CHÖGYAM TRUNGPA from Milarepa - Lessons from the Life and Songs of Tibet’s Great Yogi
The
secret of genuine breakthrough is that boredom is regarded as the
breakthrough. Boredom is an extraordinary way to desecrate the pride of
passion, aggression, and ignorance and our own little ego trips. Buddha
was very clever, you see, as to how to catch people’s neuroses.
Friday, June 28, 2019
JONAS KARLSSON from The Room
You don’t turn a river by abruptly trying to get it to change direction. You don’t have that much power. No matter how strong you are. The river will just overwhelm you and obstinately carry on pretty much as before. You can’t make it change overnight. No one can. On the contrary, you have to start by flowing with it.
You have to capture its own force and then slowly but surely lead it in the desired direction. The river won’t notice it’s being led if the curve is gentle enough. On the contrary, it will think it’s flowing just the same as usual, seeing as nothing seems to have changed.
You don’t turn a river by abruptly trying to get it to change direction. You don’t have that much power. No matter how strong you are. The river will just overwhelm you and obstinately carry on pretty much as before. You can’t make it change overnight. No one can. On the contrary, you have to start by flowing with it.
You have to capture its own force and then slowly but surely lead it in the desired direction. The river won’t notice it’s being led if the curve is gentle enough. On the contrary, it will think it’s flowing just the same as usual, seeing as nothing seems to have changed.
Thursday, June 27, 2019
Wednesday, June 26, 2019
SIGMUND FREUD from Civilization and Its Discontents
This aesthetic attitude to the goal of life offers little protection against the threat of suffering, but it can compensate tor a great deal. The enjoyment of beauty has a peculiar, mildly intoxicating quality of feeling. Beauty has no obvious use; nor is there any clear cultural necessity for it. Yet civilization could not do without it.
This aesthetic attitude to the goal of life offers little protection against the threat of suffering, but it can compensate tor a great deal. The enjoyment of beauty has a peculiar, mildly intoxicating quality of feeling. Beauty has no obvious use; nor is there any clear cultural necessity for it. Yet civilization could not do without it.
Tuesday, June 25, 2019
HỒ XUÂN HƯƠNG TRADITION - [“As a concubine, I get nothing”]
As a concubine, I get nothing. Although
As endowed as the mistress, I’m laid aside.
Each night she claims the bedroom, giving me
A straw mat, to lie alone in the outer room.
At dawn she yells, "Hey, servant, get up!”
I wake to slice sweet potatoes, chop water fern.
It’s all because my parents are poor.
That’s why I must slice potatoes, chop water fern.
As a concubine, I get nothing. Although
As endowed as the mistress, I’m laid aside.
Each night she claims the bedroom, giving me
A straw mat, to lie alone in the outer room.
At dawn she yells, "Hey, servant, get up!”
I wake to slice sweet potatoes, chop water fern.
It’s all because my parents are poor.
That’s why I must slice potatoes, chop water fern.
Monday, June 24, 2019
THOMAS MANN from “Tonio Kröger”
If your heart is too full, if you are overpowered with the emotions of some sweet or exalted moment – nothing simpler! Go to the literary man, he will put it all straight for you instantly. He will analyze and formulate your affair, label it and express it and discuss it and polish it off, and make you indifferent to it for time and eternity – and not charge you a farthing. You will go home quite relieved, cooled off, enlightened; and wonder what it was all about and why you were so mightily moved. And will you seriously enter the lists in behalf of this vain and frigid charlatan.
If your heart is too full, if you are overpowered with the emotions of some sweet or exalted moment – nothing simpler! Go to the literary man, he will put it all straight for you instantly. He will analyze and formulate your affair, label it and express it and discuss it and polish it off, and make you indifferent to it for time and eternity – and not charge you a farthing. You will go home quite relieved, cooled off, enlightened; and wonder what it was all about and why you were so mightily moved. And will you seriously enter the lists in behalf of this vain and frigid charlatan.
Sunday, June 23, 2019
URSULA K. LE GUIN - “This Stone”
He went looking for a road
that doesn’t lead to death.
