“The
disciples were full of questions about God.
Said
the Master, “God is Unknown, the Unknowable. Every statement about Him, every
answer to your questions, is a distortion of the Truth.”
The
disciples were bewildered. “Then why do you speak about Him at all?”
“Why
does the bird sing?” said the Master.
Not
because he has a statement, but because he has a song.
The words of the Scholar are to be
understood. The words of the Master are not to be understood. They are to be
listened to as one listens to the wind in the trees and the sound of the river
and the song of the bird. They will awaken something within the heart that is
beyond all knowledge.”
- “The Song of the Bird”
The
pilgrim wonders if this bird singing before the first light of day proclaims or
celebrates the forthcoming illumination and warmth. He meditates in questions.
Is it a song of anticipating something really great and magnificent? Is it the song of
farewell to the darkness and aloneness of night? Is it an aria of hope and
gratitude? Is this a prayer that echoes my own heart’s yearning? Does gaining
any understanding of the motivation of this song or the nature of this
feathered co-pilgrim make a difference in life? Listening to the wind or being present to the simple gentle
swaying of the new born leaves in the not quite dawn mystically fills a void in
a way no other experience can fuel his fire with a genuine equanimity of love.
The
absence of the sweet morning songs during the previous barren grey season is quickly
consigned to oblivion. Seasons change. Impermanence. The swift V formation of
geese gliding piercing the morning sky celebrate as they honk their way north
while the union gulls are diligent in their work effortlessly making their announcement
that the tide is in and the beach is now ready to welcome sun and sea
worshippers alike.
An unseen
owl continues her repeating query as the pilgrim attempts to let go and let the
May morning fill his soul. “No more questions,” he says. “No answers .No
solutions.” Being present without distraction is truth, is life. After what seemed
to be an endless wait-filled moratorium the morning sun finally makes
her unpretentious yet majestic appearance above the horizon on the ocean of
mercy. The pilgrim exhales and is humbled and free ,
Morning Phase - Beck ( Smart phones click on link)
Will there really be a morning –
Conspirare
Morning Poem
Every morning
the world
is created.
Under the orange
sticks of the sun
the heaped
ashes of the night
turn into leaves again
and fasten themselves to the high
branches ---
and the ponds appear
like black cloth
on which are painted islands
of summer lilies.
If it is your nature
to be happy
you will swim away along the soft
trails
for hours, your imagination
alighting everywhere.
And if your spirit
carries within it
the thorn
that is heavier than lead ---
if it's all you can do
to keep on trudging ---
there is still
somewhere deep within you
a beast shouting that the earth
is exactly what it wanted ---
each pond with its blazing lilies
is a prayer heard and answered
lavishly,
every morning,
whether or not
you have ever dared to be happy,
whether or not
you have ever dared to pray.
- Mary Oliver
amdg
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