

"i am a dance—play up, there! the fit is whirling me fast!

i am the ever-laughing—it is new moon and twilight . . .

elements merge in the night—ships make tacks in the dreams...

i swear they are all beautiful;

every one that sleeps is beautiful—everything in the dim light is beautiful"

walt whitman (from "the sleepers")

redemption

2009-07-17T12:17:00.006-04:00

"redemption" pam burnley-schol

the creation was set up to work, and work well.

part of the equation was that it was free to work well, or not.

so, part of the equation was that (at least in some times and places) it probably wouldn't.

so, part of the equation was that the creation would need some fine tuning and tinkering, even a little repair.

even, a major overhaul.

there is a necessary freedom within the subordinate parts of the creation, that the creation might be creative.

this is our freedom, that, if we wish, we may cooperate with the unfolding creation.

this freedom is our right as human beings.

this freedom is also our obligation as human beings.

so, our right and our obligation are the same.

the price to be paid for this freedom is to honour the obligation.

the reward for honouring this obligation is freedom.

we have abused our inherent and natural freedom, even forgotten it.

we choose not to meet our obligation, rather to live in debt.

***************************************

redemption is the process within which the creation arranges for our debt to be honoured sufficiently that we

may be free once more to pay our own way.

that is, the act of redemption returns the gift of freedom to us.

this places upon us a further obligation, and grants us a further right.

the further obligation is to contribute to the debts of others, where we are able.

the further right is to contribute to settling the debts of others, where we may.

that is, we are free to contribute to the act of redemption and participate within it.

redemption is an actual event and a process.

for redemption to enter the world, we need to allow the process of redemption to take place within us.

when we behave rightly, we can handle the repercussions.

when we behave wrongly, things break down.

redemption is a process of repair in which the repair job may become stronger than the original model.

the work of redemption is underway in the world on such a colossal scale, and so close to us, that we may not

see it.

***************************************

the act of music is one of many possible actions through which the inexpressible benevolence of the creative

impulse may enter our lives, and direct and shape them in a way and manner so radical and overwhelming that one single note might change our world.

providing that the one single note is the right note, and that we hear it.

better then, if we wish to hear that we learn to listen.

this is always the possibility, despite the limitations and restrictions placed upon the event, that the action which takes place within the act of music may change our lives.

no professional musician can fail to be unaware of the cynicism, greed and violation upon which the music industry has been based in (at least) recent years.

our own cynicism, in response, is too high a price to pay: it puts us outside the event.

despite all attempts to constrain the power of music, the act of music is always remarkable.

*****************************************

we have perhaps noticed that the world with which we are familiar is collapsing.

the abrogation of responsibility, by those in positions of power towards those who are dependent upon them, would seem to be a leitmotiv in our recent history: political, personal, professional and moral violation is endemic in contemporary culture.

the new world is struggling to be born whilst carrying passive repercussions of the past and facing active opposition from the old.

the future is in place, and waiting, but we have yet to discover it.

our present position is the bridge between.

this position is hazardous because we are building the bridge while crossing it.

a reasonable person would despair, but hope is unreasonable and redemption an actual event.

artists, musicians and poets deal with the unreasonable on a daily basis.

this is the living breath of our work and the invisible glue which holds together performers, audience and the song.

redemption and repair, for those committed to serving the creative impulse, is an aspect of applied art and utterly practical.

grace - readily available, simply experienced, beyond understanding - requires no reason to enter our lives but does need a vehicle.

****************************************

something has gone terribly wrong.

because of that, many things have gone terribly wrong.

this is all meaningless unless we experience the terror of being separated from the source which fuels the creation, and the conviction that redemption is entirely real.

but the outcome is not guaranteed.

***************************************

one bad note carries repercussions.

this one bad note disturbs the note which follows.

this makes two bad notes.

the first bad note disturbs the note which goes before.

this makes three bad notes.

one bad chord in a sequence interrupts the progression.

one beat, out of time, disturbs the rhythm.

once the rhythm is lost, the composition is set adrift from its unfolding in time.

time continues but the composition is apart from it.

***************************************

we live voluntarily, in the basement.

but for us to move upstairs, someone has to pay the rent.

***************************************

any choice we make to escape our debts, to dishonour our obligation, blocks the bridge over which we return to the whole.

this is a disintegration.

the aim of meeting unmet obligations, and addressing obligations which have not been honoured, is that we may reintegrate with the whole: at-one-ment.

reintegration is our gift within the act of redemption.

***************************************

when a good friend pays my debt, and releases me from the repercussions and weight of that debt, i am free to work and acquire something of my own.

when i have a little in the bank, perhaps i may pick up the debt for someone else.

in paying their debts, i settle my own.

robert fripp. 1994

text from "david sylvian and robert fripp: redemption - approaching silence" - 1994 tokyo, japan. music composed by david sylvian, words by robert fripp.

vesper bells

2009-07-14T00:08:00.005-04:00

sometimes it's just good to slow down.

stop.

and begin.

again.

hold this moment . . . .

vesper bells at the shomyoji temple

kanazawa shomyo temple hiroshige

the little white boat with the red sail

2009-07-10T00:55:00.005-04:00

michael woloschinow

adrift! a little boat adrift! emily dickinson

adrift! a little boat adrift!

and night is coming down!

will no one guide a little boat

unto the nearest town?

so sailors say -- on yesterday --

just as the dusk was brown

one little boat gave up its strife

and gurgled down and down.

so angels say -- on yesterday --

just as the dawn was red

one little boat -- o'erspent with gales --

retrimmed its masts -- redecked its sails --

and shot -- exultant on!

finding and maintaining direction - to sink or to rise - is a challenge and an opportunity presented inside each moment.

in dusk and dust and dreams

2009-07-06T12:07:00.000-04:00

i see beginnings and endings in a tangerine hued cloud of dust. a million grains of sand and salt dance wraithlike, rising and falling, curling in on themselves and then exploding in impossibly synchronous calligraphy. each grain a minuscule world containing a single sunbeam. a ray of light that has pierced first the emptiness of space, then the thickness of this atmosphere until finally low and thin, barely making its way across fields of young grass, it somehow finds this cloud hovering above the asphalt and settles inside the crystal heart of a solitary grain of dust at dusk - and dreams.

bringers

"cover me over
in dusk and dust and dreams.
cover me over
and leave me alone.
cover me over,
you tireless, great.
hear me and cover me,
bringers of dusk and dust and dreams."

carl sandburg

a very pleasant world

2009-07-03T00:45:00.007-04:00

fatma neslihan oner "under the water"

deniz atac "under the water"

from virginia woolf's "the mark on the wall" . . .

"yes, one could imagine a very pleasant world. a quiet, spacious world, with the flowers so red and blue in the open fields. a world which one could slice with one’s thought as a fish slices the water with his fin, grazing the stems of the water–lilies, hanging suspended over nests of white sea eggs. . . how peaceful it is down here, rooted in the centre of the world and gazing up through the grey waters, with their sudden gleams of light, and their reflections - "

what is nearest to us

2009-06-30T00:05:00.004-04:00

“now i want to tell you this. as everything in the universe is one, so, consequently, everything has equal rights, therefore from this point of view knowledge can be acquired by a suitable and complete study, no matter what the starting point is. only one must know how to ‘learn.’ what is nearest to us is man; and you are the nearest of all men to yourself. begin with the study of yourself; remember the saying ‘know thyself.’ it is possible that now it will acquire a more intelligible meaning for you."

this excerpt is found in “glimpses of truth, views from the real world: early talks of gurdjieff as recollected by his pupils", new york: dutton, 1973.

starry child of earth

2009-06-26T00:02:00.008-04:00

"dawn of a new era" quilt work by elaine quehl

a few years ago - on a whim - i took apart a pablo neruda poem, selecting those phrases that spoke to me and reassembling them into a poem that also spoke to me.

