Tag: Meditation

Sunday quote: where to place our attention

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Amazon Black Friday

The art of being wise is the art of knowing what to overlook.

William James

…..onto how reality is

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sun through clouds

Clouds draw water from the ocean to fall as rain on the earth
And there is neither increase nor decrease;
Just so, reality remains unaltered like the pure sky.

Saraha, 8th century Buddhist teacher

Projecting our commentary and our moods….

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commentator

We are each living in our own soap opera. We do not see things as they really are. We see only our own interpretations. This is because our minds are always so busy. When we try to look into the mind itself, we cannot see anything below our surface consciousness. But when the mind calms down it becomes clear. This mental clarity enables us to see things as they really are, instead of projecting our cometary onto everything.

Ani Tenzin Palmo, Reflections on a Mountain Lake

…Such as the story of being separate

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Women Standing in Circle

Human beings are a part of a whole, called by us “the Universe”, a part limited in time and space. We experiences ourselves, our thoughts and feelings as something separated from the rest — a kind of optical delusion of  consciousness. This delusion is a kind of prison for us, restricting us to our personal desires and to affection for a few persons nearest to us. Our task must be to free ourselves from this prison by widening our circle of compassion to embrace all living creatures and the whole of nature in its beauty. Nobody is able to achieve this completely, but the striving for such achievement is in itself a part of the liberation and a foundation for inner security.

Albert Einstein.

Letting go of stories that shake us

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meditation work

Be strong then, and enter into your own body; there you have a solid place for your feet.

Throw away all thoughts of imaginary things, and stand firm in that which you are

Kabir

Patience means letting things develop in their own time

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leaves autumn

The gusts of wind have blown any remaining  leaves off  the trees. They lie in large piles on the ground, bright yellow and orange. The end of another cycle.

The leaves have almost completely covered
the backyard, and there are leaves to fall.
The wind whistles through its thin teeth
and no one seems to mind. For weeks we
have watched from windows, seen colors
changing, but not talked about it. One night,
when we went to gather another load
of wood, we heard the dead leaves crunch
beneath our feet. Now a light snow has begun
to touch the trees and the woodpile, first
fingerprinting them, then blurring, blending
everything in. Someday, I may get around
to saying what I’ve been thinking for months.

William Virgil Davis , Leaves,