“Maybe the fear is that
we are less than
we think we are,
actuality of it
is that we are much much more.”
~ Jon Kabat-Zinn, Arriving at Your Own Door: 108 Lessons in Mindfulness
Posts Tagged ‘Imagination’
“Maybe the fear is that
My sixth nomination for the WordPress Family Award is to David Kanigan at http://davidkanigan.com/ whose blog is, “ Lead, Learn, Live. When when asked about his inspiration for blogging, said “if you are blogging for other people you are going to be disappointed…even if no one would read it, I would still blog…this is a great chance for me to clear my thoughts and put them into the world, what an opportunity.”
You will never be disappointed with his wonderful posts and suggested readings for others. He truely is one of the most egalitarian bloggers I know of. David is one of a kind that should not be missed.
“There, don’t you hear it too?
Something is calling, although
The day is blank and gray.
The eye fastened on nothing,
The ear undistracted
And we with nothing to say.
But still that sense of calling,
Of something seeking attention
Beyond our consciousness.
That voice in voiceless things
When they cease to be themselves,
Losing their choice and purpose.
Joining the indiscriminate
Otherness which surrounds us
At our own times of withdrawal.
It is then that the world calls us
As if to reinterpret
Or to reconfigure.
Whose is this voice? A god’s?
Surely not. It seems
To be the voice of duty
That speaks of origins
And of relationships
Between things grown apart.
And I remember the muezzin
Singing every morning
Raptly, as if for himself.
Singing in the dark hour
At a distance, over all,
And yet outside our door.
His practised lilt spoke more
Of the puzzles of night than of
The determinations of morning.
As though the light had still
To be charmed into being
And each day a reward.
The voice is much like his,
A commanding meditation
Rising from the blankness.
Of a sleeping senselessness,
But stirring us to beauty.
And like his, the voice
Links us for a while
In its reiterations
Then ends abruptly, as if
Distracted by something else
Of no great importance.”
~ John Fuller
“The universe does not
revolve around you.
The stars and planets spinning
through the ballroom of space
dance with one another
quite outside of your small life.
You cannot hold gravity
or seasons; even air and water
inevitably evade your grasp.
Why not, then, let go?
You could move through time
like a shark through water,
neither restless or ceasing,
absorbed in and absorbing
the native element.
Why pretend you can do otherwise?
The world comes in at every pore,
mixes in your blood before
breath releases you into
the world again. Did you think
the fragile boundary of your skin
could build a wall?
Listen. Every molecule is humming
its particular pitch.
Of course you are a symphony.
Whose tune do you think
the planets are singing
as they dance?”
~ Lynn Ungar
‘What if this road, that has held no surprises
these many years, decided not to go
home after all; what if it could turn
left or right with no more ado
than a kite-tail? What if its tarry skin
were like a long, supple bolt of cloth,
that is shaken and rolled out, and takes
a new shape from the contours beneath?
And if it chose to lay itself down
in a new way; around a blind corner,
across hills you must climb without knowing
what’s on the other side; who would not hanker
to be going, at all risks? Who wants to know
a story’s end, or where a road will go?”
~ Sheenagh Pugh
“Here is the road: the light
comes and goes then returns again.
Be gentle with your fellow travelers
as they move through the world of stone and stars
whirling with you yet every one alone.
The road waits.
Do not ask questions but when it invites you
to dance at daybreak, say yes.
Each step is the journey; a single note the song.”
~ Arlene Gay Levine
“somewhere I have never traveled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which I cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look easily will unclose me
though I have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skillfully, mysteriously) her first rose
or if your wish be to close me, I and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
(I do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands”
~ e. e. cummings
“Meditation is old and honorable, so why should I
not sit, every morning of my life, on the hillside,
looking into the shining world? Because, properly
attended to, delight, as well as havoc, is suggestion.
Can one be passionate about the just, the
ideal, the sublime, and the holy, and yet commit
to no labor in its cause? I don’t think so.
All summations have a beginning, all effect has a
story, all kindness begins with the sown seed.
Thought buds toward radiance. The gospel of
light is the crossroads of — indolence, or action.”
Be ignited, or be gone.
~ Mary Oliver
“The cursive crawl, the squared-off characters
these by themselves delight, even without
a meaning, in a foreign language, in
Chinese, for instance, or when skaters curve
all day across the lake, scoring their white
records in ice. Being intelligible,
these winding ways with their audacities
and delicate hesitations, they become
miraculous, so intimately, out there
at the pen’s point or brush’s tip, do world
and spirit wed. The small bones of the wrist
balance against great skeletons of stars
exactly; the blind bat surveys his way
by echo alone. Still, the point of style
is character. The universe induces
a different tremor in every hand, from the
check-forger’s to that of the Emperor
Hui Tsung, who called his own calligraphy
the ‘Slender Gold.’ A nervous man
writes nervously of a nervous world, and so on.
Miraculous. It is as though the world
were a great writing. Having said so much,
let us allow there is more to the world
than writing: continental faults are not
bare convoluted fissures in the brain.
Not only must the skaters soon go home;
also the hard inscription of their skates
is scored across the open water, which long
remembers nothing, neither wind nor wake.”
~ Howard Nemerov, from The Collected Poems of Howard Nemerov