The primary cause of disorder in ourselves
is the seeking of reality promised by another
Krishnamurti, Freedom from the Known
Tag: Life
What we learn from the leaves
A person fundamentally does not dwell anywhere. The white clouds seem fascinated by the green mountain’s foundation. The bright moon loves being carried along with the flowing water. But the clouds part and the mountains appear, and the moon sets and the water is cool. Each bit of autumn contains vast interpenetration without bounds.
Hongzhi, 1091-1157, Chinese Chan (Zen) monk
photo: lite
Going with the flow
A similar message to yesterday’s, on holding things lightly…
Long ago, a monk asked the old master:
“When hundreds, thousands or myriads of objects come all at once, what should be done?”
The Master replied “Don’t try to control them”
Dogen, 1200 – 1253
Thinking we make the moves
Maybe something to remember when something bothers us today, and we take it very seriously….
What is the difference
Between your experience of life
And that of a saint?
The saint knows that the spiritual path
Is a sublime chess game with God
And that the Beloved has just made such a Fantastic Move
that the saint is now continually
Tripping over Joy
And bursting out in Laughter
And saying, “I Surrender!”
Whereas, my dear,
I’m afraid you still think
You have a thousand serious moves.
Hafiz, Tripping Over Joy
Sunday Quote: Slow down
All this hurrying soon will be over.
Only when we slow down do we touch the holy.
Rainer Maria Rilke, In Praise of Mortality.
photo of Glendasan river in Wicklow by Joe King
What is passing and what remains
In Sung China,
two monks friends for sixty years watch the geese pass.
Where are they going?
one tested the other, who couldn’t say.
That moment’s silence continues.
No one will study their friendship
in the koan-books of insight.
No one will remember their names.
I think of them sometimes, standing, perplexed by sadness,
goose-down sewn into their quilted autumn robes.
Almost swallowed by the vastness of the mountains,
but not yet.
As the barely audible
geese are not yet swallowed;
as even we, my love, will not entirely be lost.
Jane Hirshfield, Lives of the Heart
photo schyler at english wipipedia
