unask

 

 

a break, now, for the weekend; the next post will be on Monday 11 May 2009.

 

 

 

brilliant light

 

happy are those who are free from attachment,
feeders on rapture shall they be,
like the gods of brilliant light.

the Buddha

 

 

dawn

 

Death is not extinguishing the light; it is putting out the lamp because the dawn has come.

 

Rabindranath Tagore, cited in the wonderful The Welcome Visitor: Living Well, Dying Well, by John Humphrys.

 

 

 

scamel

there is a new entry in our scamel blog.

 

 

 

what we need is here

 

Geese appear high over us,
pass, and the sky closes. Abandon,
as in love or sleep, holds
them to their way, clear
in the ancient faith: what we need
is here. And we pray, not
for new earth or heaven, but to be
quiet in heart, and in eye,
clear. What we need is here.

Wendell Berry.

 

 

dream tree

 

A dream tree, Polly's tree:
a thicket of sticks,
each speckled twig

ending in a thin-paned
leaf unlike any
other on it

or in a ghost flower
flat as paper and
of a color

vaporish as frost-breath,
more finical than
any silk fan

the Chinese ladies use
to stir robin's egg
air. The silver-

haired seed of the milkweed
comes to roost there, frail
as the halo

rayed round a candle flame,
a will-o'-the-wisp
nimbus, or puff

of cloud-stuff, tipping her
queer candelabrum.
Palely lit by

snuff-ruffed dandelions,
white daisy wheels and
a tiger faced

pansy, it glows. O it's
no family tree,
Polly's tree, nor

a tree of heaven, though
it marry quartz-flake,
feather and rose.

It sprang from her pillow
whole as a cobweb
ribbed like a hand,

a dream tree. Polly's tree
wears a valentine
arc of tear-pearled

bleeding hearts on its sleeve
and, crowning it, one
blue larkspur star.

 

Sylvia Plath, Polly's tree

 

 

mindful

 

My name is Caliban. I live on an island. The island is strange, it is full of spirits. And it is full of music. Sounds and sweet airs...

I used to be bad. Oh, I was bad. That was after the strangers came, with their strange ways.

Before that, there was just the music. The island was my mother, and the music was my mother, and I swam and laughed and lived in music, it was so nice. But now they’ve gone, and it’s just us here, so nice, you know what? We can’t forget them. Can we?

 

From Caliban's Island, by Deirdre Burton and Tom Davis, first performance Saturday May 16. Details are here.

 

 

mindful

 

To meditate does not mean to fight with a problem.
To meditate means to observe.
Your smile proves it.
It proves that you are being gentle with yourself,
that the sun of awareness is shining in you,
that you have control of your situation.
You are yourself,
and you have acquired some peace.

 

Thich Nhat Hahn