And the days are not full enough
And the nights are not full enough
And life slips by like a field mouse
Not shaking the grass.
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#3900 - Friday, May 21, 2010 - Editor: Gloria Lee
Nonduality Highlights
"Any consciousness whatsoever
that is past, future, or present;
internal or external;
blatant or subtle;
common or sublime;
far or near --
every consciousness
is to be seen
as it actually is
with right discernment as:
'This is not mine.
This is not my self. This is
not what I am."
~Anatta-lakkhana Sutta
Buddha
Thanks to Bob O'Hearn
"We must be willing to get rid of the life we've planned, so as to have the life that is waiting for us.
he old skin has to be shed before the new one can come."
—Joseph Campbell
Ascetics wander shrine to shrine,
looking for what can only come
from visiting the soul.
Study the mystery you embody.
When you look up from that,
the dub grass looks fresher
a little ways off, and even more
green farther on. Stay here.
- Lalla
14th Century North Indian mystic
posted to Along The Way
And the days are not full enough
And the nights are not full enough
And life slips by like a field mouse
Not shaking the grass.
Ezra Pound
http://www.ferryfee.com/bluesky/Shores/And_the_days.htm
The tide rises, the tide falls,
The twilight darkens, the curlew calls;
Along the sea-sands damp and brown
The traveler hastens toward the town,
And the tide rises, the tide falls.
Darkness settles on roofs and walls,
But the sea, the sea in darkness calls;
The little waves, with their soft, white hands
Efface the footprints in the sands,
And the tide rises, the tide falls.
The morning breaks; the steeds in their stalls
Stamp and neigh, as the hostler calls;
The day returns, but nevermore
Returns the traveler to the shore.
And the tide rises, the tide falls.
- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
http://www.ferryfee.com/bluesky/Shores/The_tide_rises.htm
From Blossoms
From blossoms comes
this brown paper bag of peaches
we bought
from the joy
at the bend
in the road where we turned toward
signs painted
Peaches.
From laden
boughs, from hands,
from sweet
fellowship in the bins,
comes nectar
at the roadside, succulent
peaches we
devour, dusty skin and all,
comes the
familiar dust of summer, dust we eat.
O, to take
what we love inside,
to carry
within us an orchard, to eat
not only the
skin, but the shade,
not only the
sugar, but the days, to hold
the fruit in
our hands, adore it, then bite into
the round
jubilance of peach.
There are
days we live
as if death
were nowhere
in the
background; from joy
to joy to
joy, from wing to wing,
from blossom
to blossom
to impossible blossom,
to sweet impossible blossom.
http://www.ferryfee.com/bluesky/Shores/From_blossoms.htm
Photos by Alan Larus