ShivAllahSita sutra 93

[Guest guest]

One day it was snowing, and the monk in charge asked Hyakujo to give a sermon. Hyakujo said,

"Falling in flakes,

the colour scheme and pattern are complete.

Why must I go to the Hall and preach?"

~R.H.Blyth

Though great storms seem to fill the sky with snow,not a patterned

wheel will ever touch the earth.Hung suspended in atableaux of

uncanny realism,the images of movement are only dabs of paint on a

canvas, yeteasily mistaken for true snow.Such is the craft of the

artist. Standing here where the riverjoins the sea, all flowing has

halted, and only some softly humming sound lingers in the air, an

echoing memory of a great sea bird, hovering motionless above the

frozen tides.I open my mouth to speak, butnot a word comes forth.If

you happen upon this beachsomeday, you may find me standing still,

eyes fixedon an ancient, vanishedscene, and if youlisten close,hear

thathum.Such is the craft of the Artist.~Mazie & b

…But we must not be attached to America, or Buddhism, or even to our

practice. We have beginner’s mind, free from possessing anything, a

mind that knows everything is in flowing change. Nothing exists but

momentarily in its present form and color. One thing flows into

another and cannot be grasped… Before the rain stops we can hear a

bird. Even under heavy snow we see snowdrops and some new growth. In

the East I saw rhubarb already. In Japan in the spring we eat

cucumbers.

To realize pure mind in your delusion is practice. If you try to expel

the delusion it will only persist the more. Just say, ‘Oh, this is

just delusion,’ and do not be bothered by it.

~Shunryu Suzuki

We've come to believe there's something to change, but that itself

will change.Moment by momenteverything returns to itself.Everything

is brought to the edge of the waterfall topour off through itself.A

great water wheel is spinning us round and round forever, yetwe can

slide right off of itby letting and forgetting it--by stopping and

rememberingwe are not what's spun, and changeis just what never

changeshaving a little fun. ~Mazie & b

Ever since I stepped out of imagination

And into the heart of things

I have become so much less spiritual.

Heaven, hell and earth

Hold no meaning for me anymore.

For I am neither coming

Nor going

Nor staying put.

All I do is notice all the various ways

That Light weaves itself into dreams.

When someone asks me who they are

Or what God is

I smile inside and whisper to the Light:

There you go again pretending.

~Adyashanti

Everything is said before we open our mouth, the truth of our nature

is silence. Awareness is its own proof.Presence.Acceptance of what's

born and diesby that which clings to neither isthe heart that only

claims itself --it needs no intermediary.We can speak openly nowas

silence --everyone understands.~Mazie & b

Life is not an artificial canal to be confined within prescribed channels.

When once this is clearly seen in our own lives,

then we shall not be able to be misled by any mere fabrications.

~Rabindranath Tagore

If the way to Cold Mountain were a road on some map, I'd tell you

toburn up your atlas.If the Unfathomable could be grasped by the mind

that reads signs, it wouldn't be the Unfathomable.Whatever you know

you kill.The world is a great cemetery, piled high with the corpses

of knowledge.Picking through pockets of rotting dead, hoping to find

bits of finger jewelry –pause for a moment and look at your hands,

forged in the womb of your mother.Contemplate their original source,

before even she herself was born.Then, when dawn's golden light

transforms every graveyard to a jewel-strewn garden, raise those

hands to the blazing sky andclap and praise such glory! ~Mazie & b

When love beckons to you, follow him,

Though his ways are hard and steep.

And when his wings enfold you,

Yield to him,

Though the sword hidden

Among his pinions may wound you.

And when he speaks to you,

Believe in him.

Though his voice may shatter your dreams

As the north wind

Lays waste the garden.

