Tag Archives: spirit

Darkness, Light and First Day Thoughts

At meeting for worship this morning (Multnomah Meeting, Friends), I had some things I was pondering. As usual, I dd not want to speak and held my tongue, letting the need build up. Usually when I do speak it’s because the internal pressure of my “leading” (as Friends say) becomes too much to hold back; my heart shakes, then I speak. My inner voice was speaking about what I have learned from Light.

Today it happened that the first half hour was deep and silent. There were perhaps 60 or so people gathered in the meeting hall. Then there was a period in which several people spoke at a fairly regular but respectful series of intervals.  It began with one of the meeting’s elders who spoke about a trip to Nicaragua this summer to visit family and encounters she had both with Quakers there and being witness to some Really Fucked Up Shit (not her words). The upshot was that world has people who do good and people who do evil. The ministry that followed, other people who spoke, including the one very Christo-centric guy who tends to quote the bible, all seemed to be addressing my topic from different angles. Darkness and light somehow was the topic of the day. (And, like good Quakers, no-one was speaking in response to the others; it felt like light addressing light.)

I never spoke. Each moment I thought I might have to stand, someone else stood and said something that illuminated my own meditation in a way that changed it. Then Meeting ended, there were introductions, announcements and other business. I decided to try and capture something of what I didn’t say here. I already know that this is not going to work the way I intended but I’m doing it anyway.

I have been learning from light for a long time. As far back as I can remember, as a child, I listened to light. When I was initiated into meditation as a teenager I was taught a meditation using clear white light. When I was given a Sanskrit name as part of an additional lesson, I was called Surendra- another “light connection”. Since then I have always come back to light as a device for focus and an inner place of calm awareness. I am a student of light, I guess.

So, Everything I Ever Needed to Know I Learned from Light.

One of the first things I learned from light was something I’ll call “steadiness”. It could also be called “peace” or “equanimity”. I learned from light that there was a space inside of me that was steady. Like a tree with branches waving in the wind, I was also a trunk that remained still. Throughout various passages of my life, even when everything seemed to be chaos, even when I felt suicide was my only living option, part of me knew with absolute certainty that there was a space of stillness; clear, vast and without shadow; (even) inside of my (broken) heart.

Another lesson from light is what I’ll call “open”. Also could be called compassion or connection. I learned that the deepest space within me was connected to everything else and that every pain was my pain, every joy was my joy. I learned that I couldn’t just be “steady”- as the near enemy of equanimity is indifference; as part of the tapestry of this world I can’t deny the feeling, perception and sensation that comes with life. I can’t deny suffering- within me and without me.

Quakers refer to the “ocean of darkness” and “the ocean of light”. George Fox, in his journals, says that his awakening included both, but that the ocean of light was “over the ocean of darkness”. Also, because of his time and place, he called that ocean of light “Christ” and he found that it was everywhere and within all beings. It was for this reason that one of the first things Quakers did to upset the order of things was to refuse to participate in violence, war or anything that debased orinjured anyone, because “all were filled with Christ”, filled with light.

Thinking about these things I also thought about CS Lewis and how in his theological books he called this world “the shadowlands”. His realization included the notion that the things we see with our eyes are just shadows of reality. Hmmm… Shadows- Where does a shadow come from? Shadows are the direct result of light.

Sometimes I see this world like it’s a movie screen- one with the projector behind it. It is a thin, sheer veil that barely separates us from an “ocean of light”. Sometimes I feel as though my very next step will take me through the screen and into the light. Sometimes this whole world looks transparent- that the crazy kaleidoscope of things, color, beings and activity is like a joke pasted over the not-very-well-hidden clear, white light.

Sometimes I know all these things and more. Always I know that when I try to speak it, I will fail.

As noted in the Tao Te Ching:

verse 1

the tao that can be told
is not the eternal tao
the name that can be named
is not the eternal name

the unnamable is the eternally real
naming is the origin
of all particular things

free from desire, you realize the mystery
caught in desire, you see only manifestations

yet mystery and manifestations
arise from the same source
this source is called darkness

darkness within darkness
the gateway to all understanding

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Filed under Chinese poetry, Mystic Poetry, Spirituality, Uncategorized

Kabir, as translated by Rabindranath Tagore

Kabir: 1398-1518


Notes from other sources-

Kabir ranks among the world’s greatest poets. In India, he is perhaps the most quoted author, with the exception of Tulsidas. Kabir has criticized perhaps all existing sects in India, still he is mentioned with respect by even orthodox authors. Vaishnav author Nabhadas in his Bhakta-Mal (1585) writes:

hindU turuk pramAn ramainI sabadI sAkhI
pachchhapat nahiN bachan sabahiN ke hit kI bhAkhI

[His “ramaini” “shabda” “sakhi” (sections of his “Bijak”) are accepted by Hindus and Turks alike. He spoke without discrimination for the good of all]

He lived perhaps during 1398-1448. He is thought to have lived longer than 100 years. He had enormous influence on Indian philosophy and on Hindi poetry.

His birth and death are surrounded by legends. He grew up in a Muslim weaver family, but some say he was really son of a Brahmin widow who was adopted by a childless couple. When he died, his Hindu and Muslim followers started fighting about the last rites. The legend is that when they lifted the cloth covering his body, they found flowers instead. The Muslim followers buried their half and the Hindu cremated thier half. In Maghar, his tomb and samadhi still stand side by side.