(pablo neruda deconstruction)
starry child
of earth,
soft
as lascivious velvet,
spiral-seashelled
and full of wonder;
your
glorious
spring dress
bursts through the earth like a plant,
walls crumble,
a song is born,
as light
illuminates the senses;
translucency,
a chorus of discipline,
an abundance of flowers.

the wind is crying

2009-06-23T00:01:00.000-04:00

marek szymanksi

the wind is crying
peering tight and lonely
through every crack and opening.
blindly finding its way -
feeling for the little spaces
where its curling silver breath fingers
can reach with soft cold claws
inside those gaps
and tongue lick
cleave its way
past the doors and rattling windows
to the guttering
blue-yellow leaf of light
where the candle's
keening
knife-edge
of waxy smoke
kisses the little dancing flame.

sgl

you and i and the sea

2009-06-19T00:41:00.005-04:00

camille pissaro "regates a argenteuil"

promised land

let it play with your hair, this gentle breeze
blowing from the seven seas.
if only you knew
how lovely you are the way you gaze at the edge of the night
steeped in the grief of exile and longing, in sorrow.

neither you
nor i
nor the dusk that gathers in your beauty
nor the blue sea.
that safe harbour for the distress that assaults the brain-
we spurn the generation which knows nothing of the soul's pain.

mankind today
brands you merely a fresh slender woman
and me just an old fool.
that wretched appetite, that filthy sight
can find no meaning in you or me
nor a tender grief in the night
nor the sullen tremor of secrecy and disdain
on the calm sea.

you and i
and the sea
and the night that seems to gather silently,
without trembling, the fragrance of your soul,
far away
torn asunder from the land where blue shadows hold sway,
we are forever doomed to this exile here.

that land?
stretches along the chaste regions of imagination, and
a blue nightfall
reposes there for all;
at its outer edges, the sea
pours the calm of sleep on each soul...

there, women are lovely, tender, nocturnal, pure.
over their eyes your sadness hovers,
they are all sisters or lovers:
the tearful kisses on their lips can cure,
and the indigo quiet of their inquiring eyes
can soothe the heart's suffering.
their souls are violets
distilled from the night of despair,
in a ceaseless search for silence and repose.
the dim glare from the moon's sorrows
finds haven in their immaculate hands.

ah, they are so frail-
the mute anguish they share,
the night deep in thought, the ailing sea ...
they all resemble each other there.

that land
is on which imaginary continent, and
dimmed by what distant river?
is it a land of illusions- or real,
a utopia bound to remain unknown forever?

i do not know ... all I know is
you and i and the blue sea
and the dusk that vibrates in me
the strings of inspiration and agony,
far away
torn asunder from the land where blue shadows hold sway
we are forever doomed to this exile here.

ahmet hasim (1884-1933)
translated by talat sait halman

dancing in the shadow of the shadow

2009-06-15T00:20:00.000-04:00

the range of what we think and do
is limited by what we fail to notice.
and because we fail to notice
that we fail to notice
there is little we can do
to change
until we notice
how failing to notice
shapes our thoughts and deeds.

r.d. laing

the burdens we carry . . . so much weightiness! each little parcel of expectation carefully wrapped and then added to the bulging sack of our shadow. the shadow that for whatever reason(s) we choose to ignore, simply adding to its mass and overlooking its effect on our thoughts and deeds.

the shadow - some points of reference from carl jung:

unfortunately there can be no doubt that man is, on the whole, less good than he imagines himself or wants to be. everyone carries a shadow, and the less it is embodied in the individual's conscious life, the blacker and denser it is. if an inferiority is conscious, one always has a chance to correct it. furthermore, it is constantly in contact with other interests, so that it is continually subjected to modifications. but if it is repressed and isolated from consciousness, it never gets corrected.
"psychology and religion" (1938). In cw 11: psychology and religion: west and east. p.131

there is a deep gulf between what a man is and what he represents, between what he is as an individual and what he is as a collective being. his function is developed at the expense of the individuality. should he excel, he is merely identical with his collective function; but should he not, then, though he may be highly esteemed as a function in society, his individuality is wholly on the level of his inferior, undeveloped functions, and he is simply a barbarian, while in the former case he has happily deceived himself as to his actual barbarism.
psychological types (1921). cw 6: p.III

when we must deal with problems, we instinctively resist trying the way that leads through obscurity and darkness. we wish to hear only of unequivocal results, and completely forget that these results can only be brought about when we have ventured into and emerged again from the darkness. but to penetrate the darkness we must summon all the powers of enlightenment that consciousness can offer.
"the stages of life" (1930). in cw 8: the structure and dynamics of the psyche. p.752

to confront a person with his shadow is to show him his own light. once one has experienced a few times what it is like to stand judgingly between the opposites, one begins to understand what is meant by the self. anyone who perceives his shadow and his light simultaneously sees himself from two sides and thus gets in the middle.
"good and evil in analytical psychology" (1959). In cw 10. civilization in transition. p.872

a man who is unconscious of himself acts in a blind, instinctive way and is in addition fooled by all the illusions that arise when he sees everything that he is not conscious of in himself coming to meet him from outside as projections upon his neighbour.
"the philosophical tree" (1945). In cw 13: alchemical studies. p.335

projections change the world into the replica of one's own unknown face.
aion (1955). cw 14: p.17

the "other" may be just as one-sided in one way as the ego is in another. And yet the conflict between them may give rise to truth and meaning-but only if the ego is willing to grant the other its rightful personality.
"concerning rebirth" (1940) In cw 9, part I: the archetypes of the collective unconscious. p.237

sanctum

2009-06-12T00:28:00.008-04:00

"the drawing-room, to which we had now withdrawn for the rest of the evening, was on the ground-floor, and was of the same shape and size as the breakfast-room. large glass doors at the lower end opened on to a terrace, beautifully ornamented along its whole length with a profusion of flowers. the soft, hazy twilight was just shading leaf and blossom alike into harmony with its own sober hues as we entered the room, and the sweet evening scent of the flowers met us with its fragrant welcome through the open glass doors.

("my sanctum" carrick siddell)

how vividly that peaceful home-picture of the drawing-room comes back to me while i write! outside, on the terrace, the clustering flowers and long grasses and creepers waved so gently in the light evening air, that the sound of their rustling never reached us. the sky was without a cloud, and the dawning mystery of moonlight began to tremble already in the region of the eastern heaven. the sense of peace and seclusion soothed all thought and feeling into a rapt, unearthly repose; and the balmy quiet, that deepened ever with the deepening light, seemed to hover over us with a gentler influence still, when there stole upon it from the piano the heavenly tenderness of the music of mozart. it was an evening of sights and sounds never to forget."

excerpted from "the woman in white" wilkie collins

three strange angels

2009-06-08T00:12:00.003-04:00

at all times through my life after i realized i was aware of something other, i've lifted my nose and turned my sails in the direction of the fine fine wind that courses throughout this world. a sweet fine wind that carries the soul on its journey far far beyond land and sea!

each moment, an opportunity to remember the human condition presents itself. with attention to the significance and value of those moments comes the opportunity to address your place inside them. to see the mechanistic, the impulsive, the reactive, to locate their necessity, to assess their merit or to acknowledge the damage they are doing. my experience is that with consistent practice of this awareness comes the opportunity to move from awareness to sorrow, and from sorrow to wonder.

not i, not i, but the wind that blows through me!
a fine wind is blowing the new direction of time.
If only i let it bear me, carry me, if only it carry me!
if only i am sensitive, subtle, oh, delicate, a winged gift!
if only, most lovely of all, i yield myself and am borrowed
by the fine, fine wind that takes its course through the chaos of the
world
like a fine, an exquisite chisel, a wedge-blade inserted;
if only i am keen and hard like the sheer tip of a wedge
driven by invisible blows,
the rock will split, we shall come at the wonder, we shall find the
hesperides.

oh, for the wonder that bubbles into my soul,
i would be a good fountain, a good well-head,
would blur no whisper, spoil no expression.

what is the knocking?
what is the knocking at the door in the night?
it is somebody wants to do us harm.

no, no, it is the three strange angels.
admit them, admit them.

david herbert lawrence

all artwork courtesy of daniel paulo

the goodness i have been gifted with

2009-06-05T00:07:00.011-04:00

i am aware of and can define in my perception of myself, an outward and an inner expression of that perception. i can also acknowledge my awareness of the dialogue between the two areas of self and then again of the creative force that issues out of this dialogue and describes features of my actual self.

one such dialogue sees the outer person ask the world for forgiveness for the inner person through acting the role of "fool" in the classic use of the role - the king's fool who describes the king with detail and accuracy and in so doing pokes fun at the power, the accoutrements, the ambitions of someone gifted with earthly power.

this has been my primary role in relation to the outer world since my childhood. it has provided me with security as it is a feature of the world's expectation of me and so easy to play into. it has provided me with a place to hide.

i learned the deep value and significance of induced or prepared joy.
the kind that can sustain a person like myself past the unsustainable.

i have also learned through the course of my life that this giving of hope and joy carries a price tag.
in part, the price is the expectation that there is an unlimited quantity of this joy.

it is actually limited only by my ability and willingness to pay the price.

in part there is also the misperception that the joy describes the person providing it.
this form of joy describes the needs of the person providing it.

this is clear in my personal and professional lives to those who know me in the real sense of knowing.

the outer person is my lifeline to my meal ticket. he acquires material goods, power, relationships, intimacies, acceptance.

the inner person is the self i have dialogue with, the sometimes grieving, sometimes truly joyous, sometimes immersed-in-the-truly-wondrous-goodness-i-have-been-gifted-with person that i am and am to be becoming.

through my life i have quieted the inner person, and quickly acquired items incuding image reinforcing roles and relationships; all of these to remind myself of my sense of myself as a worthy person.