~Kahlil Gibran

O monks! Is it true?Is there really nothing to be done, orare those

trumpets of terror you hear just the wind on its midnight run?And

whose glad ashes are these tonightsifting through the wan

moonlight,grazing by the empty stationin the ghostly cave of this

dream creation?Whoever claims it's a dream –beware.Whoever claimsit

is not –compare:a blink of the eye is all.Answer your own roll call,

or else be blown alone along cold coasts of reason –You, who never

thought you'd find yourself therefind yourself here, wherethe girl in

the swing in themoonlight is whythe cuckoo crying at midnight won't

fly.All eyes are down in comatose town,sitting pretty in Torpidity

City,wriggling toes nobody knowsYou bide your time in Dhyana pose.A

fish head pounded by candle light –hollow skull sound in the dead of

nightpaces sutras mumbled just right. Ringing a bell in an empty

room,tea cups raise to the fruit of the loom.Patiently observing

those inclinations,engrossed in interior conversations:"What is, is

what?"distracts somehow from a paralyzed butt.The carnival of your

own nervous systempasses for some as Crazy Wisdom.Nothing disturbs

your hard-won poise except that persistent celery-chewing

noise.Stylish in your two-toed socksyou ponder the humorous paradox

–that all along you've been the wallwhich stands between yourself and

all.Stung by the clearlight intuition,the simple obvious

recognition:Your narrative has been a fiction –a kind of

superimposition.The mirror seems a pointing fingerat images that

pause and linger, whileyou contemplate which love is dearer orwhose

imaginary face is nearer.With each breath billions of beings

perish,regardless of which you choose to cherish.The ghost that

clings to vines and treesrelives the vanishing memories of home-grown

scars and wishing stars, ofBoddhisattvas in blades of grassand, of

course, the inevitable ash,of vacant stares and fake affairs,of

probing indifference and partial deliverance,of flashlit glimpses of

indivisibility and left-hand paths to Indescribability,of would-be

heroes and noble cowards -and on and on and on and onuntil the night

is nearly gone and bunch after bunches of poignant flowers are mashed

into soup -and then devoured!And though you vow to seek no more,before

the man behind the door –that sly addictive phantom cunningwinds you

up and sets you running.But then this man --this man is striding down

silk roads inmoist acceleration.His urge -- to merge sky-deep in

dawn,to amplify creation.This man –will he go roundendlessly?Will he

wade the deep debris orhave a second cup of tea?Will he pivot, wheel,

and fire orever douse the doom desire?Will he swallow Lotus Lake

orwill he differentiate?Will he bolt and skitter away orwill he kill

himself today?Like something, like anythingmind gears crush puddles

yetyou maintain a wry credulity.Ash herders herd theirs asheshome,

across the eyelid skyso slow, so slowyou start to cry.Like candle wax

you trickle down,like falling leaves come floating down,down the

swaying sides of skylike some sereneyou slide on downthrough milky

mood aquariumsand mantra sanitariums,through arcane mental

miscellanylike a snowflake missionarymelting in the airabove the

groundyou mellow down.Through the mists of vague perceptionpast the

place of precious thingswhere the salivation armiesof a million

sirens sing;through fields of pod plants spewing spores,through

layers of succulent metaphors,through vestibules of narcotic

monotony,heavy metal drummed cacophony;Past graveyards filled with

lost connections, soldiers saluting at stiff attention,prickly spears

of fear phantasms,fright parades and trite charades,alchemical

masqueradesso slow, so slowyou slide on down to blend with sleep and

similesubmitted to the nth degree;with déjà vu upon your lips andbest

intentions between your hips,perhaps to dream again that

dream:waiting, waitingin frail pale light --it matters little,day or

night –waiting, waiting, not knowingfor what,the wind chimesall of a

suddenstop.Hesitation quivers the air,first streaks, then stammers

–hammered into place somewhere.You turn and start to say some

thing,some thing you think you thought you heardabout the silent

source of words,about the culling of the herds,about the fraudulence

of belief,about the longing for relief,and still you keep on sliding

downbetween your breathbetween your thoughtsallowing all to all be

naught,and all returns as you returnlike ice to water, night to

daythe animals stretch and stroll away,the stars on scheduleshudder

still,a legend leaps your window silland flames into a flash.Its

cinder sparks in a pit of ash,your eyes fly open wide –for once you

waking up reply:"Today no saint,tonight no suicide!"Before you can

even try this on andfabricate a slick new con, somebody somewhere

long well-goneraises his staff and shouts:"Walk on!"~Mazie & b

Men are disturbed not by things that happen

But by their opinion of the things that happen.

~Epictetus

This way proceeds harmoniously.Being in opposition is not trulybeing

in opposition.There are no arguments in this family.When the river

pours over the waterfall,countless relatives are shocked into the

objective world.Splashing down, it's as ifthey had never been.Water's

voice is that strong!Silence wants to hear itself –a thousand merging

streams oblige.This conversation astounds the universe,burbling forth

like rich rice wine,splashing over waterfalls thatdescend an airy

stairway towash the bowls, after the rice has been eaten.After all,

it's just a family meal!~Mazie & b

Come to the edge, he said.

They said: We are afraid.

Come to the edge, he said.

They came.

He pushed them. . . and they flew.

~Guillaume Appolinaire

Heart-struck, from this cliff moonlight falls with no place to

land.All eyes raised to the sky tonight will be granted the vision of

their own future.When the moon was graced by the sun with such sight,

it tumbled from its perch on Cold Mountain --nothing bothering below

to break its fall.I sit here sighing where the same moon grazed,

gazing sentimentally at the little mementos kept to remind itself of

all theplaces it had once visited -–pieces of light from hearts like

mine, translated into small breathless poems, fondly foldedon the

altar of its suicide,awaiting a fire that now will never come.

~Mazie & b

You know quite well,

Deep within you,

That there is only

A single magic,

A single power,

A single salvation. . .

And that is called loving.

Well then,

Love your suffering.

Do not resist it, do not flee from it.

It is only your aversion that hurts,

Nothing else.

~Herman Hesse

While I slept I dreamtCold Mountain shone a rare mysterious glow and,

smoldering just below the surface, such an indescribablerevelation of

itself unfurled in dawn-like splendor, ripplingalong the subtle nerve

lines of thistransfigured planetary realm in liquidlight transmission

of some urgent bliss beyond all reason but for the veryappearance of

itself as thisunreasonable waking happiness I am.

~Mazie & b

LoveEternal.Protect your PC - Click here for McAfee.com VirusScan Online