Here I quote some of his verses from his “Bijak”, from the section called “sakhi”. My translation follows the Gurumukh TIkA by Puran Sahib done perhas a century ago. He was associated with the Kabirpanthi center at Burhanpur. Kabir’s writings can be hard to translate, not only because the language is old, but Kabir’s expressions are different from what we are used to seeing.

The verses below use the term “hira” (diamond). It should be noted that during the time of Kabir, diamonds were very rare. At that time, diamonds were found only in India and nowhere else.

Bijak/Sakhi 168:

hIrA soi srAhiye
sahai ghanan kI choT

kapaT kurangI mAnavA
parakhat nikrA khot

Admire the diamond that can bear the hits of a hammer. Many deceptive preachers, when critically examined, turn out to be false.

[Here diamond is siddhanta (the basic principles or doctrine).An experienced diamond cutter can hit the diamond using a chisel so that the chips will break off as expected. A diamond because if its crystalline structure tends to break off at specific angles. Similarly the true doctrine would come out shining when it is critically examined].

Bijak/Sakhi 170:

hIrA tahaN na kholiye
jahaN kunjroN kI hAT
sahajai gaNthI bANdhike
lagiye apni bAT

Don’t open your diamonds in a vegetable market. Tie them in bundle and keep them in your heart, and go your own way.

[Don’t discuss gyan (knowledge) with those who can not understand it].

Bijak/Sakhi 171:

hIrA parA bajAr maiN
rahA chhAr lapaTAy
ketihe murakh pachi mUye
koi pArakhi liyA uThAy

A diamond was laying in the street covered with dirt. Many fools passed by.

Someone who knew diamonds picked it up.

[Those who understand gyan-siddhanta (true knowledge/principles), pause to acquire it].

 

Do not go to the garden of flowers!
O friend! go not there;
In your body is the garden of flowers.
Take your seat on the thousand petals of the
lotus, and there gaze on the infinite beauty.

koi prem ki peng jhulaao re

Hang up the swing of love today!
Hang the body and the mind between the
arms of the beloved, in the ecstasy of love’s joy:
Bring the tearful streams of the rainy clouds
to your eyes, and cover your heart with
the shadow of darkness:
Bring your face nearer to his ear, and speak
of the deepest longings of your heart.

Kabir says: `Listen to me brother! bring the
vision of the Beloved in your heart.’

The following poems include some repeats from different translators:

Looking at the grinding stones,
Kabir laments
In the duel of wheels,
nothing stays intact.

Where do you search me?
I am with you
Not in pilgrimage, nor in icons
Neither in solitudes
Not in temples, nor in mosques
Neither in Kaba nor in Kailash
I am with you o man

I am with you
Not in prayers, nor in meditation
Neither in fasting
Not in yogic exercises
Neither in renunciation

Neither in the vital force nor in the body
Not even in the ethereal space
Neither in the womb of Nature
Not in the breath of the breath

Seek earnestly and discover
In but a moment of search
Says Kabir, Listen with care
Where your faith is, I am there.

O servant, where dost thou seek Me?

Lo!I am beside thee.

I am neither in temple nor in mosque:

I am neither in Kaaba nor in Kailash:

Neither am I in rites and ceremonies,

nor in Yoga and renunciation.

If thou art a true seeker, thou shalt at once see Me:

thou shalt meet Me in a moment of time.

Kabir says, “O Sadhu! God is the breath of all breath.”

*

It is needless to ask of a saint the caste to which he belongs;

For the priest, the warrior.the tradesman,

and all the thirty-six castes, alike are seeking for God.

It is but folly to ask what the caste of a saint may be;

The barber has sought God, the washerwoman, and the carpenter–

Even Raidas was a seeker after God.

The Rishi Swapacha was a tanner by caste.

Hindus and Moslems alike have achieved that End,

where remains no mark of distinction.

O friend!hope for Him whilst you live, know whilst you live,

understand whilst you live: for in life deliverance abides.

If your bonds be not broken whilst living, what hope of

deliverance in death?

It is but an empty dream, that the soul shall have union with Him

because it has passed from the body:

If He is found now, He is found then,

If not, we do but go to dwell in the City of Death.

If you have union now, you shall have it hereafter.

Bathe in the truth, know the true Guru, have faith in the trueName!

Kabir says: “It is the Spirit of the quest which helps;

I am the slave of this Spirit of the quest.”

Do not go to the garden of flowers!

O Friend! go not there;

In your body is the garden of flowers.

Take your seat on the thousand petals of the lotus,

and there gaze on the Infinite Beauty.

Tell me, Brother, how can I renounce Maya?

When I gave up the tying of ribbons, still I tied my garment about me:

When I gave up tying my garment, still I covered my body in its folds.

So, when I give up passion, I see that anger remains;

And when I renounce anger, greed is with me still;

And when greed is vanquished, pride and vainglory remain;

When the mind is detached and casts Maya away,

still it clings to the letter.

Kabir says, “Listen to me, dear Sadhu! the true path  is rarely found.”

The moon shines in my body, but my blind eyes cannot see it:

The moon is within me, and so is the sun.

The unstruck drum of Eternity is sounded within me;

but my deaf ears cannot hear it.

So long as man clamors for the [?] and the [?],

his works are as naught:

When all love of the [?] is dead, then

the work of the Lord is done.

For work has no other aim than the getting of knowledge:

When that comes, then work is put away.

