Showing posts with label Stanley Kunitz. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Stanley Kunitz. Show all posts

Tuesday, July 1, 2025

Lucky:The Pilgrim and The Sherpa




" When in doubt just be...

  present and your authentic self."

- Unknown


"Follow your Bliss"

- Joseph Campbell



"A small group of explorers were guided through 

the Himalayas by one compassionate  

sherpa helping the companions on the 

journey. He would sing, raising and taking down

the traveller's tents , cooking meals , carrying and pulling

supplies and equipment, navigating the

small collective through the dangerous terrain

of the infamous mythical mountains.

One of the group was consistent sharing

his gratitude to the sherpa for his care and service.

The sherpa humbly explained it was just his job, 

"no reason to be thanked," he said softly.

One night a most fierce winter storm 

devastated the group's encampment. 

Lives and equipment lost - destroyed. 

The sherpa missing , one sole survivor,

the grateful explorer.

The survivor - weak, hungry and

in pain collapsed unconscious.

He woke covered in in multiple blankets 

with group of monks carrying him to

a distant hidden magnificent Buddhist monastery. 

There the man was bathed , 

fed and dressed with a fresh monk tunic.

One young contemplative gently invites 

the man to meet the great guru, 

the Abbot of the monastery . 

On their way to the audience the man was told 

all of this was a gift from the Guru who was 

thankful that this adventurer

had graced their home, their temple.

When the Abbot unceremoniously entered the chamber 

the refreshed traveler stood up ,

eyes wide opened ...smiling ear to ear 

recognizing that this Guru 

was the same sherpa who had been servant caring

for the man and his companions on their passage.

- A Zen Story by Anthony DeMello SJ (Adapted)


Inspiration :

Seasons roll on and questions grow deeper. Beliefs are challenged,

old baggage and wounds explored. New roads and rivers 

along unending mountains appear.

No easy choices. No easy answers. Desiring something more 

lasting than the worldly promise of brass rings and rewards.


Sometimes a guide, a sherpa, a voice in the wilderness suddenly

surfaces at unexpected cross roads. 

The journey enters a restrained metamorphic season . 

Seeds of purpose , authenticity , relationships , presence , 

and letting go begin to flourish . Lucky ? 

Synchronicity.


The Writing:

Lucky: The Pilgrim and The Sherpa

As leaves turn brown some creatures become concerned

about  the wind and the rain . Memories of the birth of the 

once-budding trees and flowers, 

and streams being relieved from spring 

rain are not forgotten. 


Walking into the dimly lit waiting room - 

adorned with paintings of European Cathedrals -

the pilgrim had no idea his expectations 

were about to be changed forever. 

What followed was an unexpected

emotional, intellectual , spiritual 

and psychological transformation.

Kirk , the therapist , welcomed the seeker 

into an unmapped Odyssey. 

Their conversations -- on poetry, music, 

books, spiritual fabric of the universe - 

led the pilgrim into

a rabbit hole of discovery.

Kirk was more of a navigator than captain,

more Sherpa than sailor.

One navigates the sea,

the other the soul.


Kirk gently advised: 

"A helmsman can weather rough 

seas and right the vessel by letting go. "

The pilgrim was a good student but slow learner.

He grew more comfortable with the idea of

egoless expectations and silent desires.


The two set out sailing into the deep. 

Kirk, slowly peeling back the layers,

shared the story of his own passage..


The walls separating the heart from the soul, the intellect

and body began to crumble . 

The reason for their relationship  faded into yesterday. 

A new chapter began:

Conversations on spirituality . 

Attending The Dodge Poetry Festival, where their soulmate 

philosopher-poets welcomed searchers 

into their cosmic fold. 

Lake sailing .

Zen tea ceremonies.

Musical jam sessions.


This spiritual journey - infused with wisdom,

art and silence---

was not what the pilgrim expected .

It was, however, exactly what both needed.


Kirk had shared a draft of his autobiography , Lucky. 

The pilgrim noticed something missing:

the story of the "Failed Retreat."

Kirk, a lapsed Catholic, had once been invited by 

his Jesuit Priest-Roshi (Buddhist monk) to an 

interreligious retreat. 

After a day or so ,Kirk told his priest friend ,

"I'm leaving.I don't get it.".

The sun set and rose a few more times.

Then, on  a memorable morning Kirk woke 

thinking ---

I get it!


