"Let life happen to
you. Believe me: life is in the right, always."
Rainer
Maria Rilke
from
AlphaWorld
How Fragile We Are - Sting
If blood will flow when flesh and steel
are one
Drying in the colour of the evening sun
Tomorrow's rain will wash the stains away
But something in our minds will always stay
Perhaps this final act was meant
To clinch a lifetime's argument
That nothing comes from violence and nothing ever could
For all those born beneath an angry star
Lest we forget how fragile we are On and on the rain will fall
Like tears from a star like tears from a star
On and on the rain will say
How fragile we are how fragile we are On and on the rain will fall
Like tears from a star like tears from a star
On and on the rain will say
How fragile we are how fragile we are
How fragile we are how fragile we are
vasumitra ~
satsangdiarygroup
I like the water/ice image of
Hakuin's zen
for awareness and mind, but here's a more recent use of it. From
a
late but great Dzogchen 'teacher'.
From Dilgo Khyentse Rinpoche
If you conquer the primordial nature by distinguishing mind from
awareness,
The view of the absolute will gradually become clear.
Even if inwardly awareness is not yet clear right now,
Simply keep the mind from wandering outside;
This will do, for awareness lies in the very depth of the mind.
They are, it is said, like water and ice:
Water and ice are not entirely the same,
For the latter is solid and can be held.
But molten ice is none other than water,
So, in truth, water and ice are not two things, but one.
Likewise mind is not awareness, being deluded,
But mind's nature, when realised, is none other than awareness.
Although mind and awareness are different in sense,
They cannot be distinguished by analytic reasoning.
One day, as your confidence in awareness grows,
Mind will appear as witless as a child
And awareness as wise as a venerable old sage.
Awareness will not run after mind, but eclipse it;
In a relaxed, serene state, rest at ease.
Ben Hassine ~
Awakened Awareness
This story has been posted in
the satsangdiary group by Dennis Waite last week. I enjoyed the
story and took the liberty to post it in our group as well. This
story was found here www.hellsbuddhas.com
It
had been raining for the entire week we'd been in Auroville -
located on the southeastern coast of India. This wouldn't have
been so bad - despite the gray patina of mold covering my canvas
shaving kit - if my rain gear were not locked in the rear center
box on my bike, the key to which was lost with my fanny pack a
week earlier. I very much wanted to explore the area, but each
morning I faced the same dilemma: I could take my bike in search
of a locksmith, but then I'd be riding in the rain - which I hate
– without rain gear - which is worse. So I spent each day
huddling under blankets in my cottage room at New Creation
settlement, reading philosophy books borrowed from Ravi.
One
morning I woke up with a great idea. I went out to the bike -
which was parked under an overhang out of the rain - and unbolted
the box from the frame. I carried the box and an umbrella around
the settlement, asking if anyone knew a good locksmith. No one
knew of one anywhere in Auroville, but several people said there
was one in the open market in Pondicherry, a few kilometers
south.
I
went by taxi from New Creation into Pondicherry, and just to
confirm, I asked the driver, "Locksmith? Pondi?" After
repeating these words several times with different emphasis -
communication in India often feels like opening a combination
lock with only some of the numbers - the driver replied,
"Pondilocksmith?"
"Yes
yes!" I answered.
"Main
market you will find." That settled it. We drove in silence
and parked near the market. The driver escorted me barefoot in
the drizzle through winding alleys past small stalls selling
fruit, flower garlands, pots & pans, raw meat, cosmetics,
neat conical piles of colorful ground spices -everything you
could possible want - for who would be so foolish as to want what
is not available in the main market?
I
kept my eye out for a sign saying "Locksmith" - which I
assumed would be hanging above one of the larger stalls, given
the number of people who knew of the establishment. When the
driver stopped and stood before a wet, bedraggled beggar sitting
in the mud beneath a leaky three-foot square of thatch, I assumed
he was pausing to offer a few paisa and accumulate a little
merit. He just kept standing there however. I looked at him, and
he nodded his head towards the beggar. Does he want me to give a
few paisa? I looked down at the beggar - and did a doubletake as
I realized that the filthy debris surrounding him was actually a
set of rusty, mud-covered tools - and locks of every description:
padlocks, bicycle locks, door locks - all as wet and rusty as the
tools. The can I thought was his begging bowl was filled with
rusty keys, not coins, and a tiny rivulet of water was falling
from the thatch directly into the can, and out through a hole in
the side.