The flower blooms for the fruit: when the fruit comes,

the flower withers.

The musk is in the deer, but it seeks it not within itself:

it wanders in quest of grass.

When He Himself reveals Himself,

Brahma brings into manifestation

That which can never be seen.

As the seed is in the plant, as the shade is in the tree,

as the void is in the sky, as infinite forms are in the void–

So from beyond the Infinite, the Infinite comes;

and from theInfinite the finite extends.

The creature is in Brahma, and Brahma is in the creature:

they are ever distinct, yet ever united.

He Himself is the tree, the seed, and the germ.

He Himself is the flower, the fruit, and the shade.

He Himself is the sun, the light, and the lighted.

He Himself is Brahma, creature, and Maya.

He Himself is the manifold form, the infinite space;

He is the breath, the word, and the meaning.

He Himself is the limit and the limitless:

and beyond both the limited and the limitless is He,

the Pure Being.

He is the Immanent Mind in Brahma and in the creature.

The Supreme Soul is seen within the soul,

The Point is seen within the Supreme Soul,

And within the Point, the reflection is seen again.

Kabir is blest because he has this supreme vision!

Within this earthen vessel are bowers and groves, and within it is the Creator: Within this vessel are the seven oceans and the unnumbered stars. The touchstone and the jewel-appraiser are within; And within this vessel the Eternal soundeth, and the spring wells up. Kabir says: “Listen to me, my Friend! My beloved Lord is within.” O How may I ever express that secret word? O how can I say He is not like this, and He is like that? If I say that He is within me, the universe is ashamed: If I say that He is without me, it is falsehood. He makes the inner and the outer worlds to be indivisibly one; The conscious and the unconscious, both are His footstools. He is neither manifest nor hidden, He is neither revealed nor unrevealed: There are no words to tell that which He is. To Thee Thou hast drawn my love, O Fakir! I was sleeping in my own chamber, and Thou didst awaken me; striking me with Thy voice, O Fakir! I was drowning in the deeps of the ocean of this world, and Thou didst save me: upholding me with Thine arm, O Fakir!Only one word and no second– and Thou hast made me tear off all my bonds, O Fakir! Kabir says, “Thou hast united Thy heart to my heart, O Fakir!”

I played day and night with my comrades, and now I am greatly afraid.

So high is my Lord’s palace, my heart trembles to mount its stairs: yet I must not be shy, if I would enjoy His love.

My heart must cleave to my Lover; I must withdraw my veil, and meet Him with all my body:

Mine eyes must perform the ceremony of the lamps of love.

Kabir says: “Listen to me, friend: he understands who loves.

If you feel not love’s longing for your Beloved One, it is vain to adorn your body,

vain to put unguent on your eyelids.”

Tell me, O Swan, your ancient tale.From what land do you come, O Swan?

to what shore will you fly?

Where would you take your rest, O Swan, and what do you seek?

Even this morning, O Swan, awake, arise, follow me!

There is a land where no doubt nor sorrow have rule: where the terror of Death is no more.

There the woods of spring are a-bloom, and the fragrant scent “He is I” is borne on the wind:

There the bee of the heart is deeply immersed, and desires no other joy.

O Lord Increate, who will serve Thee?

Every votary offers his worship to the God of his own creation: each day he receives service–

None seek Him, the Perfect: Brahma, the Indivisible Lord.

They believe in ten Avatars; but no Avatar can be the Infinite Spirit, for he suffers the results of his deeds:

The Supreme One must be other than this.

The Yogi, the Sanyasi, the Ascetics, are disputing one with another:

Kabir says, “O brother! he who has seen that radiance of love, he is saved.”

The river and its waves are onesurf: where is the difference between the river and its waves?

When the wave rises, it is the water; and when it falls, it is the same water again.

Tell me, Sir, where is the distinction?

Because it has been named as wave, shall it no longer be considered as water?

Within the Supreme Brahma, the worlds are being told like beads:

Look upon that rosary with the eyes of wisdom.

Where Spring, the lord of the seasons, reigneth, there the Unstruck Music sounds of itself,

There the streams of light flow in all directions;

Few are the men who can cross to that shore!

There, where millions of Krishnas stand with hands folded,

Where millions of Vishnus bow their heads,Where millions of Brahmas are reading the Vedas,

Where millions of Shivas are lost in contemplation,

Where millions of Indras dwell in the sky,

Where the demi-gods and the munis are unnumbered,

Where millions of Saraswatis, Goddess of Music, play on the vina–

There is my Lord self-revealed: and the scent of sandal and flowers dwells in those deeps.

Between the poles of the conscious and the unconscious, there has the mind made a swing:

Thereon hang all beings and all worlds, and that swing never ceases its sway.

Millions of beings are there: the sun and the moon in their courses are there:

Millions of ages pass, and the swing goes on.

All swing! the sky and the earth and the air and the water; and the Lord Himself taking form:

And the sight of this has made Kabir a servant.

The light of the sun, the moon, and the stars shines bright:

The melody of love swells forth, and the rhythm of love’s detachment beats the time.

Day and night, the chorus of music fills the heavens;

and Kabir says”My Beloved One gleams like the lightning flash in the sky.”

Do you know how the moments perform their adoration?

Waving its row of lamps, the universe sings in worship day and night,

There are the hidden banner and the secret canopy:

There the sound of the unseen bells is heard.