When the pilgrim first heard that story, he thought

of the cathedral paintings in Kirk's office. 

"You can take the boy of the church",he mused,

" but you can't take the church out of the boy.  

Smiling , Kirk advised, "Write that down."


The seasons began to roll by faster . 

The lives of the two friends drifted apart, 

leaving space for occasional messages and calls.

One night after returning from a weekend with

his family the pilgrim checked his home phone.

It was the voice of Kirk's son. 

The friend who helped him with solving 

life's  puzzle ---his guide --- had passed.


The Jedi in training now on his own.


At the wake in Kirk's home  a heartbroken

daughter welcomed the somber seeker.

"My  father spoke of you," She said, 

"and I know some of your secrets."

Looking into the pilgrim's eyes, she shared something else:

On his deathbed , 

Kirk had looked up and said ,

          "Help me pray." 


Tears slipped down his face. 

He was momentarily puzzled ---

then came his "ah-ha" moment. 

   - His life was his prayer.

      And his prayer, his life.


- JF Sobecki

--------

Poetry: some words and ideas to contemplate

A few selections from a couple of Kirk's favorite Poets.

(Please click on links underneath the video)


News of Death

Last night they came with news of death

not knowing what I would say.


I wanted to say,

"The green wind is running through the fields

making the grass lie flat."


I wanted to say,

"The apple blossom flakes like ash

covering the orchard wall.


I wanted to say,

"the fish float belly up in the slow stream,

stepping stones to the dead."


They asked if I would sleep that night,

I said I did not know.


For the loss I could not speak,

the tongue lay idle in a great darkness,

the heart was strangely open,

the moon had gone,

and it was then

when I said, "He is no longer here"

that the night put its arms around me

and all the white stars turned bitter with grief.

- David Whyte

The Layers 

https://youtu.be/wk6xW41EFoA?feature=shared

Everything is Waiting for you - D. Whyte

https://youtu.be/MgQf5tx1hi4?feature=shared

Music: and such for your listening inspiration

and reflection 

(Please click on links underneath the video)

One Of These Days - N. Young

( Consider this an apology and a start)

https://youtu.be/XtRTA4u5QkU?si=6OgQc-WZV9LUC8-B

Rivers and Roads - Head and Heart

https://youtu.be/2gQLzoy5Jts?feature=shared

Any Road - G. Harrison

https://youtu.be/KCOFOWwCZdc?si=UXZc3vgIyR_A67z_

Simple Gifts- Yo Yo Ma/Allison Kraus

https://youtu.be/baNueuDCue0?feature=shared

Coda: Some additional considerations for your reflection..

Remember who touched you while on your busy passage.


Hope - Bill Moyers ( R.I.P.) w Wendell Berry 

(For Kirk [R.I.P.] Thank you for introducing me to B.Moyers- w The 

Power of the Myth and The Dodge Poetry Festival and

your guidance and friendship)

https://youtu.be/2j_r4jb9AYw?feature=shared

The Holy Longing -J.W. VonGoethe (Favorite Poem Project)


https://youtu.be/8YWoOj5mJMo?feature=shared


And we always need and benefit from a healthy laugh ....

(Kirk would have laughed)

Dalai Llama Walks into a Pizza Shop

https://youtu.be/WZy02_OFErk?feature=shared


AMDG

Copyright 2025 All Rights Reserved JF Sobecki LLC





    











Tuesday, November 1, 2016

True Nature - Going on November

 
Artist Frederick Franck




Frederick Franck in writing about spirituality spoke of the Bodhidarma in the 6th century who said something like “It has been suggested that All That Matters is transmiitted outside of all scriptures, not depending on words or letters but pointing at the true human mind/heart making us see our true nature…”




Sometimes in that birthing moment on the first of November
Chimes singing from the autumn wind
Weaving in and out of the great artist’s canvas,
conjures gold, reds, yellow-orange , and a few
reminiscent lingering forever greens .
Sparks of salvation history
Illuminating and warming the sanctuary .
Sometimes songs and words of unawarded poets
Speak for him more clearly,
They become personal scripture,
consolations to and from his soul .
Distracted and momentarily lost from the present
Forgetting why he is here and where he is headed
He waits on the shores of the ocean of mercy.
"Going on November."