these are things i want.
these are things i have.
these are significant and signify not only what i am and what I am capable of but also signify what i can get. these are measures of success in the material world.

and so, like the fool whose entirety is described by mimicry they are defined entirely by the foreground while the richness of the background is overlooked or carefully tucked away, peeking between the shutters of the fool's perceptions and needs.

in such seeming

2009-06-01T00:05:00.001-04:00

it is possible that to seem - it is to be,
as the sun is something seeming and it is.

the sun is an example. what it seems
it is and such seeming all things are.

wallace stevens

the past is a place of description - whole experiences reduced to pointillist depictions that resolve into form when we stand back from them. the tiny speckles of coloured moments merge until forms appear and from these little forms come relationships and in that we articulate our knowing of what has been.

from that knowing of what has been - coupled with what is - we articulate our expectations of what might be or what we wish to be.

it is in that space - between the selective remembering of our known experiencing and our anticipation that what has gone before must necessarily repeat itself to some degree - that we articulate the suffering attached to unfulfilled expectation.

the arced line of connection that we draw through past and present experience is compromised by its apparent discontinuity when extended into the future becoming present, and that is where so much disappointment is focussed. our apparent entitlement to expect what is not "seeming and it is" to

a recurring dream

2009-05-28T00:29:00.008-04:00

théo van rysselberghe "voiliers sur l'escault"

and so -

it begins with a dream.

a recurring dream that I have about abandonment. about being given up by someone - my mother, my brother, my wife, my children - in the dream a person who is intimately and emotionally connected to me leaves me for someone else.

i cry.

i hit them with anger.

i throw things, and as i throw things i have a sense of myself as a child and all that i have carried from that time.

vulnerable.
powerless.
inadequate.
unworthy.

my intuitive sense is that the "other" person constitutes the world.

it is also my sense that i have worked very hard to earn acceptance from the world. that i make every effort to earn this acceptance through my work, my behaviours, and through my self-deprecating attitude towards my apparent self.

it is there.
it is associated with me.
it has damaged me.

it is my perception of the perceptions of the world towards me that i strike out at. it is my own idea of what constitutes 'acceptance' from the world that i have worked towards. it is an empty game.

because 'the world' only exists as a construct of ideas in me that i need in order to give my self context and form.

it is my self that even now i am trying to accept.

and so the fight is between my outer (perceived) and inner (actual) selves.

last night the moon came dropping its clothes in the street

2009-05-24T00:01:00.001-04:00

"daylight moon v" parisa tirnaz

the new rule

drunkards fall upon each other, quarrel,
become violent and make a scene.
it is the rule.
like the drunkard and
worse than the drunkard is the lover.
to be in love is to enter a gold mine,
but what kind of gold is found there?
the lover, king above all kings,
is not afraid to die and cares nothing for a golden crown.
just as the dervish, with a pearl concealed beneath his worn out cloak,
is not ashamed to beg from door to door.
last night the moon came dropping its clothes in the street
“get up,” i told my heart, “and give the soul a glass of wine.
the moment has come to join the nightingale in the garden,
to taste sugar with the parrot of the soul.”
i have fallen, with my heart shattered
i have fallen on your sacred path and broken your bowl
i am drunk my idol, so very drunk
shield me and take my hand.
a new rule, a new law has been decreed.
break all the glasses and fall toward the glassblower.
rumi

"let the water settle; you will see the moon and stars mirrored in your being." - rumi

we contain all the passions

2009-05-21T00:39:00.002-04:00

"the madonna of port lligat" salvador dali

song

we contain all the passions
and all the vices
and all the suns and stars,
chasms and heights,
trees, animals, forests, streams.
this is what we are.
our experience lies
in our veins,
in our nerves.
we stagger.
burning
between grey blocks of houses.
on bridges of steel.
light from a thousand tubes
flows around us,
and a thousand violet nights
etch sharp wrinkles
in our faces.

george grosz

there is so much floods into me in the course of a day. so many voices, so many needs, so many expectations. then there are the voices, needs and expectations of my self.

on my way home west into the evening, the sun sets like a gold bar behind the hill i live on. and as i walk or ride, as part of my daily practice, i consider the day behind me and the evening before me.

i unpack all the written, spoken, felt, perceived and imagined histories of the day.

i search for the points of truth that sometimes rise discreetly above the whole. moments unbidden that have walked in the door and afforded a momentary transformation, an elevation of purpose and intent.

an opportunity to see and experience beyond what was intended - to see and experience what is necessary.

a breathless radiant moment

2009-05-17T00:05:00.000-04:00

loren paints the way with his camera inside a moment . . .

one fallen flower
returning to the branch? . . . oh no!
a white butterfly

moritake

awakening the swan

2009-05-14T00:45:00.012-04:00

"the swan" milton resnick

the sleeping swan . . . mirra lokhvitskaya

my earthly life is a ringing,
an indistinct rustle of rushes
it lulls the sleeping swan
my disquieted soul.

far off one catches a glimpse of hurrying ships
greedily plying.
peacefully in the midst of the bay,
where sadness breathes like the weight of the world.

but the sound, born of trembling
blends with the rustling of the rushes
and shakes the awakening swan
my immortal soul.

it surges into a world of freedom
where the waves echo the sighing storms
and where the ever changing waters
reflect eternal azure.

from birth to death people sleep.

one day, you begin to wake up. you become aware of several "i's", each with its own demands and expectations.

john bennett describes this awakening . . .

"you have to ask yourself: "what do i really want? who is it in me that want?" each of your centers wants different things. every 'i' in you wants something for itself. there are some things that you really need; for example, you need not only food and clothing and the direct requirements of your bodily life, but you also need certain kinds of impressions. if you do not get those impressions, your spiritual life remains hungry. it can even be starved.

but you have to realize that life can never give you all that you want. it cannot even give you all that you need. if you are hungry for one kind of impression which you cannot get, you have to be clever and try to find what other impressions will give you the food you need. it is true that you need food of impressions. life sometimes will not give us the impressions we need. It is not only that life can deny us impressions and experiences that we want. it often will not give us impressions that are really necessary as food for us. we must study ourselves. we have to learn what kinds of impressions are necessary for work. It is always possible to get what we need if we know how to look for it." extract from talk j.g. bennett

others had echoes

2009-05-10T00:08:00.004-04:00

as a child, they could not keep me from wells
and old pumps with buckets and windlasses.
i loved the dark drop, the trapped sky, the smells
of waterweed, fungus and dank moss.

one, in a brickyard, with a rotted board top.
i savoured the rich crash when a bucket
plummeted down at the end of a rope.
so deep you saw no reflection in it.

a shallow one under a dry stone ditch
fructified like any aquarium.
when you dragged out long roots from the soft mulch
a white face hovered over the bottom.

others had echoes, gave back your own call
with a clean new music in it. and one
was scaresome, for there, out of ferns and tall
foxgloves, a rat slapped across my reflection.

now, to pry into roots, to finger slime,
to stare, big-eyed narcissus, into some spring
is beneath all adult dignity. i rhyme
to see myself, to set the darkness echoing.

seamus heaney

all paintings by andrew wyeth

lights in the dark

2009-05-07T00:18:00.007-04:00

from kandinsky's "concerning the spiritual in art" . . . "our minds, which are even now only just awakening after years of materialism, are infected with the despair of unbelief, of lack of purpose and ideal.

the nightmare of materialism, which has turned the life of the universe into an evil, useless game, is not yet past; it holds the awakening soul still in its grip.

only a feeble light glimmers like a tiny star in a vast gulf of darkness. this feeble light is but a presentiment, and the soul, when it sees it, trembles in doubt whether the light is not a dream, and the gulf of darkness reality.

our soul rings cracked when we seek to play upon it, as does a costly vase, long buried in the earth, which is found to have a flaw when it is dug up once more."

the blurred form of an evening

2009-05-03T00:35:00.002-04:00

the blurred form of an evening sky rushes past the night train. by the yellow-orange light of a fringed table lamp, a man pushes his face closer to the window. a small cloud of breath ebbs and flows from his mouth across the glass - a humid tongue of moisture.

stations and signals flow by the darkened window frame in sudden jarring colour-filled moments. an illuminated sign, a wall of brownish-red bricks, light flooding from an opening door, someone peering from behind a curtain.

life is like this.

window

night from a railroad car window
is a great, dark, soft thing
broken across with slashes of light.

carl sandburg

and faith is one

2009-04-29T00:16:00.001-04:00

scepticism is a virtue, but risks becoming cynicism.
cynicism is a vice.

faith is a virtue, but risks becoming belief.
this is a weakness.

may we hold scepticism close;
may faith hold us closer.

but let us not belittle the beliefs of others,
for although beliefs are legion they may lead to faith.

and faith is one.

robert fripp

the capacity for wonder

2009-04-25T00:49:00.007-04:00

"if a man’s imagination were not so weak, so easily tired, if his capacity for wonder not so limited, he would abandon forever such fantasies of the supernal. he would learn to perceive in water, leaves and silence more than sufficient of the absolute and marvelous, more than enough to console him for the loss of the ancient dreams." edward abbey "desert solitaire"

"little ida's flowers"
a story by hans christian andersen

“my poor flowers are quite dead,” said little ida, “they were so pretty yesterday evening, and now all the leaves are hanging down quite withered. what do they do that for,” she asked, of the student who sat on the sofa; she liked him very much, he could tell the most amusing stories, and cut out the prettiest pictures; hearts, and ladies dancing, castles with doors that opened, as well as flowers; he was a delightful student. “why do the flowers look so faded to-day?” she asked again, and pointed to her nosegay, which was quite withered.

