For some there comes a time when a second chance is given.That time then becomes a celebration of the unrecognized gifts of the past and humble gratitude for the wonder of present.
This then is a collection of reflections and comments on life,work,love and faith to be sung ,and danced to, in thanksgiving for a second chance.
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
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)
Does
it seem like some days you are in a never ending dream trekking through some
dark gray Paul Simon-like winter’s day - over and over and over? Books and poetry
begin to lose their comfort. Desolate Chicago blues tunes are the common acceptable
choice to play on your winter weary home stereo. The dog,who normally delights
in brisk walks, hesitates as his senses warn him of the frigid consequence of
stepping through the door.
Television
broadcasts of golf tournaments in summer-like climates are no longer watchable
as viewers sink into deeper doldrums. Local liquor entrepreneurs promote and
delight in the increasing of bourbon and wine sales. A news story of how a
husband and wife who took turns at using their 12 gauge shotgun on their state
of the art flat screen when a 24 hour ice skating marathon was broadcast are
seen as local heroes. Meteorologists hide as they are officially persona non
grata everywhere. Congress,
in its half-hearted attempt at across the aisle collaboration is said to
consider legislation to either shoot the messengers of bad weather or to ban
winter forever. Baseball spring training games are considered as a cruel tease.
Children urge escapes to the home of Mickey Mouse while their parents secretly plan
for a midnight getaway to Hemingway’s retreat at Key West . A nasty rumor leaks
out that the Pope is preparing an encyclical that God has stopped listening to
many in certain sections of the world and that “arctic vortexes” will become
the new norm. There is no new Noah to facilitate escape. Hope wanes.
They
say the next snowstorm will not be as bad as the last one. They say that it is
better to fill the tubs with water just in case the power lines come down due
to the weighted ice. They say the children no longer delight in the “snow days
off” as they will need to make up the time instead of a spring break. They say
the retailers have raised the prices of coats, hats, scarves and gloves. They
say the municipalities have used up their budgets for snow plowing, sanding and
salting. They say get your provisions before the roads freeze. They say, “you
are on your own!”
Without
warning something happens as pieces mystically fall into place. A not–a care-in-the-world giggling
gaggle of cherubs pulling sleds and ice skates saunter off to the hills and
pond past your window. The white
blanket suddenly seems to purify the once dark dismal landscape. A starling’s soft
soothing song sweetens the chilled air. The chimes respond gently to the frosty divine sourced breeze. The late owl’s call continues to query you and you no longer hesitate
to answer. A last minute almost
impromptu family reunion fills your home with unconditional joy and love. All
this is then capped off at your birthday dinner with your family as you
celebrate the now with one breath and in gratitude realize that warmth and
spring is ever present … within. The heart’s voice whispers “Wishes do come
true and everything is good."
The Winter of Listening
Inside everyone
is a great shout of joy
waiting to be born.
Even with the summer
so far off
I feel it grown in me
now and ready
to arrive in the world.
All those years
listening to those
who had
nothing to say.
All those years
forgetting
how everything
has its own voice
to make
itself heard.
All those years
forgetting
how easily
you can belong
to everything
simply by listening.
And the slow
difficulty
of remembering
how everything
is born from
an opposite
and miraculous
otherness.
Silence and winter
has led me to that
otherness.
So let this winter
of listening
be enough
for the new life
I must call my own.
~ David Whyte ~
Shoveling Snow with Buddha
by Billy Collins
In the usual iconography of the temple or the local Wok
you would never see him doing such a thing,
tossing the dry snow over the mountain
of his bare, round shoulder,
his hair tied in a knot,
a model of concentration.
Sitting is more his speed, if that is the word
for what he does, or does not do.
Even the season is wrong for him.
In all his manifestations, is it not warm and slightly humid?
Is this not implied by his serene expression,
that smile so wide it wraps itself around the waist of the universe?
But here we are, working our way down the driveway,
one shovelful at a time.
We toss the light powder into the clear air.
We feel the cold mist on our faces.
And with every heave we disappear
and become lost to each other
in these sudden clouds of our own making,
these fountain-bursts of snow.
This is so much better than a sermon in church,
I say out loud, but Buddha keeps on shoveling.
This is the true religion, the religion of snow,
and sunlight and winter geese barking in the sky,
I say, but he is too busy to hear me.
He has thrown himself into shoveling snow
as if it were the purpose of existence
as if the sign of a perfect life were a clear driveway
"Spring has returned. The Earth is like a child that knows poems. " - Ranier Maria Rilke
March moving slower than a flight of geese against a north wind to an end of a season conjures a final avalanche of memories and great expectations. This is the time when the sun is supposed to proclaim reconciliation. This is the time of the restrained sacred celebration of once barren trees. This is the time crocuses pop pointing heavenwards through the once frozen landscape.
Birds of last summer return choraling praise and gratitude sweetly interrupting the early morning silence. Wakened bear thirsts for the promise of fresh nourishment after months of darkness. Humans believe their springing clocks forward will buy them extra time of holy light and warmth. Sixty-four hardwood warriors battle down to a final four.
Garden tools sharpened. The soil is tilled. Seeds are planted. Faith is restored. That which is sown will be reaped. Flowered bonnets adorn storefront windows calling out to prospective owners seeking something new in their lives. Hoards of coeds invade southern climate beaches renewing ancient Greek traditions of Dionysian celebrations of the vernal equinox. Fear of the Ides comes and goes without drama. St. Patrick’s teachable shamrocks line windows of taverns pouring pints of stout. The Smell of linseed oiled gloves and the appearance of cleaned spikes signal that diamond parks are ready to be invaded.
Rose Sunday, “Rejoice oh Jerusalem!” The vessel prepped for launching. Flicks of blue bottom paint from youthful spirits find their way to their smile gifted faces and a newly winter cleansed car.
“Don't worry. It’s just a car , right dad?’
The voice of innocence, seed of truth penetrating the aging pilgrim with purpose, bringing gifts to the altar. The snow that seemed as if it would never leave slowly succumbs to the Easter that is just a horizon away.
This morning
two birds
fell down the side of the maple tree
like a tuft of fire
a wheel of fire
a love knot
out of control as they plunged through the air
pressed against each other
and I thought
how I meant to live a quite life
how I meant to live a life of mildness and meditation
tapping the careful words against each other
and I thought—
as though I were suddenly spinning like a bar of silver
as though I had shaken my arms and lo! they were wings—
of the Buddha
when he rose from the green garden
when he rose in his powerful ivory body
when it turned to the long dusty road without end
when he covered his hairs with ribbons and the petals of flowers
when he opened his hands to the world