The
locksmith's hands were a blur, hammering on a bicycle lock,
flipping it this way and that - then oiling, screwing, testing -
and abruptly handing it to a man standing over him, who quickly
handed him a coin and slippedback into the crowd with his lock,
good as new. I realized that several of the people I thought were
just milling around were actually queued up for service, locks in
hand; some were quite wet and had apparently been standing there
awhile.
My
driver leaned over and mumbled something in the locksmith's ear.
The locksmith looked at me with cool, rheumy eyes, water dripping
off his short-cropped gray-black hair onto his dark sunken
cheeks. I knew he didn't speak any English, so I just handed him
my bike box, which he set on the ground in front of him with the
lock pointed up. He stared at it carefully, like he had never
seen one before. "Swell," I thought, and glanced at the
crowd - the queue I had just bypassed completely. Everyone was
staring at the locksmith like he was a chess master about to
begin a game.
The
locksmith leaned over his can of keys - redirecting the rivulet
of water down his naked neck - and began rooting through it. I
briefly considered trying to convey to him that this box was an
expensive motorcycle accessory, and that there was no chance that
any of his rusty old keys would fit, but I decided it was less
trouble to just let him fail. With a hint of a smile, he pulled
out a key, but sure enough it didn't fit at all. He immediately
began hammering on the key - both sides in order to flatten it. I
noticed that what I had thought was a muddy rock in front of him
was actually an anvil. He tried the key again and this time it
went in a little, but the whole approach was so half-assed that
again I felt the urge to interrupt, to take my box and leave
right then, lest he damage the lock. Before I could, however, the
locksmith pulled out a chisel and began hammering a straight
groove the length of one side of the key. It took just a few
seconds, and this time to my great surprise when he tried the key
it went all the way into the lock smoothly, though it refused to
turn. He removed the key again and leaned close to the lock,
staring deeply into the keyhole for several seconds with one eye.
He looked up suddenly and barked a
command in Tamil at a boy standing quite close. The boy jumped
back and I realized he'd been blocking the man's light. The
locksmith peered into the keyhole again for several seconds, then
took the key and placed it in a rusty vise off to his right -
which I hadn't even noticed before. He ran his left thumb along
the edge of the key until he came to some invisible point, where
he then made a notch with a wet, rusty file. He slid his thumb to
another point and made a second notch. Then he pulled the key
from the vise, slipped it into the lock, turned it and opened my
box.
The locksmith looked at me coolly, with
no hint of smugness - though he must have sensed my earlier
doubts. I was in shock. I kept shaking my head, saying, "I
don't believe it." What I had witnessed was such high-level
mastery of a craft that it seemed like a miracle - all the more
so for having occurred in the mud right in front of me. I'd seen
things before that I couldn't explain - the way Crazy George
heated that boulder with only his hands for instance - but this
was more impressive. The locksmith had cultivated his enormous
talent not to impress people, but to help them - and this
impressed me most of all.
As I stared into his eyes, I heard myself
saying "thank-you" over and over. My gratitude wasn't
about the box or the rain gear - both of which I could have
replaced without even feeling it financially - but for a gift
much more subtle and profound. Staring at the man I first thought
a beggar, sitting half-naked in the mud, I now saw a light
burning in his eyes - and smiled as I realized what he was - an
arahat of locks, polishing his soul by perfecting his craft, and
performing karma yoga - the yoga of service to others. As I
gushed my gratitude, a slight smile appeared on his face. It was
not pride - this man was beyond the need for praise - but
pleasure that he had solved my problem.
The driver leaned over and said,
"Now you pay him 10 rupees." I wanted to pay much more,
but had to be careful not to insult him - as if this were just a
job to him! - so I set a 10-rupee note and a 2-rupee coin on his
anvil, took my box and backed away from him - considered the
respectful way to withdraw from the presence of a master. The
locksmith scooped the money into a hidden fold of his dhoti,
nodded once in my direction, then turned immediately to the next
customer in line, who handed him a fat, black padlock.
As I worked my way back through the
narrow, winding aisles of the market, clutching my box to my
chest, I had only to glance at the key in the lock, glistening
with raindrops, to remember that anything is possible with
practice and faith.