A Christmas blessing -
low, slanting, winter sunlight
moves across the room. 

First day of winter,
a mid- afternoon's amble
in the bright sunshine.

At the center of your being you have the answer; you know who you are and you know what you want.

~ Lao Tzu

Shoveling Snow with Buddha

In the usual iconography of the temple or the local Wok 
you would never see him doing such a thing, 
tossing the dry snow over a mountain 
of his bare, round shoulder, 
his hair tied in a knot, 
a model of concentration. 

Sitting is more his speed, if that is the word 
for what he does, or does not do. 

Even the season is wrong for him. 
In all his manifestations, is it not warm or slightly humid? 
Is this not implied by his serene expression, 
that smile so wide it wraps itself around the waist of the universe? 

But here we are, working our way down the driveway, 
one shovelful at a time. 
We toss the light powder into the clear air. 
We feel the cold mist on our faces. 
And with every heave we disappear 
and become lost to each other 
in these sudden clouds of our own making, 
these fountain-bursts of snow. 

This is so much better than a sermon in church, 
I say out loud, but Buddha keeps on shoveling. 
This is the true religion, the religion of snow, 
and sunlight and winter geese barking in the sky, 
I say, but he is too busy to hear me. 

He has thrown himself into shoveling snow 
as if it were the purpose of existence, 
as if the sign of a perfect life were a clear driveway 
you could back the car down easily 
and drive off into the vanities of the world 
with a broken heater fan and a song on the radio. 

All morning long we work side by side, 
me with my commentary 
and he inside his generous pocket of silence, 
until the hour is nearly noon 
and the snow is piled high all around us; 
then, I hear him speak. 

After this, he asks, 
can we go inside and play cards? 

Certainly, I reply, and I will heat some milk 
and bring cups of hot chocolate to the table 
while you shuffle the deck. 
and our boots stand dripping by the door. 

Aaah, says the Buddha, lifting his eyes 
and leaning for a moment on his shovel 
before he drives the thin blade again 
deep into the glittering white snow.

by Billy Collins

We stand together at a gateway

of collective initiation, and to cross its

threshold the directions are simple:

empty, empty, empty.

Empty out your mind of all its wandering

thoughts and concerns and become a vessel

of the divine.

Become able to listen and heed the deeper wisdom that lies within you, access that still

quiet center, where you are able to envision

beyond the current small story of your life and

enter instead into the bigger story of your own

life, of the life of our collective humanity, and of

this moment in our shared story.

                                                    – Elayne Kalila Doughty

All things already have their endings within them. If we become attuned to this, then we can appreciate the moment. We can appreciate the extraordinary fact of our unique and precious lives.

—Thanissara, “The Grit That Becomes a Pearl”

Mary Oliver: Messenger

My work is loving the world.
Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird—
   equal seekers of sweetness.
Here the quickening yeast; there the blue plums.
Here the clam deep in the speckled sand.

Are my boots old? Is my coat torn?
Am I no longer young, and still not half-perfect? Let me
    keep my mind on what matters,
which is my work,

which is mostly standing still and learning to be
    astonished.
The phoebe, the delphinium.
The sheep in the pasture, and the pasture.
Which is mostly rejoicing, since all the ingredients are here,

which is gratitude, to be given a mind and a heart
    and these body-clothes,
a mouth with which to give shouts of joy
to the moth and the wren, to the sleepy dug-up clam,
telling them all, over and over, how it is
    that we live forever.

 

— Mary Oliver

 

For this is who and what we are: constellations of matter, vulnerable, impermanent, and—for moments? for lifetimes?—illumined by the miracle of awareness. Whether fleeting or eternal, it’s a miracle that we must never take for granted.

—Noelle Oxenhandler, “Awake and Demented”

Practice isn’t about being intense; it’s about coming back to ease—letting the mind and body settle into an experience that holds the seeds of expansiveness.

—Justin von Bujdoss, “Tilopa’s Six Nails”

A DeafBlind Poet By John Lee Clark

A Deaf Blind poet doesn’t like to read sitting up. A Deaf Blind poet likes to read Braille magazines on the john. A Deaf Blind poet is in the habit of composing nineteenth-century letters and pressing Alt+S. A Deaf Blind poet is a terrible student. A Deaf Blind poet does a lot of groundbreaking research. A Deaf Blind poet is always in demand. A Deaf Blind poet has yet to be gainfully employed. A Deaf Blind poet shares all his trade secrets with his children. A Deaf Blind poet will not stop if police order him to. A Deaf Blind poet used to like dogs but now prefers cats. A Deaf Blind poet listens to his wife. A Deaf Blind poet knits soft things for his dear friends. A Deaf Blind poet doesn’t believe in “contributing to society.”