He went looking for that road
and found it.
It was a stone road.
He walked that road
that doesn’t lead to death.
He walked on it awhile
before he stopped,
having turned to stone.
Now he stands there on that road
that doesn’t lead to death
not going anywhere.
He can’t dance.
from his eyes stones fall.
The rainbow people pass him
crossing that road, long-legged, light-stepping,
going from the Four Houses
to the dancing in the Five Houses.
They pick up his tears.
This stone is a tear
from his eye, this stone
given me on the mountain
by one who died before my birth,
this stone, this stone.
He went looking for a road
that doesn’t lead to death.
He went looking for that road
and found it.
It was a stone road.
He walked that road
that doesn’t lead to death.
He walked on it awhile
before he stopped,
having turned to stone.
Now he stands there on that road
that doesn’t lead to death
not going anywhere.
He can’t dance.
from his eyes stones fall.
The rainbow people pass him
crossing that road, long-legged, light-stepping,
going from the Four Houses
to the dancing in the Five Houses.
They pick up his tears.
This stone is a tear
from his eye, this stone
given me on the mountain
by one who died before my birth,
this stone, this stone.
Saturday, June 22, 2019
HALLDÓR LAXNESS from Independent People
“Oh yes,” said the old woman, “but I’ve heard these so-called stoves are by no means all they are supposed to be. I never saw a stove in my day, and yet never ailed a thing, at least as long as I could really be called alive, except for nettle rash one night when I was in my fifteenth year. It was caused by some fresh fish that the boys used to catch in the lakes thereabouts.”
The man did not answer for a while, but lay pondering the medical history of this incredible old creature who, without ever setting eyes on a stove, had suffered almost no ailments in the past sixty-five years.
“Oh yes,” said the old woman, “but I’ve heard these so-called stoves are by no means all they are supposed to be. I never saw a stove in my day, and yet never ailed a thing, at least as long as I could really be called alive, except for nettle rash one night when I was in my fifteenth year. It was caused by some fresh fish that the boys used to catch in the lakes thereabouts.”
The man did not answer for a while, but lay pondering the medical history of this incredible old creature who, without ever setting eyes on a stove, had suffered almost no ailments in the past sixty-five years.
Friday, June 21, 2019
MARK IRWIN - “In Autumn”
When within ourselves in autumn we feel the autumn
I become very still, a kind of singing, and try to move
like all things green, in one direction, when within ourselves
the autumn moves, thickening like honey, that light we smear
on faces and hands, then touch the far within one another,
something like autumn, and I think when those who knew
the dead, when they fall asleep, then what, then what in autumn
when I always feel I’m writing in red pencil on a piece
of paper growing in thickness the way a pumpkin does,
traveling at fantastic speed toward orange, toward rot, when
in autumn I remember that we are cold-smitten as I continue
smearing red on this precipice, this ledge of paper over which
I lean, trying to touch those I love, their bodies rusting
as I keep writing, sketching their red hands, faces lusting for green.
When within ourselves in autumn we feel the autumn
I become very still, a kind of singing, and try to move
like all things green, in one direction, when within ourselves
the autumn moves, thickening like honey, that light we smear
on faces and hands, then touch the far within one another,
something like autumn, and I think when those who knew
the dead, when they fall asleep, then what, then what in autumn
when I always feel I’m writing in red pencil on a piece
of paper growing in thickness the way a pumpkin does,
traveling at fantastic speed toward orange, toward rot, when
in autumn I remember that we are cold-smitten as I continue
smearing red on this precipice, this ledge of paper over which
I lean, trying to touch those I love, their bodies rusting
as I keep writing, sketching their red hands, faces lusting for green.
Thursday, June 20, 2019
JOHN FOWLES from The French Lieutenant’s Woman
You do not even think of your own past as quite real; you dress it up, you gild it or blacken it, censor it, tinker with it … fictionalize it, in a word, and put it away on a shelf - your book, your romanced autobiography. We are all in the flight from the real reality. That is the basic definition of Homo sapiens.
