How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.
― W. H. Auden

Mindful

 Every day
I see or hear
something
that more or less
kills me
with delight,
that leaves me
like a needle
in the haystack
of light.
It was what I was born for -
to look, to listen,
to lose myself
inside this soft world -
to instruct myself
over and over
in joy,
and acclamation.
Nor am I talking
about the exceptional,
the fearful, the dreadful,
the very extravagant -
but of the ordinary,
the common, the very drab,
the daily presentations.
Oh, good scholar,
I say to myself,
how can you help
but grow wise
with such teachings
as these -
the untrimmable light
of the world,
the ocean's shine,
the prayers that are made
out of grass?

Mary Oliver

A Blessing

 Just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota,

Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass.
And the eyes of those two Indian ponies
Darken with kindness.
They have come gladly out of the willows
To welcome my friend and me.
We step over the barbed wire into the pasture
Where they have been grazing all day, alone.
They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness
That we have come.
They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other.
There is no loneliness like theirs.
At home once more,
They begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness.
I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms,
For she has walked over to me
And nuzzled my left hand.
She is black and white,
Her mane falls wild on her forehead,
And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear
That is delicate as the skin over a girl's wrist.
Suddenly I realize
That if I stepped out of my body I would break
Into blossom.

by James Wright 

But it’s so old,
this grand, often told story —
that we are dust and return to dust —
We are an instance of star in story
of rocks, glaciers, carbon-based creatures, stars.
We become the metaphor
and in this metaphor
we are all old
souls, stuff of ancient stars
singing our story
and whatever it says
about our mixture of spirit and dust.
We are the metaphor for the story
old souls swirling in the wind tunnel of time,
spirit and star and dust.
― Judith Roche

For A New Beginning

In out-of-the-way places of the heart, Where your thoughts never think to wander, This beginning has been quietly forming, Waiting until you were ready to emerge. For a long time it has watched your desire, Feeling the emptiness growing inside you, Noticing how you willed yourself on, Still unable to leave what you had outgrown. It watched you play with the seduction of safety And the gray promises that sameness whispered, Heard the waves of turmoil rise and relent, Wondered would you always live like this. Then the delight, when your courage kindled, And out you stepped onto new ground, Your eyes young again with energy and dream, A path of plenitude opening before you. Though your destination is not yet clear You can trust the promise of this opening; Unfurl yourself into the grace of beginning That is at one with your life’s desire. Awaken your spirit to adventure; Hold nothing back, learn to find ease in risk; Soon you will be home in a new rhythm, For your soul senses the world that awaits you.   ~ John O'Donohue

A River Runs Through Us

The sun shines not on us but in us. The rivers flow not past, but through us. Thrilling, tingling, vibrating every fiber and cell of the substance of our bodies, making them glide and sing. The trees wave and the flowers bloom in our bodies as well as our souls, and every bird song, wind song, and tremendous storm song of the rocks in the heart of the mountains is our song, our very own, and sings our love.
― John Muir

Having Come This Far

I've been through what my through was to be

I did what I could and couldn't

I was never sure how I would get there

 

I nourished an ardor for thresholds

for stepping stones and for ladders

I discovered detour and ditch

I swam in the high tides of greed

I built sandcastles to house my dreams

I survived the sunburns of love

No longer do I hunt for targets

I've climbed all the summits I need to

and I've eaten my share of lotus

Now I give praise and thanks

for what could not be avoided

and for every foolhardy choice

I cherish my wounds and their cures

and the sweet enervations of bliss

My book is an open life

I wave goodbye to the absolutes

and send my regards to infinity

I'd rather be blithe than correct

Until something transcendent turns up

I splash in my poetry puddle

and try to keep God amused.

 

~ James Broughton ~

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.”

Falling Leaves and Early Snow

By Kenneth Rexroth

In the years to come they will say,

“They fell like the leaves

In the autumn of nineteen thirty-nine.”

November has come to the forest,

To the meadows where we picked the cyclamen.

The year fades with the white frost

On the brown sedge in the hazy meadows,

Where the deer tracks were black in the morning.

Ice forms in the shadows;

Disheveled maples hang over the water;

Deep gold sunlight glistens on the shrunken stream.

Somnolent trout move through pillars of brown and gold.

The yellow maple leaves eddy above them,

The glittering leaves of the cottonwood,

The olive, velvety alder leaves,

The scarlet dogwood leaves,

Most poignant of all.

 

In the afternoon thin blades of cloud

Move over the mountains;

The storm clouds follow them;

Fine rain falls without wind.

The forest is filled with wet resonant silence.

When the rain pauses the clouds

Cling to the cliffs and the waterfalls.

In the evening the wind changes;

Snow falls in the sunset.

We stand in the snowy twilight

And watch the moon rise in a breach of cloud.

Between the black pines lie narrow bands of moonlight,

Glimmering with floating snow.

An owl cries in the sifting darkness.

The moon has a sheen like a glacier.

Kenneth Rexroth, "Falling Leaves and Early Snow" from The Collected Shorter Poems. Copyright © 1940 by Kenneth Rexroth.