An Autumn 2016 Song and Poem List

Memory Lane – Van Morrison ( click on link)

https://vimeo.com/185388253



"Memory Lane"

 It's Autumn here, going on November
I view the leaves in all their splendour
Is it déjà vu, I just can't remember
I stop a while and take in the scene

I stop a while and ask a stranger
Is this the place that was once called Memory Lane
I don't know where I am or what I'm after
I'm stuck here again back on Memory Lane

Now the leaves are falling and it's coming on to Winter
Nights keep getting shorter and shorter every day
One sign up ahead says 'DANGER'
Another one says 'STOP'
One says 'YIELD THIS WAY'

And it swerves and moves around the corners
And there's flashing lights up ahead 'round the bend
The road curves and twists and turns
And twists and turns and wanders
'Til you get, ' til you get to the very end

Now I'm back here again with more questions than answers
And I'm standing in the pouring rain
There's something moving, moving in the shadows
And it's getting dark now, up on Memory Lane

I stop a while and ask some strangers
Is this the place that was once called Memory Lane
I don't know where I am, don't know what I'm after
I'm stuck here back on Memory Lane

I stop a while and ask some strangers
Is this the place that was once called Memory Lane
Don't know where I am right now or what I'm after
I'm stuck here up, just up on Memory Lane
I'm stuck here up, back on Memory Lane
I'm stuck here back up on Memory Lane
I'm stuck here back, back up on Memory Lane



                                        Urge For Going – T. Rush ( written- J. Mitchell )


                                            https://youtu.be/Vk9QFRvVQQ0


                                        Child of the Wind- B. Cockburn
                                 
                                         https://youtu.be/LiDP82lEnv8



                                         


Autumn Poem by Mary Oliver
In the last jovial, clear-sky days of autumn
the mockingbird
in his monk-gray coat
and his arrowy wings
flies
from the hedge to the top of the pine
and begins to sing — but it's neither loose, nor lilting, nor lovely —
it's more like whistles and truck brakes and dry hinges.
All birds are birds of heaven
but this one, especially, adores the earth so well
he would imitate, for half the day and on into the
evening,
its ticks and wheezings,
and so I have to wait a long time
for the soft, true voice
of his own glossy life
to come through,
and of course I do.
I don't know what it is that makes him, finally, look
inward
to the sweet spring of himself, that mirror of heaven,
but when it happens —
when he lifts his head
and the feathers of his throat tremble,
and he begins, like Saint Francis,
little flutterings and leapings from the pine's forelock,
resettling his strong feet each time among the branches,
I am recalled,
from so many wrong paths I can't count them,
simply to stand, and listen.
All my life I have lived in a kind of haste and darkness
of desire, ambition, accomplishment.
Now the bird is singing, but not anymore of this world.
And something inside myself is fluttering and leaping, is
trying
to type it down, in lumped-up language,
in outcry, in patience, in music, in a snow-white book.


The Layers

I have walked through many lives,
some of them my own,
and I am not who I was,
though some principle of being
abides, from which I struggle
not to stray.
When I look behind,
as I am compelled to look
before I can gather strength
to proceed on my journey,
I see the milestones dwindling
toward the horizon
and the slow fires trailing
from the abandoned camp-sites,
over which scavenger angels
wheel on heavy wings.
Oh, I have made myself a tribe
out of my true affections,
and my tribe is scattered!
How shall the heart be reconciled
to its feast of losses?
In a rising wind
the manic dust of my friends,
those who fell along the way,
bitterly stings my face.
Yet I turn, I turn,
exulting somewhat,
with my will intact to go
wherever I need to go,
and every stone on the road
precious to me.
In my darkest night,
when the moon was covered
and I roamed through wreckage,
a nimbus-clouded voice
directed me:
“Live in the layers,
not on the litter.”
Though I lack the art
to decipher it,
no doubt the next chapter
in my book of transformations
is already written.
I am not done with my changes.

The Journey – David Whyte



The Journey, a poem by David Whyte

Above the mountains
the geese turn into
the light again
Painting their
black silhouettes
on an open sky.
Sometimes everything
has to be
inscribed across
the heavens
so you can find
the one line
already written
inside you.
Sometimes it takes
a great sky
to find that
first, bright
and indescribable
wedge of freedom
in your own heart.
Sometimes with
the bones of the black
sticks left when the fire
has gone out
someone has written
something new
in the ashes of your life.
You are not leaving.
Even as the light fades quickly now,
you are arriving.






amdg















Copyright 2016 JF Sobecki All Rights Reserved