You do not even think of your own past as quite real; you dress it up, you gild it or blacken it, censor it, tinker with it … fictionalize it, in a word, and put it away on a shelf - your book, your romanced autobiography. We are all in the flight from the real reality. That is the basic definition of Homo sapiens.
Wednesday, June 19, 2019
JEAN RENOIR - “Complainte de la butte”
La lune trop blême
Pose un diadème
Sur tes cheveux roux
La lune trop rousse
De gloire éclabousse
Ton jupon plein d'trous
La lune trop pâle
Caresse l'opale
De tes yeux blasés
Princesse de la rue
Soit la bienvenue
Dans mon cœur blessé
Les escaliers de la butte sont durs aux miséreux
Les ailes des moulins protègent les amoureux
Petite mandigote
Je sens ta menotte
Qui cherche ma main
Je sens ta poitrine
Et ta taille fine
J'oublie mon chagrin
Je sens sur tes lèvres
Une odeur de fièvre
De gosse mal nourri
Et sous ta caresse
Je sens une ivresse
Qui m'anéantit
Les escaliers de la butte sont durs aux miséreux
Les ailes des moulins protègent les amoureux
Mais voilà qu'il flotte
La lune se trotte
La princesse aussi
Sous le ciel sans lune
Je pleure à la brune
Mon rêve évanoui
Tuesday, June 18, 2019
PEMA CHÖDRÖN
As human beings we are as impermanent as everything else is. Every cell in the body is continuously changing. Thoughts and emotions rise and fall away unceasingly. When we’re thinking that we’re competent or that we’re hopeless—what are we basing it on? On this fleeting moment? On yesterday’s success or failure? We cling to a fixed idea of who we are and it cripples us. Nothing and no one is fixed.
As human beings we are as impermanent as everything else is. Every cell in the body is continuously changing. Thoughts and emotions rise and fall away unceasingly. When we’re thinking that we’re competent or that we’re hopeless—what are we basing it on? On this fleeting moment? On yesterday’s success or failure? We cling to a fixed idea of who we are and it cripples us. Nothing and no one is fixed.
A tour of Limestone Permaculture Farm in New South Wales, Australia. Brett Cooper manages the 1-acre property as a productive farm helping to feed around 50 families. The tour includes a look at the orchard, caravan farm gate, chicken and duck areas, and shade house, and Brett talks about what brought him and his family to this complete change of lifestyle – in which they are thriving.
Monday, June 17, 2019
EMILY DICKINSON - “Hope”
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I’ve heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I’ve heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
Sunday, June 16, 2019
Saturday, June 15, 2019
W. S. MERWIN - “Hölderlin at the River”
The ice again in my sleep as it was following someone
it thought was me in the dark and I recognized its white
tongue
it held me in its freezing radiance until I
was the only tree there and I broke and carried
my limbs down through dark rocks calling to the summer
where are you where will you be how could I have missed you
gold skin the still pond shining under the eglantines
warm peach hanging in my palm at noon among flowers
all the way I was looking for you and I had nothing to show
until the last day of the world then far below I could see
the great valley as night fell the one ray withdrawing
like the note of a horn and afterwards black wind took
all I knew but here is the foreign morning with its clouds
sailing on water beyond the black trembling poplars
the sky breathless around its blinding fire and the white flocks
in water meadows on the far shore are flowing past their
silent shepherds only once now I hear the hammer
ring on the anvil and where I cannot see it
a bird of the ice is singing of its own country
if any of this remains it will not be me
The ice again in my sleep as it was following someone
it thought was me in the dark and I recognized its white
tongue
it held me in its freezing radiance until I
was the only tree there and I broke and carried
my limbs down through dark rocks calling to the summer
where are you where will you be how could I have missed you
gold skin the still pond shining under the eglantines
warm peach hanging in my palm at noon among flowers
all the way I was looking for you and I had nothing to show
until the last day of the world then far below I could see
the great valley as night fell the one ray withdrawing
like the note of a horn and afterwards black wind took
all I knew but here is the foreign morning with its clouds
sailing on water beyond the black trembling poplars
the sky breathless around its blinding fire and the white flocks
in water meadows on the far shore are flowing past their
silent shepherds only once now I hear the hammer
ring on the anvil and where I cannot see it
a bird of the ice is singing of its own country
if any of this remains it will not be me
Friday, June 14, 2019
A tour of Purple Pear Farm in New South Wales, Australia, a permaculture and biodynamic farm with rotating tractor domes over mandala garden beds, pigs, chooks, and some great philosophy. Mark and Kate run a small CSA (community supported agriculture) offering veggie boxes to their local community.