“don't you know what is the matter with them?” said the student. “the flowers were at a ball last night, and therefore, it is no wonder they hang their heads.”

“but flowers cannot dance?” cried little ida.

“yes indeed, they can,” replied the student. “when it grows dark, and everybody is asleep, they jump about quite merrily. they have a ball almost every night.”

“can children go to these balls?”

“yes,” said the student, “little daisies and lilies of the valley.”

“where do the beautiful flowers dance?” asked little ida. “Have you not often seen the large castle outside the gates of the town, where the king lives in summer, and where the beautiful garden is full of flowers? and have you not fed the swans with bread when they swam towards you? well, the flowers have capital balls there, believe me.”

“i was in the garden out there yesterday with my mother,” said ida, “but all the leaves were off the trees, and there was not a single flower left. where are they? i used to see so many in the summer.”

“they are in the castle,” replied the student. “you must know that as soon as the king and all the court are gone into the town, the flowers run out of the garden into the castle, and you should see how merry they are. the two most beautiful roses seat themselves on the throne, and are called the king and queen, then all the red cockscombs range themselves on each side, and bow, these are the lords-in-waiting. after that the pretty flowers come in, and there is a grand ball. the blue violets represent little naval cadets, and dance with hyacinths and crocuses which they call young ladies. the tulips and tiger-lilies are the old ladies who sit and watch the dancing, so that everything may be conducted with order and propriety.”

“but,” said little ida, “is there no one there to hurt the flowers for dancing in the king's castle?”

“no one knows anything about it,” said the student. “the old steward of the castle, who has to watch there at night, sometimes comes in; but he carries a great bunch of keys, and as soon as the flowers hear the keys rattle, they run and hide themselves behind the long curtains, and stand quite still, just peeping their heads out. then the old steward says, ‘i smell flowers here,’ but he cannot see them.”

“oh how capital,” said little ida, clapping her hands. “should i be able to see these flowers?”

“yes,” said the student, “mind you think of it the next time you go out, no doubt you will see them, if you peep through the window. i did so to-day, and i saw a long yellow lily lying stretched out on the sofa. she was a court lady.”

“can the flowers from the botanical gardens go to these balls?” asked ida. “it is such a distance!”

“oh yes,” said the student “whenever they like, for they can fly. have you not seen those beautiful red, white, and yellow butterflies, that look like flowers? they were flowers once. they have flown off their stalks into the air, and flap their leaves as if they were little wings to make them fly. then, if they behave well, they obtain permission to fly about during the day, instead of being obliged to sit still on their stems at home, and so in time their leaves become real wings. it may be, however, that the flowers in the botanical gardens have never been to the king's palace, and, therefore, they know nothing of the merry doings at night, which take place there. i will tell you what to do, and the botanical professor, who lives close by here, will be so surprised. you know him very well, do you not? well, next time you go into his garden, you must tell one of the flowers that there is going to be a grand ball at the castle, then that flower will tell all the others, and they will fly away to the castle as soon as possible. and when the professor walks into his garden, there will not be a single flower left. how he will wonder what has become of them!”

“but how can one flower tell another? flowers cannot speak?”

“no, certainly not,” replied the student; “but they can make signs. have you not often seen that when the wind blows they nod at one another, and rustle all their green leaves?”

“can the professor understand the signs?” asked ida.

“yes, to be sure he can. he went one morning into his garden, and saw a stinging nettle making signs with its leaves to a beautiful red carnation. it was saying, ‘you are so pretty, i like you very much.’ but the professor did not approve of such nonsense, so he clapped his hands on the nettle to stop it. then the leaves, which are its fingers, stung him so sharply that he has never ventured to touch a nettle since.”

“oh how funny!” said ida, and she laughed.

“how can anyone put such notions into a child's head?” said a tiresome lawyer, who had come to pay a visit, and sat on the sofa. he did not like the student, and would grumble when he saw him cutting out droll or amusing pictures. sometimes it would be a man hanging on a gibbet and holding a heart in his hand as if he had been stealing hearts. sometimes it was an old witch riding through the air on a broom and carrying her husband on her nose. but the lawyer did not like such jokes, and he would say as he had just said, “how can anyone put such nonsense into a child's head! what absurd fancies there are!”

but to little ida, all these stories which the student told her about the flowers, seemed very droll, and she thought over them a great deal. the flowers did hang their heads, because they had been dancing all night, and were very tired, and most likely they were ill. then she took them into the room where a number of toys lay on a pretty little table, and the whole of the table drawer besides was full of beautiful things. her doll sophy lay in the doll's bed asleep, and little ida said to her, “you must really get up sophy, and be content to lie in the drawer to-night; the poor flowers are ill, and they must lie in your bed, then perhaps they will get well again.” so she took the doll out, who looked quite cross, and said not a single word, for she was angry at being turned out of her bed.

ida placed the flowers in the doll's bed, and drew the quilt over them. then she told them to lie quite still and be good, while she made some tea for them, so that they might be quite well and able to get up the next morning. and she drew the curtains close round the little bed, so that the sun might not shine in their eyes.

during the whole evening she could not help thinking of what the student had told her. and before she went to bed herself, she was obliged to peep behind the curtains into the garden where all her mother's beautiful flowers grew, hyacinths and tulips, and many others. then she whispered to them quite softly, “i know you are going to a ball to-night.” but the flowers appeared as if they did not understand, and not a leaf moved; still ida felt quite sure she knew all about it.

she lay awake a long time after she was in bed, thinking how pretty it must be to see all the beautiful flowers dancing in the king's garden. “i wonder if my flowers have really been there,” she said to herself, and then she fell asleep. in the night she awoke; she had been dreaming of the flowers and of the student, as well as of the tiresome lawyer who found fault with him. it was quite still in ida's bedroom; the night-lamp burnt on the table, and her father and mother were asleep.

“i wonder if my flowers are still lying in sophy's bed,” she thought to herself; “how much i should like to know.” she raised herself a little, and glanced at the door of the room where all her flowers and playthings lay; it was partly open, and as she listened, it seemed as if some one in the room was playing the piano, but softly and more prettily than she had ever before heard it.

“now all the flowers are certainly dancing in there,” she thought, “oh how much i should like to see them,” but she did not dare move for fear of disturbing her father and mother. “if they would only come in here,” she thought; but they did not come, and the music continued to play so beautifully, and was so pretty, that she could resist no longer. she crept out of her little bed, went softly to the door and looked into the room. oh what a splendid sight there was to be sure!

there was no night-lamp burning, but the room appeared quite light, for the moon shone through the window upon the floor, and made it almost like day. all the hyacinths and tulips stood in two long rows down the room, not a single flower remained in the window, and the flower-pots were all empty. the flowers were dancing gracefully on the floor, making turns and holding each other by their long green leaves as they swung round. at the piano sat a large yellow lily which little ida was sure she had seen in the summer, for she remembered the student saying she was very much like miss lina, one of ida's friends. they all laughed at him then, but now it seemed to little ida as if the tall, yellow flower was really like the young lady. she had just the same manners while playing, bending her long yellow face from side to side, and nodding in time to the beautiful music. then she saw a large purple crocus jump into the middle of the table where the playthings stood, go up to the doll's bedstead and draw back the curtains; there lay the sick flowers, but they got up directly, and nodded to the others as a sign that they wished to dance with them. the old rough doll, with the broken mouth, stood up and bowed to the pretty flowers. they did not look ill at all now, but jumped about and were very merry, yet none of them noticed little ida.

presently it seemed as if something fell from the table. ida looked that way, and saw a slight carnival rod jumping down among the flowers as if it belonged to them; it was, however, very smooth and neat, and a little wax doll with a broad brimmed hat on her head, like the one worn by the lawyer, sat upon it. the carnival rod hopped about among the flowers on its three red stilted feet, and stamped quite loud when it danced the mazurka; the flowers could not perform this dance, they were too light to stamp in that manner.

all at once the wax doll which rode on the carnival rod seemed to grow larger and taller, and it turned round and said to the paper flowers, “how can you put such things in a child's head? they are all foolish fancies;” and then the doll was exactly like the lawyer with the broad brimmed hat, and looked as yellow and as cross as he did; but the paper dolls struck him on his thin legs, and he shrunk up again and became quite a little wax doll. this was very amusing, and ida could not help laughing. the carnival rod went on dancing, and the lawyer was obliged to dance also. it was no use, he might make himself great and tall, or remain a little wax doll with a large black hat; still he must dance. then at last the other flowers interceded for him, especially those who had lain in the doll's bed, and the carnival rod gave up his dancing. at the same moment a loud knocking was heard in the drawer, where ida's doll sophy lay with many other toys. then the rough doll ran to the end of the table, laid himself flat down upon it, and began to pull the drawer out a little way. then sophy raised himself, and looked round quite astonished, “there must be a ball here to-night,” said sophy. “why did not somebody tell me?”

