I have loved Pema Chodron for so long, I am grateful to the Elephant Journal, which I also love, for bringing her back around. Enjoy.
http://www.elephantjournal.com/2011/08/when-people-start-to-meditate-or-to-work-with-any-kind-of-spiritual-discipline-they-often-think-that-somehow-theyre-going-to-improve-pema-chodron/
Sitting is Simple
one year of simply sitting still for a few minutes daily . . .
Saturday, July 14, 2012
Monday, June 25, 2012
Discovering Dorothy Walters
Still Life
Original Language English
The rose that no longer blooms in the garden,
blooms inside her whole body, among the veins
and organs and the skeleton.
-- Linda Gregg
A hidden blossoming.
Petals flaming beneath the skin.
And a softness pressing,
as delicate as the mouth
of a blind lover.
Each movement,
each quiet gesture
awakens
a rosary in the blood.
Was it desire
which brought her to this moment,
this arrival at source,
or was it merely a need
to be still, to be richly fed
from this fountain
of dark silence.
blooms inside her whole body, among the veins
and organs and the skeleton.
-- Linda Gregg
A hidden blossoming.
Petals flaming beneath the skin.
And a softness pressing,
as delicate as the mouth
of a blind lover.
Each movement,
each quiet gesture
awakens
a rosary in the blood.
Was it desire
which brought her to this moment,
this arrival at source,
or was it merely a need
to be still, to be richly fed
from this fountain
of dark silence.
-- from Marrow of Flame : Poems of the Spiritual Journey, by Dorothy Walters |
Tuesday, May 8, 2012
Ode to Wild Rumpus
Source: http://www.google.com/images |
Dearest Maurice,
I found my empty clothing basket underneath the stair.
I do not know who put it there or why, but instead of worrying about the details, I climbed inside.
And I cried.
I wept because I have lost something precious, but I can't remember what it was or where to find it.
I wept because the wild places are like echoing chambers.
I wailed then, after all of the years of wondering where one goes to really, truly wail.
After a short long while, the tears ceased flowing the way tired tears do. The space in the basket grew cramped and crying is weary-making anyhow. I heard the sound of a steady pitter-patter and wondered about that.
Perhaps an afternoon shower? Or the house cat on the step that creaks? Maybe the neighbor boy playing rat-a-tat in the basement next door?
The sound grew louder and the beat swirled inside my head. Thoughts, like things, lassoed and tied.
Rhythm, crisp as a cymbal, steady as a tabla, and wide as my heart.
I began to keep time with a toe, first. The whole foot joined in. Suddenly both feet found the beat and just like that, a rippling rise erupted.
I rose because I have lost something precious and I can't remember what it was or where to find it.
I rose because the wild places are like echoing chambers.
I rose then, after all of the years of wondering where one might go to really, truly rise.
Maurice, I just wanted you to know.
Copyright 2012. Original writing by Jenny Baxley Lee.
Copyright 2012. Original writing by Jenny Baxley Lee.
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
Welcome Turning Point
Source: www.turningpointweb.jpg |
Good morning. Sitting still this morning, I observed my friends, 'SEEKING' and 'STRIVING'. I greeted them as they are both quite familiar to me and invited them to rest awhile.
Source: windmill-energy.jpg |
"After a time of decay comes
the turning point.
The powerful light that has
been banished returns.
There is movement, but it is not
brought about by force."
Source: http://deoxy.org/iching/24
Source: www.miriadna.com |
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