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#4110 - Monday, December 20, 2010 - Editor: Gloria Lee
The Nonduality Highlights - http://groups.yahoo.com/group/NDhighlights
This issue is dedicated to the memory of my dear friend, Cathy Priore.
b. 10/13/1955 - d. 12/11/2010
Her passing is felt as a tremendous loss by all who knew her.
Grace is not something to be acquired from others. If it is external, it is useless. All that is necessary is to know its existence in you.
- Ramana Maharshi
If you seek the grace of God with your whole heart, then you may be assured that the grace of God is also seeking you.
- Ramana Maharshi
This sense of affection, this love, this
quality cannot be cultivated, cannot be practised, cannot be
brought about; but it must happen as naturally as breathing, as
fully with great joy and delight as the sunset.
- J. Krishnamurti
by Kia Pierce on Facebook
When we speak of a calm state of mind or peace of mind, we
shouldn't confuse that with an insensitive state of apathy.
Having a calm or peaceful state of mind doesn't mean being spaced
out or completely empty. Peace of mind or a calm state of mind is
rooted in affection and compassion and is sensitive and
responsive to others.
- Dalai Lama
You come and go. The doors swing closed
ever more gently, almost without a shudder.
Of all those who move through the quiet houses,
you are the quietest.
We become so accustomed to you,
we no longer look up
when your shadow falls over the book we are reading
and makes it glow. For all things
sing you: at times
we just hear them more clearly.
Often when I imagine you
your wholeness cascades into many shapes.
You run like a herd of luminous deer
and I am dark, I am forest.
You are a wheel at which I stand,
whose dark spokes sometimes catch me up,
revolve me nearer to the center.
Then all the work I put my hand to
widens from turn to turn.
_ Rainer Maria Rilke, Love Poems to God, The Book of Monastic Life
posted by Peter Shefler to Facebook, photo by Peter Shefler
White Owl Flies Into and Out of the Field
Coming down out of the
freezing sky
with its depths of light,
like an angel, or a Buddha with wings,
it was beautiful, and accurate,
striking the snow and whatever was there
with a force that left the imprint
of the tips of its wings — five feet apart —
and the grabbing thrust of its feet,
and the indentation of what had been running
through the white valleys of the snow —
and then it rose, gracefully,
and flew back to the frozen marshes
to lurk there, like a little lighthouse,
in the blue shadows —
so I thought:
maybe death isn't darkness, after all,
but so much light wrapping itself around us—
as soft as feathers —
that we are instantly weary of looking, and looking,
and shut our eyes, not without amazement,
and let ourselves be carried,
as through the translucence of mica,
to the river that is without the least dapple or shadow,
that is nothing but light — scalding, aortal light —
in which we are washed and washed
out of our bones.
- Mary Oliver (House of Light)
Web version: www.panhala.net/Archive/White_Owl_Flies.html