They dream not of growing ever bigger and bigger and controlling the market for veggies in their region, but rather of staying small and supporting other vegetable growers to initiate similar projects, or even to join theirs, so that everyone in the community is eating well and living well. Now there’s a vision to be inspired by!
Thursday, June 13, 2019
MATEO SOL from "How to Embrace Being a Lone Wolf and Walk Your OWN Path"
A lone wolf is typically defined as a person (or animal) who prefers to spend time alone rather than being in a group. However, here lone wolf refers to a person who has listened to their calling and has left behind their old life, thus rendering them alone or alienated from others. We all possess an inner wolf that thirsts for freedom, truth, and authenticity. If we seek to live a meaningful life, if we want to fulfill our destiny, it’s our job to listen to that inner wolf and embrace our sacred wild nature.
A lone wolf is typically defined as a person (or animal) who prefers to spend time alone rather than being in a group. However, here lone wolf refers to a person who has listened to their calling and has left behind their old life, thus rendering them alone or alienated from others. We all possess an inner wolf that thirsts for freedom, truth, and authenticity. If we seek to live a meaningful life, if we want to fulfill our destiny, it’s our job to listen to that inner wolf and embrace our sacred wild nature.
Wednesday, June 12, 2019
BEN DOWNING - “The Weather”
A scattering of mind (like rain
flung out small and squalled
against the random panes
attention turns to in its hunt
for some lasting fascination
that will hold its gaze and not allow
a second scene to come and slide
its heart away) is hard to stay
and even harder to abide.
A scattering of mind (like rain
flung out small and squalled
against the random panes
attention turns to in its hunt
for some lasting fascination
that will hold its gaze and not allow
a second scene to come and slide
its heart away) is hard to stay
and even harder to abide.
Tuesday, June 11, 2019
SUN BUER - “Refining the Spirit“
The relic from before birth
Enters one’s heart one day.
Be as careful as if you were holding a full vessel,
Be as gentle as if you were caressing an infant.
The gate of earth should be shut tight,
The portals of heaven should be first opened.
Wash the yellow sprouts clean,
And atop the mountain is thunder shaking the earth.
The relic from before birth
Enters one’s heart one day.
Be as careful as if you were holding a full vessel,
Be as gentle as if you were caressing an infant.
The gate of earth should be shut tight,
The portals of heaven should be first opened.
Wash the yellow sprouts clean,
And atop the mountain is thunder shaking the earth.
Monday, June 10, 2019
STAR BLACK - “Twilit”
Moving away from rattled towns,
gaining, as a bird in a dishwasher,
an altered view, the owlish lakefronts
with their punch-clock crews
seem less luckless, the lunch-pail
chatter less dim; even recess seems pleasant.
Schoolmates from the third grade call
and nothing since matters,
you leap into kerosene waters
and swim, leaving the nervous talons
on a perch. The past doesn’t hurt,
the past is divine, everyone
the same age at the same time.
Moving is a white lie, a soft arrow.
Moving away from rattled towns,
gaining, as a bird in a dishwasher,
an altered view, the owlish lakefronts
with their punch-clock crews
seem less luckless, the lunch-pail
chatter less dim; even recess seems pleasant.
Schoolmates from the third grade call
and nothing since matters,
you leap into kerosene waters
and swim, leaving the nervous talons
on a perch. The past doesn’t hurt,
the past is divine, everyone
the same age at the same time.
Moving is a white lie, a soft arrow.
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