“will you dance with me?” said the rough doll.

“you are the right sort to dance with, certainly,” said she, turning her back upon him. then she seated herself on the edge of the drawer, and thought that perhaps one of the flowers would ask her to dance; but none of them came. then she coughed, “hem, hem, a-hem;” but for all that not one came. the shabby doll now danced quite alone, and not very badly, after all.

as none of the flowers seemed to notice sophy, she let herself down from the drawer to the floor, so as to make a very great noise. all the flowers came round her directly, and asked if she had hurt herself, especially those who had lain in her bed. but she was not hurt at all, and ida's flowers thanked her for the use of the nice bed, and were very kind to her. they led her into the middle of the room, where the moon shone, and danced with her, while all the other flowers formed a circle round them. then sophy was very happy, and said they might keep her bed; she did not mind lying in the drawer at all.

but the flowers thanked her very much, and said,– “we cannot live long. tomorrow morning we shall be quite dead; and you must tell little ida to bury us in the garden, near to the grave of the canary; then, in the summer we shall wake up and be more beautiful than ever.”

“no, you must not die,” said sophy, as she kissed the flowers. then the door of the room opened, and a number of beautiful flowers danced in. ida could not imagine where they could come from, unless they were the flowers from the king's garden. first came two lovely roses, with little golden crowns on their heads; these were the king and queen. beautiful stocks and carnations followed, bowing to every one present. they had also music with them. large poppies and peonies had pea-shells for instruments, and blew into them till they were quite red in the face. the bunches of blue hyacinths and the little white snowdrops jingled their bell-like flowers, as if they were real bells. then came many more flowers: blue violets, purple heart's-ease, daisies, and lilies of the valley, and they all danced together, and kissed each other. It was very beautiful to behold.

at last the flowers wished each other good-night. then little ida crept back into her bed again, and dreamt of all she had seen.

when she arose the next morning, she went quickly to the little table, to see if the flowers were still there. she drew aside the curtains of the little bed. there they all lay, but quite faded; much more so than the day before. sophy was lying in the drawer where Ida had placed her; but she looked very sleepy.

“do you remember what the flowers told you to say to me?” said little ida. but sophy looked quite stupid, and said not a single word. “you are not kind at all,” said ida; “and yet they all danced with you.” then she took a little paper box, on which were painted beautiful birds, and laid the dead flowers in it. “this shall be your pretty coffin,” she said; “and by and by, when my cousins come to visit me, they shall help me to bury you out in the garden; so that next summer you may grow up again more beautiful than ever.”

her cousins were two good-tempered boys, whose names were james and adolphus. their father had given them each a bow and arrow, and they had brought them to show ida. she told them about the poor flowers which were dead; and as soon as they obtained permission, they went with her to bury them. the two boys walked first, with their crossbows on their shoulders, and little ida followed, carrying the pretty box containing the dead flowers. they dug a little grave in the garden. ida kissed her flowers and then laid them, with the box, in the earth. james and adolphus then fired their crossbows over the grave, as they had neither guns nor cannons.

am i not i -- here?

2009-04-21T00:45:00.004-04:00

watercolour by karen stefano

throughout my life i have not held much interest in being "a man". by definition it is a limited role. it holds back men and many of the "men" i know and love have left it behind. we are who we are. with little regard for the autocracy of expectation attached to what is essentially a genetic tag.

i have loved and love being a person. as whole as i can allow myself to be. as incomplete as my fears will allow myself to be.

here's how william carlos williams expresses this:

transitional

first he said:

it is the woman in us

that makes us write--

let us acknowledge it--

man would be silent.

we are not men

therefore we can speak

and be conscious

(of the two sides)

unbent by the sensual

as befits accuracy.

i then said:

dare you make this

your propaganda?

and he answered:

am i not i--here?

[(from the tempers, 1913) the collected earlier poems]

copyright © 1917, 1921 four seas company, copyright © 1934, the objectivist press, copyright © 1935, the alcestis press, copyright © 1936, reginald lane latimer, copyright © 1938, new directions publishing corporation, copyright © 1938, 1941, 1951 william carlos williams, copyright © 1966, florence h. williams

steps to the water

2009-04-18T10:56:00.009-04:00

caroline sturgis tappan offers an approach to life and our place in it in her poem entitled "life". it could just as easily have been titled "remembering" for that is its essence. to remember to shine from inside without condition.

"life"
greatly to be
is enough for me,
is enough for thee.

why for work art thou striving,
why seek'st thou for aught?
to the soul that is living
all things shall be brought.

what thou art thou wilt do,
and thy work will be true.

but how can I be
without labor or love?
life comes not to me
as to calm gods above.
not only above
may spirit be found,
the sunshine of love
streams all around.

the sun does not say,
"i will not shine
unless every ray
falls on planet divine."

he shines upon dust
upon things mean and low,
his own inward thought
maketh him glow.

the dial, II, october 1840

love after love

2009-04-14T00:26:00.005-04:00

"to love one must first forget all about love. make it your aim and look for direction. as we are we cannot possibly love." gurdjieff

narcissus stopped at the surface. he couldn't bring himself to break the skin of the pool of his knowing.

for a little while.

and yet there is a point at which you must break beneath the skin of that pool of knowing and immerse yourself in self-remembering:
as a door opens and a foot steps outside that door.
as dust rises from beneath the first purposeful stamp of that foot on the journey away from self love.

so there is:

love after love

the time will come
when, with elation,
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror,
and each will smile at the other’s welcome,

and say, sit here. eat.
you will love again the stranger who was your self.
give wine. give bread. give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
sit. feast on your life.

derek walcott

in peeling "your own image from the mirror" you experience the reality of another gurdjieff aphorism: "sincerity is the key to self-knowledge and to be sincere with oneself brings great suffering."
or as j.g. bennett said: "it is impossible to achieve the aim without suffering."

larger than life

2009-04-11T00:33:00.002-04:00

i met paterson ewen in the late nineteen seventies while he was visiting peter robinson college at trent university. he brought some of his work with him - work gouged and hacked out of plywood almost as if he was digging to find what he somehow knew was inside there, tucked away inside the splintering fibres.

here's what the virtual museum has to say about this particular work by patterson:

"paterson ewen created this monumental work after seeing an iceberg for the first time. in addition to painting on a plywood surface, he gouges it away with power tools to create rough textures. to ewen, the literal physicality of the painting mirrors the iceberg’s formation, which occurs in a violent tearing away of ice masses from arctic shores. “it was amazing how the iceberg itself came about. the actual physical movement I make sometimes feels analogous to the way the things really happen.”"

patterson's digging and carving beneath the smooth wooden surface revealed riches and a truthfullness that though - raw and unpolished - resonated with some similar process that has accompanied my own efforts to access the truthfullness of myself. to somehow, gradually and painstakingly reveal little-by-little who and what is actually here. the spirit, behind the finished skin of my personality.

light plays

2009-04-07T00:54:00.007-04:00

i love the way that light plays inside translucent objects like glass or ice. it reminds me of how light plays inside people.

charles baudelaire wrote:
"all forms of beauty, like all possible phenomena, contain an element of the eternal and an element of the transitory -- of the absolute and of the particular. absolute and eternal beauty does not exist, or rather it is only an abstraction creamed from the general surface of different beauties. the particular element in each manifestation comes from the emotions: and just as we have our own particular emotions, so we have our own beauty."

these particular "abstractions" were "creamed from the general surface" at the ice sculpture festival in ottawa this february.

the full value of joy

2009-04-04T00:28:00.006-04:00

i've never really liked fences.

they divide and contain.

they separate us from experiences.

they create otherness.

even a cursory examination of my self reveals fences. fences that keep things in. fences that keep things out. fences to straddle.

it's as much work to maintain them as it is to take them down.

even a moment's thought reveals how unnecessary and harmful this all is.

so why do i need to do this?

where did i learn to be protective. to deny. to be prepared to run from my vantage point.

how do i let all of this go?

the clocks pick off the points

2009-03-31T00:15:00.004-04:00

(courtesy of nature remains)

"row, row, row your boat,
gently down the stream;
merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily,
life is but a dream."

time flies - if it is used as a measure of your life.