Kabir says: “There adoration never ceases; there the Lord of the Universe sitteth on His throne.”

The whole world does its works and commits its errors: but few are the lovers who know the Beloved.

The devout seeker is he who mingles in his heart the double currents of love and detachment,

like the mingling of the streams of Ganges and Jumna;In his heart the sacred water flows day and night;

and thus the round of births and deaths is brought to an end.

*

Behold what wonderful rest is in the Supreme Spirit!

and he enjoys it, who makes himself meet for it.

Held by the cords of love,

the swing of the Ocean of Joy sways to and fro;

and a mighty sound breaks forth in song.

See what a lotus blooms there without water!

and Kabir says “My heart’s bee drinks its nectar.”

What a wonderful lotus it is,

that blooms at the heart of the spinning wheel of the universe!

Only a few pure souls know of its true delight.

Music is all around it, and there the heart partakes of the joy

of the Infinite Sea.

Kabir says: “Dive thou into that Ocean of sweetness:

thus let all errors of life and of death flee away.”

 

Behold how the thirst of the five senses is quenched there!

and the three forms of misery are no more!

Kabir says: “It is the sport of the Unattainable One:

look within, and behold how the moon-beams

of that Hidden One shine in you.”

There falls the rhythmic beat of life and death:

Rapture wells forth, and all space is radiant with light.

There the Unstruck Music is sounded;

it is the music of the love of the three worlds.

There millions of lamps of sun and of moon are burning;

There the drum beats, and the lover swings in play.

There love-songs resound, and light rains in showers;

and the worshipper is entranced in the taste of the heavenly nectar.

Look upon life and death;

there is no separation between them,

The right hand and the left hand are one and the same.

Kabir says: “There the wise man is speechless;

for this truth may never be found in Vadas or in books.”

I have had my Seat on the Self-poised One,

I have drunk of the Cup of the Ineffable,

I have found the Key of the Mystery,

I have reached the Root of Union.

Travelling by no track,

I have come to the Sorrowless Land:

very easily has the mercy of the great Lord come upon me.

They have sung of Him as infinite and unattainable:

but I in my meditations have seen Him without sight.

That is indeed the sorrowless land,

and none know the path that leads there:

Only he who is on that path has surely transcended all sorrow.

Wonderful is that land of rest, to which no merit can win;

It is the wise who has seen it,

it is the wise who has sung of it.

This is the Ultimate Word:

but can any express its marvellous savour?

He who has savoured it once,

he knows what joy it can give.

Kabir says: “Knowing it, the ignorant man becomes wise,

and the wise man becomes speechless and silent,

The worshipper is utterly inebriated,

His wisdom and his detachment are made perfect;

He drinks from the cup of the inbreathings

and the outbreathings of love.”

 

There the whole sky is filled with sound,

and there that music is made without fingers and without strings;

There the game of pleasure and pain does not cease.

Kabir says: “If you merge your life in the Ocean of Life,

you will find your life in the Supreme Land of Bliss.”

What a frenzy of ecstasy there is in every hour! and the

worshipper is pressing out and drinking the essence of the

hours: he lives in the life of Brahma.

I speak truth, for I have accepted truth in life;

I am now attached to truth, I have swept all tinsel away.

Kabir says: “Thus is the worshipper set free from fear;

thus have all errors of life and of death left him.” There the sky is filled with music: There it rains nectar: There the harp-strings jingle, and there the drums beat. What a secret splendour is there, in the mansion of the sky! There no mention is made of the rising and the setting of the sun; In the ocean of manifestation, which is the light of love, day and night are felt to be one. Joy for ever, no sorrow,–no struggle! There have I seen joy filled to the brim, perfection of joy; No place for error is there. Kabir says: “There have I witnessed the sport of One Bliss!” I have known in my body the sport of the universe: I have escaped from the error of this world.. The inward and the outward are become as one sky, the Infinite and the finite are united: I am drunken with the sight of this All! This Light of Thine fulfils the universe: the lamp of love that burns on the salver of knowledge. Kabir says: “There error cannot enter, and the conflict of life and death is felt no more.” —

[?]= unable to transliterate Sanskrit or Arabic characters

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Filed under Mystic Poetry, poetry

Poetry Monday: Lao Tzu, Rumi, Tagore

Lao Tzu-

Labels

Labels
words, verbs and lines
serve to define
that which can be named
yet infinity cannot be charted
eternity cannot be corraled

uncircumferenced presence
centered everywhere, within without
cannot be defined
with the scribing of a line

bare of name
source of creation
bearing names
mothers gives birth

in the beginning one
from one to two
one becomes another
thus a mother

feeling separate
reaching outward
for union found within
reaching inward

union remains
movements still

freed of desire, fulfilled in Unity
filled with desire manifesting reality
form is defined
thought needs mind
letting go of thought
we move beyond space and time

no piece, know peace
these two are the same
through unfoldment
in appearance different

the secret Mystery
divergent unity
gateway doorway reality

***

Rumi:

    This World Which Is Made of Our Love for Emptiness

    Praise to the emptiness that blanks out existence. Existence:
    This place made from our love for that emptiness!

    Yet somehow comes emptiness,
    this existence goes.

    Praise to that happening, over and over!
    For years I pulled my own existence out of emptiness.

    Then one swoop, one swing of the arm,
    that work is over.

    Free of who I was, free of presence, free of dangerous fear, hope,
    free of mountainous wanting.

