where sadness breathes like the weight of the world.
but the sound, born of trembling
blends with the rustling of the rushes
and shakes the awakening swan
my immortal soul.
it surges into a world of freedom
where the waves echo the sighing storms
and where the ever changing waters
reflect eternal azure.
from birth to death people sleep.
one day, you begin to wake up. you become aware of several "i's", each with its own demands and expectations.
john bennett describes this awakening . . .
"you have to ask yourself: "what do i really want? who is it in me that want?" each of your centers wants different things. every 'i' in you wants something for itself. there are some things that you really need; for example, you need not only food and clothing and the direct requirements of your bodily life, but you also need certain kinds of impressions. if you do not get those impressions, your spiritual life remains hungry. it can even be starved.
but you have to realize that life can never give you all that you want. it cannot even give you all that you need. if you are hungry for one kind of impression which you cannot get, you have to be clever and try to find what other impressions will give you the food you need. it is true that you need food of impressions. life sometimes will not give us the impressions we need. It is not only that life can deny us impressions and experiences that we want. it often will not give us impressions that are really necessary as food for us. we must study ourselves. we have to learn what kinds of impressions are necessary for work. It is always possible to get what we need if we know how to look for it."
fu hsuan who lived between a.d. 217 and a.d. 278 was born into poverty.
he became wealthy through his writing.
the world also became wealthy through his writing, but in a different way.
a gentle wind
a gentle wind fans the calm night; a bright moon shines on the high tower. a voice whispers, but no one answers when i call; a shadow stirs, but no one comes when I beckon. the kitchen-man brings in a dish of bean-leaves; wine is there, but i do not fill my cup. contentment with poverty is fortune's best gift; riches and honour are the handmaids of disaster. though gold and gems by the world are sought and prized, to me they seem no more than weeds or chaff.
there are watershed moments in our lives that feel like we're setting sail - the journey unfolds like a carpet rolling out across a floor . . . like a prayer flag unravelling in the wind . . .
the following text is a gift from aleks in holland.
it belongs here.
i read it and knew it immediately despite never having seen it before.
it's the story
of this image.
the mythical rain ancestor of the western arrernte people known as kantjia, of kaporilya near hermannsburg mission, is described in this western arrernte song recorded and translated by t.g.h. strehlow:
among the rippling waters he sits without a move,
it is kantjia himself who is sitting without a move.
moveless like a boulder he is sitting;
his hair bedewed with rain he is sitting.
on the fissured rock-plates he is sitting;
on rock-plates welling with water he is sitting.
bedrizzled with rain he sits without a move;
among the rippling waters he sits without a move.
bedrizzled with rain, a reddish glow overspreads him;
among the rippling waters a reddish glow overspreads him.
the sky is clouded with water-moss;
the sky sends down scattered showers.
over the rock-plates the flow is echoing
over the rock-plates green with moss.
spread forth your waters!’
come, moss-covered one,
pour forth your waters!’
come, spread over the waters!’
‘come, drifting twigs,come, spread over the waters!’........