(image courtesy bitze)

"among prominent philosophers, there are two distinct viewpoints on time. one view is that time is part of the fundamental structure of the universe, a dimension in which events occur in sequence. the opposing view is that time does not refer to any kind of "container" that events and objects "move through", nor to any entity that "flows", but that it is instead part of a fundamental intellectual structure (together with space and number) within which humans sequence and compare events."

carl sandburg wrote:

in the cool of the night time
the clocks pick off the points
and the mainsprings loosen.
they will need winding.
one of these days
they will need winding.

with time measuring the unmeasurable. with space defining the undefinable.

here we are.

what a strange place to call home. what a strange way to define the sacred space we know as home. if, as teilhard de chardin says, "we are not so much human beings on a spiritual journey, as spiritual beings on a human journey", then what can we make about this agreed upon artifice - time and space? what purpose does it serve?

"raptly as one who would divine the perilous eyes of sleep, and the dreams and mysteries which lurk therein, i sought to fathom the gulf-enclosing orb of the crystal: void for a time, and hollow with light it was, and transpicuous like the orient sky that is made clear for the colours of the dawn. but soon the light was centered to a star, and the crystal itself, as if pregnant with the Infinite, became a tenebrous and profound abysm, through which a teeming myriad of shadows, vague as incipient dreams, or luminous with a glimpse of vision not prefigurable, fled in an ever-changing phantasmagoric succession about the star: from out those vortical and swirling glooms, where only the central star was constant, i saw the pallor of innominable faces emerge-faces that broke like bubbles; and forms that were strange as conceptions of an alien sun, with the eidolons of things which were imageless before, swam for a little in that phantasmic wave. but all the multifold mysteries which were manifest therein, i knew for the hidden thoughts and occluse, reluctant dreams of mine under-soul — thoughts and dreams now shadow-shown in the gulf-revealing orb of the hollow crystal...

thus, in the crystal of time and space, whose gulfs contain all that we call the infinite, may God behold the manifestation of all the multiform mysteries, and all the secret thoughts and dreams which abide in the centermost sanctuary of his being. and naught may appear to him but these - his thoughts and dreams forever shadow - shown in the immeasurable orb of the hollow crystal of time and space."

from the crystals written by clark ashton smith

he did not become indifferent . . .

2009-03-28T09:02:00.007-04:00

image courtesy tanya ruka

if i lived my life full in the knowledge that each moment might be my last, how different would i appear? to others - to myself.

i was brought to that thought after reading al purdy's poem "lu yu (ad 1125-1209)". reading it brought to mind the parable from the mahabharata relating the plight of the man who has fallen into a pit.

al's poem reads . . . .

on the day of lu yu's last sickness
a thin coffin was ready,
and two quilts to cover him,
and the gravediggers paid
their work done.
then he started to write another poem
a short time before death,
about drinking wine again in the village -
he was working on the poem when they buried him,
so that half a line protruded from the earth
in wind and weather's hearing -
with sunlight touching the first young syllables,
the last ones flowering from a dark coffin:
"marketplace the in/drink more one"
the first three words above ground
the last ones wine in the red dust.
near the village of shanyang
in chekiang province…

the man in the wilderness - a parable from mahabharata from stree parva (the book of women). from the translation by kisari mohan ganguli

vidura said:

"a certain brahmana, living in the great world found himself on one occasion in a large inaccessible forest teaming with beasts of prey. it abounded on every side with lions and other animals looking like elephants, all of which were engaged in roaring aloud. such was the aspect of that forest that yama himself would take fright at it.

beholding the forest, the heart of the brahmana became exceedingly agitated. his hair stood on end, and other signs of fear manifested themselves, o scorcher of foes! entering it, he began to run hither and thither, casting his eyes on every point of the compass for finding out somebody whose shelter he might seek. wishing to avoid those terrible creatures, he ran in fright. he could not succeed, however, in distancing them or freeing himself from their presence.

he then saw that the terrible forest was surrounded by a net, and that a frightful woman stood there stretching her arms. that large forest was also encompassed by many five-headed snakes of dreadful forms, tall as cliffs and touching the very heavens.

within it was a pit whose mouth was covered with many hard and unyielding creepers and herbs. the brahmana, in course of his wanderings fell into that invisible pit. he became entangled in those clusters of creepers that were interwoven with one another, like the large fruit of a jack tree hanging by its stalk. he continued to hang there, feet upwards and head downwards while he was in that posture, diverse other calamities overtook him.

he beheld a large and mighty snake within the pit. he also saw a gigantic elephant near its mouth. that elephant, dark in complexion, had six faces and twelve feet. and the animal gradually approached that pit covered with creepers and trees.

about the twigs of the tree (that stood at the mouth of the pit), rowed many bees of frightful forms, employed from before in drinking the honey gathered in their comb about which they swarmed in large numbers. repeatedly they desired, o bull of the bharatha's race, to taste that honey which though sweet to all creatures, however attracts children only. the honey (collected in the comb) fell in many jets below. the person who was hanging in the pit continually drank those jets. employed, in such a distressful situation, in drinking that honey, his thirst, however, could not be appeased.

o king, he did not become indifferent to life. even there, the man continued to hope for existence.

a number of black and white rats were eating away the roots of that tree. there was fear from the beasts of prey, from that fierce woman on the outskirts of the forest, from that snake at the bottom of the well, from that elephant near its tip, from the fall of the tree through the action of the rats and lastly from the bees flying about for tasting the honey. In that plight he continued to dwell, deprived of his senses, in that wilderness, never losing at any time the hope of prolonging his life."

if i lived my life full in the knowledge that each moment might be my last, how different would i appear? to others - to myself. how would the quality of my life change? how would the quality of the lives of those around me change? how could i live my life that way and not live without consideration for myself and others?

it all seems so obvious. it all seems so distant.

and now

2009-03-24T00:40:00.001-04:00

there are moments of such blinding clarity that i wonder how i've made my way through life - with my eyes closed? sometimes my eyes open wide and then i see what i wish i could see all the time.

"what you are you do not see, what you see is your shadow." rabindranath tagore

"arise the other" karen stefano.

a.g.e. blake expresses a moment of seeing unfolding:

"coming across gurdjieff was a wondrous moment in my life when in deep unease at being alive, indulging in existentialism, seeking answers in physics and being visited by feelings and thoughts that just could not fit into the worldview that seemed to be governing the world, he had the appearance of someone who had been through all of it and come out the other side. he belonged with many others such as krishnamurti – and I would add today, bernadette roberts – who were speaking from another place. yet he also had appeal because he offered ways of experimenting with experience itself that one could do here and now in the midst of life. he raised a new awareness of what it was to breathe, move, think and pay attention so that one could experience something of that zen-like quality of ordinary life two inches of the ground. he brought into question the most ordinary and everyday things we take for granted."

"dectesuque" karen stefano
further writings of anthony blake that introduce the ideas of gudjieff can be read here . . . .
gurdjieff and now

solioonensius

you're each other. then your self.

2009-03-20T00:07:00.005-04:00

a walk through a flooded park. echoes a long ago walk.

first love

side-by-side with the one.

you love.

swinging through the air.

feet skimming puddles.
puddles like mirrors.

you’re each other.

you’re each other's.

then your selves.

then your self.

side-by-side with the one.

you love.

sgl

eyes to see others - a mirror to see ourselves

2009-03-17T00:01:00.003-04:00

"while we have eyes to see others, we need a mirror to see ourselves." tibetan proverb

eight verses for training the mind

by langri thangpa
(1054-1123)

with a determination to accomplish
the highest welfare for all sentient beings
who surpass even a wish-granting jewel
i will learn to hold them supremely dear.

whenever i associate with others i will learn
to think of myself as the lowest among all
and respectfully hold others to be supreme
from the very depths of my heart.

in all actions i will learn to search into my mind
and as soon as an afflictive emotion arises
endangering myself and others
will firmly face and avert it.

i will learn to cherish beings of bad nature
and those oppressed by strong sins and suffering
as if i had found a precious
treasure very difficult to find.

when others out of jealousy treat me badly
with abuse, slander, and so on,
i will learn to take on all loss,
and offer victory to them.

when one whom i have benefited with great hope
unreasonably hurts me very badly,
i will learn to view that person
as an excellent spiritual guide.

in short, i will learn to offer to everyone without exception
all help and happiness directly and indirectly
and respectfully take upon myself
all harm and suffering of my mothers.