    The here-and-now mountain is a tiny piece of a piece of straw
    blown off into emptiness.

    These words I’m saying so much begin to lose meaning:
    Existence, emptiness, mountain, straw:

    Words and what they try to say swept
    out the window, down the slant of the roof.

    Un-named poem:

I died from minerality and became vegetable;

And From vegetativeness I died and became animal.

I died from animality and became man.

Then why fear disappearance through death?

Next time I shall die

Bringing forth wings and feathers like angels;

After that, soaring higher than angels –

What you cannot imagine,

I shall be that.

Ode 2180

From these depths depart towards heaven;
may your soul be happy, journey joyfully.
You have escaped from the city full of fear and trembling;
happily become a resident of the Abode of Security4 The Abode of Security seems to be an allusion to heaven which is sometimes called “the abode of peace” (dar-al salam) by Rumi as against “the abode of pride” (dar-al gorur) i.e., the world..
If the body’s image has gone, await the image-maker; if the
body is utterly ruined, become all soul.
If your face has become saffron pale through death, become a
dweller among tulip beds and Judas trees.
If the doors of repose have been barred to you, come, depart
by way of the roof and the ladder.
If you are alone from Friends and companions, by the help of
God become a saheb-qeran5 Saheb qeran is a person who is born under a happy conjunction of the planets. [lord of happy circumstance].
If you have been secluded from water and bread, like bread
become the food of the souls, and so become!

***

Tagore

Flower

Pluck this little flower and take it, delay not! I fear lest it

droop and drop into the dust.

I may not find a place in thy garland, but honour it with a touch of

pain from thy hand and pluck it. I fear lest the day end before I am

aware, and the time of offering go by.

Though its colour be not deep and its smell be faint, use this flower

in thy service and pluck it while there is time.

Fool

O Fool, try to carry thyself upon thy own shoulders!

O beggar, to come beg at thy own door!

Leave all thy burdens on his hands who can bear all,

and never look behind in regret.

Thy desire at once puts out the light from the lamp it touches with its breath.

It is unholy—take not thy gifts through its unclean hands.

Accept only what is offered by sacred love.

Leave This

Leave this chanting and singing and telling of beads!

Whom dost thou worship in this lonely dark corner of a temple with doors all shut?

Open thine eyes and see thy God is not before thee!

He is there where the tiller is tilling the hard ground

and where the pathmaker is breaking stones.

He is with them in sun and in shower,

and his garment is covered with dust.

Put off thy holy mantle and even like him come down on the dusty soil!

Deliverance?

Where is this deliverance to be found?

Our master himself has joyfully taken upon him the bonds of creation;

he is bound with us all for ever.

Come out of thy meditations and leave aside thy flowers and incense!

What harm is there if thy clothes become tattered and stained?

Meet him and stand by him in toil and in sweat of thy brow.

Journey Home

The time that my journey takes is long and the way of it long.

I came out on the chariot of the first gleam of light, and pursued my

voyage through the wildernesses of worlds leaving my track on many a star and planet.

It is the most distant course that comes nearest to thyself,

and that training is the most intricate which leads to the utter simplicity of a tune.

The traveler has to knock at every alien door to come to his own,

and one has to wander through all the outer worlds to reach the innermost shrine at the end.

My eyes strayed far and wide before I shut them and said `Here art thou!’

The question and the cry `Oh, where?’ melt into tears of a thousand

streams and deluge the world with the flood of the assurance `I am!’

Song Unsung

The song that I came to sing remains unsung to this day.

I have spent my days in stringing and in unstringing my instrument.

The time has not come true, the words have not been rightly set;

only there is the agony of wishing in my heart.

The blossom has not opened; only the wind is sighing by.

I have not seen his face, nor have I listened to his voice;

only I have heard his gentle footsteps from the road before my house.

The livelong day has passed in spreading his seat on the floor;

but the lamp has not been lit and I cannot ask him into my house.

I live in the hope of meeting with him; but this meeting is not yet.

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    Serial dreams anyone?

    I’ve been looking for information about something I call “serial dreams (or nightmares)”. I usually experience this phenomenon in the form of a nightmare but the basic thing is this:
    You are having a dream . You wake up. You go back to sleep and the dream continues just as if it hadn’t been interrupted.
    Does anybody else experience these? I can’t find anything about it.
    Typically, for me, this comes in the shape of a nightmare. Usually it’s hard to wake from. When you finally manage to pull yourself out and wake up, the nightmare starts right back up as soon as you fall asleep. Eventually I (you?) give up and force myself to stay awake because I know I can’t get any peace. The series can have 3 to 7 or more iterations depending on when I give up.
    This morning I had a dream. It wasn’t scary- it was even kind of pleasant from the start. In the dream my wife Julie had given me a birthday present that was a train trip to the Canadial Rockies (from southeast Oregon- weird since we live in Portland, the northwest section of the state). I was traveling alone. At least at the beginning. (It was a great birthday ptresent, though I usually ask for either socks or 3-way sex with another woman.)


    By the way- the inside of the train was huge. It was more like a cruise ship than a train. From the outside it looked like a regular train.
    Another passenger I was talking to asked me about my kids. I told them that my oldest had just turned 23 (which happened yesterday). I woke up.
    “That’s interesting”, I thought. “Kind of pleasant.”
    I went back to sleep. I was back on the train. Same deal- big place. But now I wasn’t traveling alone. My traveling companion was my daughter Erin who died many years ago. She would be 28 now. I was really happy to see her. We talked and she mostly griped about the food. I went looking for the person who I had told that my oldest was 23 to correct myself. I woke up.


