Take any path, and follow it till every path becomes your own, till all things are yours, all living belovèd till all paths take you along the path which is yourself. ~Caitriona Reed
From: 'Book of Hours' Rainer Maria Rilke And yet, though we strain against the deadening grip of daily necessity, I sense there is this mystery: All life is being lived. Who is living it then? Is it the things themselves, or something waiting inside them, like an unplayed melody in a flute? Is it the winds blowing over the waters? Is it the branches that signal to each other? Is it flowers interweaving their fragrances or streets, as they wind through time. (trans: Anita Barrows and Joanna Macy)
Four Quartets: Burnt Norton T.S. Eliot Time past and time future Allow but a little consciousness. To be conscious is not to be in time But only in time can the moment in the rose-garden, The moment in the arbour where the rain beat, The moment in the draughty church at smokefall Be remembered; involved with past and future. Only through time time is conquered.
To penetrate into the essence of all being and significance, and to release the fragrance of that inner attainment for the guidance and benefit of others, by expressing in the world of forms - truth, love, purity and beauty - this is the sole game that has any intrinsic and absolute worth. All other incidents and attainments can, in themselves, have no lasting importance. ~Meher Baba
The sky is filled with stars and the sun... The sky is filled with stars and the sun, this earth with life vibrant. Amongst it all I too have received a home, and out of this wonder my song is born. In the rhythm of ebb and tide of eternal time, the world floats. Its pull enters my blood stream, that through my nerve flows. Out of this wonder my song is born. I have walked on grass, passed through the woods. My mind is infused with surprise, that the smell of flowers bring. Spread around me are such wonderful gifts. I have lent my ears, opened my eyes. On the bosom of this earth poured forth my life, looking for the unknown in all that I know. Out of this wonder my song is born. ~Rabindranath Tagore
Enlightenment is seeing that the world you've created inside your head doesn't really exist, except as a fabrication in your mind. ~ Jim Dreaver
THE MUSES' SON. Goethe [Goethe quotes the beginning of this song in his Autobiography, as expressing the manner in which his poetical effusions used to pour out from him.] THROUGH field and wood to stray, And pipe my tuneful lay,-- 'Tis thus my days are pass'd; And all keep tune with me, And move in harmony, And so on, to the last. To wait I scarce have power The garden's earliest flower, The tree's first bloom in Spring; They hail my joyous strain,-- When Winter comes again, Of that sweet dream I sing. My song sounds far and near, O'er ice it echoes clear, Then Winter blossoms bright; And when his blossoms fly, Fresh raptures meet mine eye, Upon the well-till'd height. When 'neath the linden tree, Young folks I chance to see, I set them moving soon; His nose the dull lad curls, The formal maiden whirls, Obedient to my tune. Wings to the feet ye lend, O'er hill and vale ye send The lover far from home; When shall I, on your breast,. Ye kindly muses, rest, And cease at length to roam?
A Ritual to Read to Each Other ~William Stafford If you don't know the kind of person I am and I don't know the kind of person you are a patter that others made may prevail in the world and following the wrong god home we may miss our star. For there is many a small betrayal in the mind, a shrug that lets the fragile sequence break sending with shouts the horrible errors of childhood storming out to play through the broken dyke. And as elephants parade holding each elephant's tail, but if one wanders the circus won't find the park, I call it cruel and maybe the root of all cruelty to know what occurs but not recognize the fact. And so I appeal to a voice, to something shadowy, a remote important region in all who talk: though we could fool each other, we should consider -- lest the parade of our mutual life get lost in the dark. For it is important that awake people be awake, or a breaking line may discourage them back to sleep; the signals we give -- yes or no, or maybe -- should be clear: the darkness around us is deep.
*Mont Brevent* O dweller in the valley, lift thine eyes To where, above the drift of cloud, the stone Endures in silence, and to God alone Upturns its furrowed visage, and is wise. There yet is being, far from all that dies, And beauty where no mortal maketh moan, Where larger planets swim the liquid zone, And wider spaces stretch to calmer skies. Only a little way above the plain Is snow eternal. Round the mountain's knees Hovers the fury of the wind and rain. Look up, and teach thy noble heart to cease From endless labour. There is perfect peace Only a little way above thy pain. ~George Santayana
LOVE'S MYSTERY by Gerard de Nerval You, free thinker, imagine only man Thinks in this world where life bursts from all things? The powers within prescribe your freedom's wings, But you leave the universe outside your plans. Respect the mind that stirs in every creature: Love's mystery is known by metals too; Every flower opens its soul to Nature; "Everything's sentient!" and works on you. Beware! from the blind wall one watches you: Even matter has a logos all its own . . . Do not put it to some impious use. Often in humble life a god works, hidden; And like a new-born eye veiled by its lids, Pure spirit grows beneath the surface of stones.
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