in the cessation of craving, we touch that dimension of experience that is timeless;
the playful, unimpeded contingency of things emerging from conditions only to become conditions for something else.
…Known as the ‘womb of awakening’ it is the clearing in the still center of being,
the track on which the centered person moves –
it whispers, “Realize me.”
But no sooner is it glimpsed then it is gone.*
“I’ve waited for you
for a long time” – for your song,
my mountain cuckoo ~Issa*
This week, show us a photo of whatever you’d like, but make sure it’s saturated. It can be black and white, a single color, a few hues, or a complete rainbow riot; just make sure it’s rich and powerful. Let’s turn the comments into an instant mood-booster!
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The Spring of my Life
Trans: Sam Hamill
…intentionally, I set my mind upon the engagement of self with the process of reading the words of another with a knowing that I have accepted an invitation to consider an author’s worldview; that is, to place reality upon a shelf or to open a unique window of understanding.
…distraction, from this engagement as I become aware of a shadow presence – a transparent hereness tinted with memories of you. It is as if you emerged from the printed page calling forth shared memories. I feel you sitting silently beside me. Within this silence, I begin to search for words, sentences that covey meanings and insights that awaken the joy that comes from an easing of longing and I hear myself whisper, “Here, a treasured story of thought that reconnects us, reflects a past time of us together, that validates words, ideas—you—and messages, ‘I have heard you within the sharing of love. I delight in knowing you. I wish to thank you for simply being…you are the joy that accompanies a gift in transit to being received.'”
…awareness, the words on the page have faded, I have disengaged myself from the invitation to consider the worldview of another as I entered imagined moments with you. I miss you. I miss us.
…accepting that what I yearn for can never be for I’m in the autumn of my life while you, my child, have now entered your summer as your children dance within their spring. Seasons flow one into another—their circular, repeating patterns defined by an unseen guiding hand—births expectations, hope and trust created from past consistencies.
History is remembrances re-emerging like the youthful sprout fragile in its newness, in its responding to life’s call. Yet, in time this newness will fade and become fragile as one’s autumn yields to their winter.