    I felt pretty happy. I was glad to see Erin, even though she was kind of a snot.
    I went back to sleep. I was on the train with Erin again. I was still really happy to see her. She was still grumpy. I had to get off the train to mail a letter home. I woke up.
    I couldn’t wait to fall back asleep. I was awake but I felt certain that I needed to hurry up and get back on the train.


    I fell asleep. I was thumbing a ride to meet the train at the next town. I got a ride, got back on the train. Hung out with Erin. Ate shrimp cocktail. It was great. Then I woke up.


    I don’t know how many times this happened but it finally got to be 5:15 am and I had to get to take my son Andrew to the airport (PDX) because he had an early flight back to San Francisco.


    The one thing I know for sure is that if I could, I would havbe spent all day dreaming about being on that train. I was so happy to see her. I wasn’t depressed about waking up, though. I felt like I had enjoyed a very special time and was grateful even when it was over.

    This is a picture of Erin holding my son who just turned 23:

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    Say I am you

    Rumi:

    I am dust particles in sunlight.
    I am the round sun.

    To the bits of dust I say, Stay.
    To the sun, Keep moving.

    I am morning mist,
    and the breathing of evening.
    I am wind in the top of a grove,
    and surf on the cliff.

    Mast, rudder, helmsman, and keel,
    I am also the coral reef they founder on.

    I am a tree with a trained parrot in its branches.
    Silence, thought, and voice.

    The musical air coming through a flute,
    a spark of stone, a flickering in metal.
    Both candle and the moth crazy around it.
    Rose, and the nightingale lost in the fragrance.

    I am all orders of being, the circling galaxy,
    the evolutionary intelligence, the lift, and the falling away.

    What is, and what isn’t.

    You who know, Jelaluddin,
    You the one in all, say who I am.
    Say I am you.

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    Size Matters

    Sometimes it’s big

    size_matters-and_its_really_big.gif

    Sometimes small

    sizenotmatter-mini-huge.gif

    Always immense

    huge-ssc2006-17a.jpg

    Every once in a while it’s Julia Fractal Zoom

    julia_fractal_zoom_6mb.gif

    It is always just what it is

    gilfronsdal_thenatureofallthings.mp3

    (From http://www.audiodharma.org/talks-gil.html)

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    Various news items

    First- (personal update):
    We are still unpacking but slowly finding a sense of place in our new townhome/ apartment. Several issues to deal with- mostly monetary (getting health care premiums paid, re-establishing household supplies, 2 broken vacuum cleaners…). We have a bed- donated by May T from Meeting. Food is being brought to us by strangers- nice strangers. Most animals are back- except the white cats are still at my sister’s house.

    From Common Dreams:

    Bush The Torturer, The Tyrant, The Disgrace

    by Pierre Tristam

    On Saturday, Mr. Bush vetoed a bill that would have outlawed the CIA’s use of torture in interrogations (a bill, it should be noted, John McCain, alleged opponent of torture, voted against). He had the temerity, our Dear Leader, to begin his official endorsement of torture in his radio address this morning with these words: “Good morning.” Good for him and his kind of delusional sadists, maybe. Not so good for this country, whose reputation today takes one more plunk toward the abyss of rogue and less than ordinary nations. Not so good for the rest of the world, either, whose nations have been disbelievingly howling, in Babels of translations, that most American of plaints: “Say it ain’t so.” This spring training for terrorist-interrogators (for torture is terrorism at its distilled worst), it very much is so. The United States is officially, proudly, the land of torturers. It’s true that the United States has been at this for years. But the difference here is not only that the president is endorsing torture, but that he’s doing it so openly and willfully. It isn’t arrogance anymore. It isn’t even hubris. Arrogance and hubris suggest that at least some awareness that public perceptions still matter. In Bush’s mind, perceptions are for the birds. This is pure tyranny. His statement embracing torture, a study in mendacity, is worth a line-by-line look.

    “This week,” he began, “I addressed the Department of Homeland Security on its fifth anniversary and thanked the men and women who work tirelessly to keep us safe.” Really? As of last May 1, Homeland Security, the Washington Post reported, “had 138 vacancies among its top 575 positions, with the greatest voids reported in its policy, legal and intelligence sections, as well as in immigration agencies, the Federal Emergency Management Agency and the Coast Guard.” It got so bad that a panicky report was sent to the House committee overseeing the department-the department led, as we unfortunately know, by the intrepidly dismal Michael Chertoff, who captained the agency through its finest hour: its spectatorship of Hurricane Katrina’s aftermath.

    “Because the danger remains,” Bush continued, “we need to ensure our intelligence officials have all the tools they need to stop the terrorists.” All the tools. Not the necessary tools, but all the tools. The most effective way not to worry about crossing the line into the dark side is not to have a line at all. For the Dear leader there is no question of nuance, of the difference between right and wrong. It is all right as long as he declares it so. By all means necessary (although I hate to soil Malcolm’s fine line, given its context, with the Dear Leader’s criminal intent). But by that reasoning, nuking Kandahar would be justified. Aren’t nuclear weapons also tools in the fight against “terrorism”? One day, the question may well be answered. Especially if the country insists on electing John McCain (and liberals who personally despise the black one or the bitch, as their prejudices couch them, insist on helping along the reactionaries).

