May 6, 2013 § 15 Comments
She hears the sound coming
from the musicians.
Out of the music a voice
rose as pure as the water
of the mountain streams.
It felt like a beam of light pierced the night
and a fragrance she could breathe
and a part of her own soul.
It flooded her body
making it vibrate
on every note.
She ascended then bent,
died, rose again.
Filled with unbearable joy
broken with unbearable pain
torn and made whole, together.
She became the Voice.
December 5, 2012 § 12 Comments
Worthy of love and admiration were these people in their blind loyalty, their blind strength and tenacity. They lacked nothing; there was nothing the knowledgeable one, the thinker, had to put above them except for one little thing, a tiny, small thing: the consciousness, the conscious thought of the oneness of all life.
And Siddhartha even doubted in many an hour, whether this knowledge, this thought was to be valued thus highly, whether it might not also perhaps be a childish idea of the thinking people, of the thinking and childlike people. In all other respects, the worldly people were of equal rank to the writer men, were often far superior to them; just as animals too can, after all, in some moments, seem to be superior to humans in their tough, unrelenting performance of what is necessary.
Hermann Hesse, Siddhartha.
August 26, 2012 § 35 Comments
When you say, “it is a beautiful rose”, you are classifying it. And no rose can be classified because all roses are so unique and so individual that classification is just not possible. Don’t give it a class, don’t pigeonhole it, don’t put it in a box. Enjoy its beauty, enjoy its color, enjoy its dance. Just be there. Don’t say anything. Watch. Be in mo chao, a silent, serene reflection. Just reflect. Let the rose flower reflect in you; you be a mirror.
June 23, 2012 § 25 Comments
Once upon a time, Aristophanes relates, there were gods in the heavens
and humans down on earth. But we humans did not look the way we looked today.
Instead we each had two heads and four legs and four arms- a
perfect melding, in other words, of two people joined together,
seamlessly united into one being. We came in three different possible
gender or sexual variations: male/female meldings, male/male meldings,
and female/female meldings, depending on what suited each creature the
best. Since we each had the perfect partner sewn into the very fabric
of our being, we were all happy. Thus, all of us double-headed,
eight-limbed, perfectly contented creatures moved across the earth
much the same wat that the planets travel through the heavens-
dreamily, orderly, smoothly. We lacked for nothing; we had no unmet
needs; we wanted nobody. There was no strife and no chaos. We were
But in our wholeness, we became overly proud. In our pride, we
neglected to worship the gods. The mighty Zeus punished us for our
neglect by cutting all the double-headed, eight-limbed, perfectly
contented humans in half, thereby creating a world of cruelly severed
one-headed, two-armed, two-legged miserable creatures. In this moment
of mass amputation, Zeus inflicted on mankind that most painful of
human conditions: the dull and constant sense that we are not quite
whole. For the rest of time, humans would be born sensing that there
was some missing part- a lost half, which we love almost more than we
love ourselves- and that this missing part was out there someplace,
spinning through the universe in the form of another person. We would
also be born believing that if only we searched relentlessly enough,
we might someday find that vanished half, that other soul. Through
union with the other, we would recomplete our original form, never to
experience loneliness again.
This is the singular fantasy of human intimacy: that one plus one will
somehow, someday, equal one.
Plato, The Symposium.
June 3, 2012 § 36 Comments
You have lived for ten years with a woman and suddenly one day she is angry. And you had never thought that she would be so angry! For ten years you have watched her and she has been always so tender, so loving, so compassionate. And suddenly one day she is so angry that she would like to kill you. Unpredictable!
And you were getting settled and you had started taking her for granted, and you were thinking that you knew her.
Nobody knows anybody. Neither she knows you nor you know her. We’re all strangers.
May 10, 2012 § 21 Comments
Like the empty sky it has no boundaries, yet it is right in this place, ever profound and clear. When you seek to know it, you cannot see it. You cannot take hold of it, but you cannot lose it. In not being able to get it you get it. When you are silent it speaks; when you speak, it is silent. The great gate is wide open to bestow alms, and no crowd is blocking the way.