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Archive for the ‘not knowing’ Category

Prayer is about becoming receptive
It’s about learning the art of relaxation
rather than learning the strategies of how to conquer our reality.
Truth is not going to be a conquest, it is going to be total surrender.
Its about becoming a host, it’s about opening up.
It’s about being receptive so that the wind can come in,
the rain can come in, and the sun can come in.
And just hidden behind the wind, the rain and the sun comes the Guest.
And the guest does not come from the outside, it arises within you.
God is the guest, you are the host.
You become a welcome,
You become a prayer,
You become an invitation,
And the host is waiting, always waiting
You are waiting, with tears in your eyes, and with tremendous trust in your heart.
Osho

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I sat there and forgot and forgot
until what remained was the river that went by and I who watched. . .
Eventually the watcher joined the river
and then there was only one of us.
I believe it was the river.”

Norman Maclean

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I am Here to embrace all of It,
with empty hands and holy trembles.

The one flesh Buddha/Christ/Mother/Tao
has been wounded and torn,
caressed and loved throughout eons,
still it remains unnamed and untouched, without blemish.
As do you and i dear friends.

Here — Now — we are holding hands,
as we pass through incalculable birthings and deathings
to an awareness that nothing ever happened.

It has been said that ‘the line between
the profound and the profane is as thin as fishing line’,
But how can we know?
For the One that carries us swallowed the line,
as we bit the hook that dangles us
between and beyond time and space–
with its knowings that crumble to unknowing…

It is Here the head does bow,
as the heart gives thanks to Grace and her wild ways.
United in freedom and inexpressible Love,
every song a prayer to know Itself as This.

I am Here to embrace all of It…..

 

 

with love and honor

sparrow

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Non-Duality
The bell tolls at four in the morning.
I stand by the window,
barefoot on the cool floor.
.
The garden is still dark.
I wait for the mountains and rivers to reclaim their shapes.
There is no light in the deepest hours of the night.
.
Yet, I know you are there
in the depth of the night,
the immeasurable world of the mind.
You, the known, have been there
ever since the knower has been.
The dawn will come soon,
and you will see
that you and the rosy horizon
are within my two eyes.It is for me that the horizon is rosy
and the sky blue.
.
Looking at your image in the clear stream,
you answer the question by your very presence.
Life is humming the song of the non-dual marvel.
.
I suddenly find myself smiling
in the presence of this immaculate night.
.
I know because I am here that you are there,
and your being has returned to show itself
in the wonder of tonight’s smile.
.
In the quiet stream,I swim gently.
The murmur of the water lulls my heart.
.
A wave serves as a pillow
I look up and see
a white cloud against the blue sky,
the sound of Autumn leaves,
the fragrance of hay-
each one a sign of eternity.
.
A bright star helps me find my way back to myself.
I know because you are there that I am here.
.
The stretching arm of cognition
in a lightning flash,
joining together a million eons of distance,
joining together birth and death,
joining together the known and the knower.
.
In the depth of the night,
as in the immeasurable realm of consciousness,
the garden of life and I
remain each other’s objects.
.
The flower of being is singing the song of emptiness.
.
The night is still immaculate,
but sounds and images from you
have returned and fill the pure night.
.
I feel their presence.
By the window, with my bare feet on the cool floor,
I know I am here
for you to be.
.
“Call Me By My True Names” 

The Collected Poems of Thich Nhat Hanh.

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There is a whisper, but it’s louder than the wind.
It calls to us, “Come Home. The story is over, the pages are worn thin. Come
home.” It’s like a chant,
a sacred OM underlying all else. It requires no doing anything, or going
anywhere or becoming anything.
If only we see that we are this whispering sound,
all else will dissolve into peace.

~Rafael Stoneman

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Now I become myself. It’s taken
Time, many years and places,
I have been dissolved and shaken,
Worn other people’s faces,
Run madly, as if Time were there,
Terribly old, crying a warning,
“hurry, you will be dead before —–”
(What? Before you reach the morning?
or the end of the poem, is clear?
Or love safe in the walled city?)
Now to stand still, to be here,
Feel my own weight and density!…..
Now there is time and Time is young.
O, in this single hour I live
All of myself and do not move
I, the pursued, who madly ran,
Stand still, stand still, and stop the Sun!

May Sarton

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Everything I steal, I give away.
Once, in pines almost as tall as these,
same crescent moon sliding gently by,
I sat curled on my knees, smoking with a friend,
sipping tea, swapping Coyote tales and lies.

He said something to me
about words, that each is a name,
and that every name is God’s. I who have
no god sat in the vast emptiness silent
as I could be. A way that can be named

is not the way. Each word reflects
the Spirit which can’t be named. Each word
a gift, its value in exact proportion
to the spirit in which it is given.
Thus spoken, these words I give

by way of Lao Tzu’s old Chinese, stolen
by a humble thief twenty-five centuries later.
The Word is only evidence of the real:
in the Hopi tongue, there is no whale;
and, in American English, no Fourth World.

Sam Hamill

 

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