    Where Bush Lies Like a Nixonian Sweat Bead

    “The bill Congress sent me would take away one of the most valuable tools in the war on terror — the CIA program to detain and question key terrorist leaders and operatives.” The bill, of course, does no such thing. It does not take away the CIA’s right to detain anyone. It does not take away the CIA’s right to question anyone. It only forbids the CIA to employ waterboarding and other forms of torture or degrading and dehumanizing treatment of inmates-inmates, we should always, always remember, who aren’t terrorists, but alleged terrorists. Until they are proven so, it is only their incarcerators who are the demonstrably proven terrorists.

    Bush then lists a series of supposed terrorist attacks the interrogations foiled. We have to trust him on that one, as several of them have never been mentioned before. Trusting Bush at this point, of course, is an exercise best left to the pathologically cretinous. One example from the plots Bush does mention-the supposed attack on the Library Tower in Los Angeles. It’s an old story, peddled by his administration since 2002. But when even the Voice of America, which is barely two radio waves removed from Radio White House, gives credence to doubts about the Dear Leader’s story, it’s time to give his fictions a chance to get sold as the latest memoir. “Micheal Scheuer, who was the leading al-Qaida expert in the CIA’s counter-terrorism center in 2002,” VOA reported in 2006, “says he is not aware of any such serious threat against the West Coast in 2002. As the man in the CIA who knew more about Osama bin Laden and al-Qaida than perhaps any other agency officer, he says it is unlikely that he would not have been kept informed on such a plot. “It could be that it was very closely held, but I think that’s unlikely,” he said. “It could be just a function of my failing memory. But this doesn’t sound like anything that I would recall as a major threat, or as a major success in stopping it.’”

    Brutality’s Euphemisms

    Bush in his radio address then moves on to euphemizing torture as “specialized interrogation procedures to question a small number of the most dangerous terrorists under careful supervision.” It’s a little disingenuous for the man who turned extraordinary renditions into a secret competitor of Disney’s Vacation Club, the man who replaced the Soviet Union’s gulags with a secret gulag of his own (using, cleverly, the Soviet Union’s old prisons in some cases, as in Poland and Romania), the man under whose careful supervision the likes of Khaled el Masri and Maher Arar were wrongly imprisoned, tortured in Afghanistan and Syria, and released without apologies long after the CIA knew they had the wrong men-it’s a little disingenuous for that man now to claim “careful supervision” in torture chambers.

    And to characterize torture as “these safe and lawful techniques.” Safe? When, by 2006, more than 100 individuals in American detention had been murdered by their captors? Lawful, when this very veto the Dear Leader is bandying about is an attempt to evade the law? But here’s his reasoning: limiting the CIA to interrogation techniques allowed only by the Army field manual would be wrong because the field manual deals with soldiers. The CIA deals with terrorists. Just as Bush on March 8 officially placed the United States as a champion of torture, Bush on this day also placed the United States as a champion of separating the race between legitimate human beings and sub-human creatures-”hardened terrorists.” The circular argument gives the appearance of perfect logic-if you’re willing to accept the notion that some human beings are not quite human beings. And isn’t that the notion once peddled in the United States about blacks-excuse me, about niggers? Isn’t that the notion peddled about Indians, at least while there were enough of them around that a distinction mattered? Isn’t that the kind of distinction some conservatives attempted to write into the Constitution with their prohibition of “oriental” immigrants at the turn of the last century?

    Some things don’t change. Once a bigoted nation, always a bigoted nation. But this goes beyond bigotry. Bush is projecting an interpretation of human beings that links up with the sort of distinctions Nazi and apartheid regimes were known for, when they, too, facilitated the torture and murder of “enemies” by dehumanizing them in the eyes of the public. This is no different. He may be speaking the language of Anglo-Saxon civilization. He may be doing so from the august rooms of the White House. What he’s saying makes him no different in these regards than the tyrants of the 20 th century. His rhetoric is another chain-link to his actions: he dehumanizes in words in order to dehumanize in deeds.

    Last month Michelle Obama was criticized for saying that finally, she can be proud of the United States, the implication being that she hadn’t been proud of it before Barack Obama’s hopeful run. She may want to rethink her newfound pride. There’s nothing to be proud of when the president reduces this country to rank criminality while calling it, of all things, a “higher responsibility” that is “keeping America safe.” No one should envy the next Americans to be taken prisoner by rogue nations and terrorists, now that we’re no better than either.

    Now for something completely different- Big Bang/ Universe Expansion diagram:

    resizenowmap.jpg

    Today’s Rumi:

    The way of love is not a subtle argument.

    The door there is devestation.

    Birds make great sky-circles of their freedom.

    How do they learn it?

    They fall, and falling

    they’re given wings.

    Check out

    Better Bees than Bears- my older son’s blog.

    http://secretvoln.blogspot.com/

    Silly animated gif:

    revolving.gif

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    The poetry of Rabindranath Tagore

    I’ve spent some time reading some of my favorite poetry. Tagore was a 20th century poet, recipient of the Nobel Prize for Literature and considered by many to be the most important writer in the modern history of India. What follows are excerpts from two books I love. Reading these makes me cry.

    Selections from Stray Birds

    THE mystery of creation
    is like the darkness of night–
    it is great.
    Delusions of knowledge are like
    the fog of the morning.