i will learn to keep all these practices
undefiled by the stains of the eight worldly conceptions
and by understanding all phenomena as like illusions
be released from the bondage of attachment.

the dalai llama has provided a teaching of these verses that is especially illuminating and insightful. to read it please visit here.

let it lie still

2009-03-14T00:29:00.006-04:00

atlantic beach . ann packard

wouldn't you say,

wouldn't you say: one day,

with a little more time or a little more patience, one might

disentangle for separate, deliberate, slow delight

one of the moment's hundred strands, unfray

beginnings from endings, this from that, survey

say a square inch of the ground one stands on, touch

part of oneself or a leaf or a sound (not clutch

or cuff or bruise but touch with finger-tip, ear-

tip, eyetip, creeping near yet not too near);

might take up life and lay it on one's palm

and, encircling it in closeness, warmth and calm,

let it lie still, then stir smooth - softly, and tendril by tendril unfold, there on one's hand ... one might examine eternity's

cross-section

for a second, with slightly more patience, more time for reflection?

a.s.j. tessimond. 1934

night's nave upsoaring

2009-03-10T00:30:00.004-04:00

in the arch of a reed, intimations of a whole bent under the weight of the elements.

so is the whole of a life.

even when bent, it retains its beauty.

nightpiece

gaunt in gloom,
the pale stars their torches,
enshrouded, wave.
ghostfires from heaven's far verges faint illume,
arches on soaring arches,
night's sindark nave.

seraphim,
the lost hosts awaken
to service till
in moonless gloom each lapses muted, dim,
raised when she has and shaken
her thurible.

and long and loud,
to night's nave upsoaring,
a starknell tolls
as the bleak incense surges, cloud on cloud,
voidward from the adoring
waste of souls.

james joyce from "pomes penyeach"

breathless longings

2009-03-07T00:53:00.007-05:00

my soul is sick to-day; my soul is sick with absence; my soul has the sickness of silence; and my eyes
light it with tedium.
i catch sight of hunts at a standstill, under the blue lashes of my memories; and the hidden hounds
of my desires follow the outworn scents.
i see the packs of my dreams threading the warm forests, and the yellow arrows of regret seeking the
white deer of lies.
ah, God! my breathless longings, the warm longings of my eyes, have clouded with breaths too blue
the moon which fills my soul.

maeterlink

pretending to be blooms

2009-03-04T00:02:00.001-05:00

evening snow. drifting in and out of the house lights.

in the eleventh century, sei shonagon a lady of the japanese court wrote . . .

snow

as though pretending to be blooms

the snowflakes scatter in the winter sky.

fields of light

2009-02-28T00:01:00.008-05:00

a snow field - each crystal a star - a universe of violet and rose light.

within the circuit of this plodding life

within the circuit of this plodding life
there enter moments of an azure hue,
untarnished fair as is the violet
or anemone, when the spring strews them
by some meandering rivulet, which make
the best philosophy untrue that aims
but to console man for his grievances
i have remembered when the winter came,
high in my chamber in the frosty nights,
when in the still light of the cheerful moon,
on every twig and rail and jutting spout,
the icy spears were adding to their length
against the arrows of the coming sun,
how in the shimmering noon of summer past
some unrecorded beam slanted across
the upland pastures where the johnswort grew;
or heard, amid the verdure of my mind,
the bee's long smothered hum, on the blue flag
loitering amidst the mead; or busy rill,
which now through all its course stands still and dumb
its own memorial,—purling at its play
along the slopes, and through the meadows next,
until its youthful sound was hushed at last
in the staid current of the lowland stream;
or seen the furrows shine but late upturned,
and where the fieldfare followed in the rear,
when all the fields around lay bound and hoar
beneath a thick integument of snow.
so by God's cheap economy made rich
to go upon my winter's task again.
henry thoreau

joseph bellacera "field of light #14"

looking winter in the eye

2009-02-26T06:42:00.004-05:00

as my body feels the early details of "aging" it's an interesting challenge to not let it define my mind and spirit.

"when I look winter in the eye,
i am looking down dense corridors of trees."
joan mcbreen

the alchemy of happiness

2009-02-24T00:06:00.001-05:00

the visible world was made to correspond
to the world invisible and
there is nothing in this world but that which is a symbol
of something in that other world.
al ghazali

in "the alchemy of happiness", al ghazali writes:

"the first step to self-knowledge is to know that thou art composed of an outward shape, called the body, and an inward entity called the heart, or soul. by "heart" i do not mean the piece of flesh situated in the left of our bodies, but that which uses all the other faculties as its instruments and servants. in truth it does not belong to the visible world, but to the invisible, and has come into this world as a traveller visits a foreign country for the sake of merchandise, and will presently return to its native land. it is the knowledge of this entity and its attributes which is the key to the knowledge of God."

the robin's egg

2009-02-21T00:01:00.001-05:00

a very long time ago i walked home from school with two friends. it was england. we wore caps and blazers and ties, grey shirts and dark shorts.

the sky was overcast. the pavement was wet.

on our walk we came upon a thick hedge.

one of my friends stopped and so then did we.

in the hedge there was a small nest. and in that nest lay an impossibly blue egg. a robin's egg!

i recall the feelings of surprise, mystery, and magic contained in that twig, twine and down bed.

a secret home.

we each held the egg and felt its smooth warmth.

it seemed improbable that something so small and fragile and very beautiful could house a bird.

but it did.

i became water

2009-02-18T00:35:00.007-05:00

image courtesy phil douglis

i became water
and saw myself
a mirage
became an ocean
saw myself a speck
of foam
gained awareness
saw that all is but
forgetfulness
woke up
and found myself
asleep.

binavi badakhshani

in this writing, the person becomes water . . . and in that manifestation they experience the emptiness of artifice in the form of a mirage, become the allness of everything in the form of an ocean, and then the absolute of insignificance as a speck of foam.

then, in a moment of benevolent awareness the writer receives three more gifts; the recognition that they have forgotten everything, woken up and found themselves asleep. it is that self-awareness - that stepping away from everything (including your"self") - and realizing that (like gurdjieff's mechanical manifestations masquerading as people) - the unrealized individual (when given this shattering awakening) could transcend the mechanical, acted-upon self and ascend from mere personality to self-actualizing essence.

the muffling of winds

2009-02-14T00:18:00.000-05:00

hoarfrost and silence:
only the muffling
of winds dark and lonesome--
great lullabies to the long sleepers.
carl sandburg

the winter boulevard

2009-02-10T00:44:00.001-05:00

winter in the boulevard

the frost has settled down upon the trees
and ruthlessly strangled off the fantasies
of leaves that have gone unnoticed, swept like old
romantic stories now no more to be told.

the trees down the boulevard stand naked in thought,
their abundant summery wordage silenced, caught
in the grim undertow; naked the trees confront
implacable winter’s long, cross-questioning brunt.

has some hand balanced more leaves in the depths of the twigs?
some dim little efforts placed in the threads of the birch?—
it is only the sparrows, like dead black leaves on the sprigs,
sitting huddled against the cerulean, one flesh with their perch.

the clear, cold sky coldly bethinks itself.
like vivid thought the air spins bright, and all
trees, birds, and earth, arrested in the after-thought
awaiting the sentence out from the welkin brought.

d.h. lawrence 1916

winter in a moment, in its fullness

2009-02-07T00:12:00.000-05:00

in a little place, in a brief moment - winter looks like this.

dry wisps of yellowed winter grass. a cold, thin breeze. snow rustling like sugar.

the great sufi poet rumi saw winter in its fullness . . .

winter is a time for death.
do you think death is a bad thing?
then you still haven't got it.
you've lived countless lives and died
countless deaths in an endless process of evolution.
each death has brought you more life.
without, death, there is no rebirth.
the ultimate death is nothing to do with the body.
it is the death of your self as separate from God.
you are standing at the edge of his ocean of love.
plunge below the surf of separation.
dive into the mystical depth.
dissolve yourself into that sea.
like a moth around a candle, be irresistibly drawn
to the light until you are engulfed by flames in an inferno of communion.
the lover chooses the fire because he knows
the secret: "the honey is worth the sting." rumi

little spaces and colours

2009-02-04T00:11:00.003-05:00

i've walked by this billboard many times. it's not unique in any way and so (as with so much) i consigned it to the wallpaper of the landscapes that i pass by and ignore.

but today as i passed it, something about it caught my eye.

there were colours inside the little grills. colours in the rusting framework.

so i stopped and really looked at the little spaces and colours.

winter zen

2009-01-31T00:30:00.005-05:00

winter . . .

a day of fog and melting snow . . . in the woods a silvered silence . . . the yellow flags of leaves still waving . . . tree trunks like candles reaching into the aether . . . in a time long before this one the haiku master issa saw this and wrote . . .