    *

    WHAT you are you do not see,
    what you see is your shadow.

    *

    MY heart beats her waves at the shore of the world
    and writes upon it her signature in tears with the words,
    “I love thee.”

    *

    HE has made his weapons his gods.
    When his weapons win he is defeated himself.

    *

    I THANK thee that I am none of the wheels of power
    but I am one with the living creatures
    that are crushed by it.

    *

    From Gitanjali:

    Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high;
    Where knowledge is free;
    Where the world has not been broken up into fragments by narrow
    domestic walls;

    Where words come out from the depth of truth;
    Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection;
    Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way into the
    dreary desert sand of dead habit;

    Where the mind is led forward by thee into ever-widening thought
    and action–

    Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.

    *

    Early in the day it was whispered that we should sail in a boat,
    only thou and I, and never a soul in the world would know of this
    our pilgrimage to no country and to no end.
    In that shoreless ocean, at thy silently listening smile my songs
    would swell in melodies, free as waves, free from all bondage of
    words.

    Is the time not come yet? Are there works still to do? Lo, the
    evening has come down upon the shore and in the fading light the
    seabirds come flying to their nests.

    Who knows when the chains will be off, and the boat, like the
    last glimmer of sunset, vanish into the night?

    *

    Languor is upon your heart and the slumber is still on your eyes.
    Has not the word come to you that the flower is reigning in
    splendour among thorns? Wake, oh awaken! let not the time pass
    in vain!

    At the end of the stony path, in the country of virgin solitude,
    my friend is sitting all alone. Deceive him not. Wake, oh
    awaken!

    *

    What if the sky pants and trembles with the heat of the midday
    sun–what if the burning sand spreads its mantle of thirst–

    Is there no joy in the deep of your heart? At every footfall of
    yours, will not the harp of the road break out in sweet music of
    pain?

    *

    Let all the strains of joy mingle in my last song–the joy that
    makes the earth flow over in the riotous excess of the grass, the
    joy that sets the twin brothers, life and death, dancing over the
    wide world, the joy that sweeps in with the tempest, shaking and
    waking all life with laughter, the joy that sits still with its
    tears on the open red lotus of pain, and the joy that throws
    everything it has upon the dust, and knows not a word.

    *

    When I bring to you coloured toys, my child, I understand why
    there is such a play of colours on clouds, on water, and why
    flowers are painted in tints–when I give coloured toys to you,
    my child.

    When I sing to make you dance I truly now why there is music in
    leaves, and why waves send their chorus of voices to the heart of
    the listening earth–when I sing to make you dance.

    When I bring sweet things to your greedy hands I know why there
    is honey in the cup of the flowers and why fruits are secretly
    filled with sweet juice–when I bring sweet things to your greedy
    hands.

    When I kiss your face to make you smile, my darling, I surely
    understand what pleasure streams from the sky in morning light,
    and what delight that is that is which the summer breeze brings
    to my body–when I kiss you to make you smile.

    *

    The same stream of life that runs through my veins night and day
    runs through the world and dances in rhythmic measures.

    It is the same life that shoots in joy through the dust of the
    earth in numberless blades of grass and breaks into tumultuous
    waves of leaves and flowers.

    It is the same life that is rocked in the ocean-cradle of birth
    and of death, in ebb and in flow.

    I feel my limbs are made glorious by the touch of this world of
    life. And my pride is from the life-throb of ages dancing in my
    blood this moment.

    *

    If it is not my portion to meet thee in this life then let me
    ever feel that I have missed thy sight–let me not forget for a
    moment, let me carry the pangs of this sorrow in my dreams and in
    my wakeful hours.

    As my days pass in the crowded market of this world and my hands
    grow full with the daily profits, let me ever feel that I have
    gained nothing–let me not forget for a moment, let me carry the
    pangs of this sorrow in my dreams and in my wakeful hours.

    When I sit by the roadside, tired and panting, when I spread my
    bed low in the dust, let me ever feel that the long journey is
    still before me–let me not forget a moment, let me carry the
    pangs of this sorrow in my dreams and in my wakeful hours.

    When my rooms have been decked out and the flutes sound and the
    laughter there is loud, let me ever feel that I have not invited
    thee to my house–let me not forget for a moment, let me carry
    the pangs of this sorrow in my dreams and in my wakeful hours.

    *

    Like a rain-cloud of July hung low with its burden of unshed
    showers let all my mind bend down at thy door in one salutation
    to thee.

    Let all my songs gather together their diverse strains into a
    single current and flow to a sea of silence in one salutation to
    thee.

    Like a flock of homesick cranes flying night and day back to
    their mountain nests let all my life take its voyage to its
    eternal home in one salutation to thee

    *

    If thou speakest not I will fill my heart with thy silence and
    endure it. I will keep still and wait like the night with starry
    vigil and its head bent low with patience.

    The morning will surely come, the darkness will vanish, and thy
    voice pour down in golden streams breaking through the sky.

    Then thy words will take wing in songs from every one of my
    birds’ nests, and thy melodies will break forth in flowers in all
    my forest groves.

    *

    A couple links to more Tagore:

    http://www.poetseers.org/nobel_prize_for_literature/tagore

    http://www.sacred-texts.com/hin/tagore/index.htm

    Maybe I’ll share some of my most favorite Carl Sandberg poems one day.

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