"i see them now . . . how they were ... bare winter trees"

closer to the ground . . . the tall grasses of summer bow down under the weight of the winter snows . . .

inside a similar moment the japanese haiku master ikkyu wrote . . .

"the world before my eyes is wan and wasted, just like me. the earth is decrepit, the sky stormy, all the grass withered. no spring breeze even at this late date, just winter clouds swallowing up my tiny reed hut."

issa wrote . . . "the mountain hermit's fire is rising... winter rain. "

setting sail

2009-01-27T00:49:00.005-05:00

fu hsuan who lived between a.d. 217 and a.d. 278 was born into poverty. he became wealthy through his writing. the world also became wealthy through his writing, but in a different way.

a gentle wind

a gentle wind fans the calm night; a bright moon shines on the high tower. a voice whispers, but no one answers when i call; a shadow stirs, but no one comes when I beckon. the kitchen-man brings in a dish of bean-leaves; wine is there, but i do not fill my cup. contentment with poverty is fortune's best gift; riches and honour are the handmaids of disaster. though gold and gems by the world are sought and prized, to me they seem no more than weeds or chaff.

there are watershed moments in our lives that feel like we're setting sail - the journey unfolds like a carpet rolling out across a floor . . . like a prayer flag unravelling in the wind . . .

emily dickinson knew this moment . . . .

setting sail.

exultation is the going
of an inland soul to sea, --
past the houses, past the headlands,
into deep eternity!
bred as we, among the mountains,
can the sailor understand
the divine intoxication
of the first league out from land?

anne packard knows this moment . . .

"sail"

fourty-nine days

2009-01-24T18:03:00.002-05:00

my dad died fourty-nine days ago. i don't know how or even why. it doesn't make sense to me. my intuition is that he needed to move on. i wasn't as prepared for his transition as he was. he had done a fair bit of work over the last year to prepare himself. but then death is a mystery. an apparent ending that doesn't necessarily resolve all of what went before it.

being an ending, perhaps it better describes the beginning of what is to be becoming for the spirit that has finished its time here.

those who know something of buddhism and the rituals and ceremonies connected to the flying away of a soul will be aware that this day marks the end of the prayer cycle begun for my dad’s soul on december sixth. these prayers have been spoken by buddhists that my dad was connected with in cobourg, toronto and tibet.

i am not a buddhist myself, although i’m aware of some of the buddha’s teachings and buddhist philosophy. recognizing my need to understand or at least to be aware of the buddhist approach to dying and death, i took it upon myself to learn some of what my dad worked towards and anticipated in his passage from the body he inhabited as garry, my dad.

here is what i have found.

the buddha taught that we should always keep in mind the impermanence of life. i think of the guitar craft aphorism “there are few things as convincing as death to remind us of the quality with which we live our life,” as i write this.

living with the knowledge that we will die is difficult - but accepting an obvious and irrefutable truth often is.

for the buddhist, death is not the end of life. it is the end of the body we use to carry us through this life. our spirit remains and seeks out attachment to a new body and a new life. where the spirit is reborn is a reflection of the past and especially of the accumulation of all the positive and negative actions which result in what is called karma (cause and effect).

karma is such a commonly used term nowadays that even my own students and children have something of a sense of its relevance to their own lives. according to buddhists, our lives and all that occurs in our lives is a result of karma. every action creates a new karma, this karma or action is created with our body, our speech or our mind and this action leaves a subtle imprint on our mind which has the potential to become future happiness or future suffering, depending on whether the action was positive or negative.

at the point of death, whatever karma the person has accumulated decides which of six realms the spirit is reborn into: according to buddhists, if a human does not obtain nirvana or enlightenment, then they cannot escape the cycle of death and rebirth and are reborn into one of the six possible states beyond this our present life, these being in order from the highest to lowest;

heaven. in buddhism there are thirty seven different levels of heaven where beings experience peace and long lasting happiness. 

human life. in buddhism, beings can be reborn into human life over and over, either wealthy or poor, beautiful or not, and of course into every other state imaginable. what we get is a result of the karma that we have brought with us from previous existences. 

asura. a spiritual state of demi-gods but not the happy state experienced by the gods in the heavens above this state. the demi-gods are consumed with jealousy, because unlike humans, they can clearly see the superior situation of the gods in the heavens above them.

hungry ghost. this spiritual realm is for those who committed excessive amounts of evil deeds and who are obsessed with finding food and drink which they cannot experience and thus remain unsatisfied. they exhaust themselves in their constant fruitless searching. 

animals. this realm is visible to humans and it is where the spirits of humans are reborn if they have killed animals or have committed a lot of other evil acts. animals do not have the freedom that humans would experience due to their being constantly hunted by humans, farmed, used in farming, and for entertainment. 

hell. this realm is not visible to humans. beings born there experience much the same nastiness as those that a christian who believes in such a place might conceive of experiencing. those with a great deal of negative karma can remain in such places for eons of time. 

buddhists believe that none of these places are permanent locations for us.

so, how do we prepare for death? it is very detailed in some ways and it is really simple in others: my own view is that the quality of living defines your understanding of the impermanence of this place and this experience of life in human form. just have a positive and compassionate outlook on life. always be aware of the impermanence of life and have a loving attitude towards all living things.

we all know that we’ll die eventually. we can see our death coming long before its arrival.

the bottom line is that if we bring happiness to other living things, we will be happy and so will they. if we create suffering, we will experience suffering either in this life or in a future one. it seems very simple.

that’s all that i know.

shining wings

2009-01-20T00:13:00.010-05:00

in a life defined by moments - using the selective filter of hindsight - it appears to be arranged with some precision like a string of pearls.

a string of pearls comprised of moments that represent choices - and not the binary choices of childhood in which the present moving towards the future is defined by either/or, right/wrong, good or bad but the full spectrum of choices, the grey scale, the circle.

imagine the circle becoming a limitless space.
timeless.
without definition.

a space.

the long and full present moment.

how would you choose to fill it?

with what quality would you live your life if instead of recognizing the quality of a moment as a transitory thing in which you could do either the right thing or the wrong thing, what if you could see instead a fathomless formless space into which all these moments coalesce and become one great deliquescent moment?

oh give me wings
for my back,
shining wings
which seek
only virtue

mariko kitakubo

with ribbons streaming

2009-01-18T00:55:00.000-05:00

bright cap and streamers,
he sings in the hollow:
come follow, come follow,
all you that love.
leave dreams to the dreamers
that will not after,
that song and laughter
do nothing move.
with ribbons streaming
he sings the bolder;
in troop at his shoulder
the wild bees hum.
and the time of dreaming
dreams is over -- -
as lover to lover,
sweetheart, i come.

james joyce from "chamber music".

in the half-light of a winter morning, light and shadow coexist side-by-side.

undulating across snowy hummocks, thin threads of sunlight rise and settle.

the shadow loves the light.

without the light's knifes-edge glare, the shadow is mere darkness.

some trees

2009-01-14T06:01:00.008-05:00

in the still of winter, trees stand tall and silent. you can sense the life in them but it's contained and carefully protected.

nurtured
like a small fire.

they stand there, scratched against the thin blue winter sky that fills with cloud, empties and fills again.

weak branches break off. ice coats every twig. frost cracks the trunk.

and still they stand.

still.

some trees

these are amazing: each
joining a neighbor, as though speech
were a still performance.
arranging by chance

to meet as far this morning
from the world as agreeing
with it, you and i
are suddenly what the trees try

to tell us we are:
that their merely being there
means something; that soon
we may touch, love, explain.

and glad not to have invented
such comeliness, we are surrounded:
a silence already filled with noises,
a canvas on which emerges

a chorus of smiles, a winter morning.
placed in a puzzling light, and moving,
our days put on such reticence
these accents seem their own defense.

john ashbery

a careful dance

2009-01-12T18:15:00.010-05:00

there's a dance - that moves so carefully and with such precision - between what we know of ourselves and what others know of us. the steps of the dance get complex when you consider all the variations, especially the most present and available of the variations . . . knowing myself through what others know of me.

the ease with which i play into that role (for that is what it is) is reminding of the fragility of my true sense of self. the very real distance and difference between how well i know myself and how well others know me is never so apparent as when i see myself let my self go and replace it with a perceived sense of self. a borrowed sense of self.

it resolves in the burning question . . . how to let go of "i"?

this dilemma and these questions are similarly expressed in this passage from an essay by jeanne de salzman, who oversaw the continuation of gurdjieff’s work after his death: “try for a moment to accept the idea that you are not what you believe yourself to be, that you overestimate yourself, in fact that you lie to yourself. that you always lie to yourself every moment, all day, all your life… you will see that you are two…one who lies and one who cannot endure lies…learn to look until you have seen the difference between your two natures, until you have seen the lies, the deception in yourself. when you have seen your two natures, that day, in yourself, the truth will be born.”