In this hour of longing
Reflection brings to mind each day gone by
And in each one
Was less of sorrow
~Izumi Shikibu (Trans: AS Omori & K Doi, Diaries of Court Ladies of Old Japan)
Sunday Sayings post inspired by poetrypix.com
While walking on a trail that parallels a creek, I suddenly found myself absorbed in the movement of the water’s reflection upon an abutment. I thought to share with hopes you also enjoy this experience.
the cries of yesterday
sink into reflections
Even into the mind always clouded with grief,
There is cast the reflection of the bright moon ~The Sarashina Diary (Diaries of Court Ladies of Old Japan)
image submitted in response to Patti’s lens-artists photo challenge: reflections
Teachers often ask students to make many drawings of the same object with a variety of materials. The impact of choice is made clear when a student compares the different feelings they get from drawings in charcoal, ink, pencil, and colored pastel. By setting tight limits on what can be drawn, the mind is focused on what it feels like to work inside and outside of expectations. Making art with physical materials presents no shortage of limits–years of practice may be required to master the techniques of media like oil paint or the variabilities of wood or stone carving. Mastering our inner resistance, our fears of criticism, and doubts about our talent may take equally long. ~J F Simon Jr, Drawing Your Own Path
Isn’t it true that it’s not people who meet,
but rather the shadows cast by their imaginations?
~Pascal Mercier, Night Train to Lisbon
a tumble jumble babble
“…there is something more fundamental about the world that is brought into being by the right hemisphere, with its betweenness, its mode of knowing which involves reciprocation, a reverberative process, back and forth, compared with the linear, sequential, unidirectional method of building up a picture favored by the left hemisphere.” ~I McGilchrist, The Master and his Emissary
I’m in a forest of tall pine trees. Smooth river rocks and trimmed elephant grass edge a pathway covered with dark red, black, and gray colored gravel stones. The pine trees release their scent as they sway with the breeze. The singsong of birds fills the air as they flitter from one branch to another. Before me I see a clearing illuminated by the rays of the morning sun. As I step into the clearing, I feel warmth of the sun’s touch and see a house centered within a fallowed field and question, “is this home?”
As I make my way through the fallow field, I find three ancient keys lying within a dust-filled furrow. Silver is the first key. A knowing tells me it opens a door to a space of tranquil abiding. Gold is the second key. It gives admission to a room of healing serenity. Diamonds make up the third key. It unlocks a keepsake of my remembrances.
The awakened groan of the wood planks welcome me as I step onto the weathered porch that surrounds the house. I find that the silver key fits the lock of an entryway door. Before I open the door and step over the threshold, I feel compelled to turn around and, with non-judgmental awareness, attend to and then put aside all that I see within and beyond the wheat field.
I step over the threshold and feel an inviting atmosphere of affectionate acceptance that encourages me to wander unencumbered throughout the interior of the house.
I find myself at the bottom of a stairway which I ascend. On the second floor I enter a room lightened by the light of the midday sun entering a picture window painted by the landscape that extends to where the blue ridge of the sky touches the earth’s multi-green jagged horizon. Opposite to the window is a ceiling-to-floor bookcase lined with books, aged and worn. The warmth within this room embraces me with stillness, silence, and clarity. My eyes light upon a small trunk and I know that it is for me. As I pick up the trunk I find that it is light and fits with ease into the cradle of my arm.
I leave this room and again walk about the house. I find that the gold key opens a door to a central room of calm solitude. Stepping into this room I sense the presence of a compassionate being who introduces herself as Sophia, the aged guardian of the innermost things, “my heart hears the wordless tears and fears within your heart and feels the quiver of your heart-filled joys. You have entered the hearth of your home, an ancient site of healing.”
I sit comfortably on the floor and open the trunk with the third key. As I explore the contents, I understand that they are mementos of my life’s journey. My consciousness, mind, and body move in unison with the moment of my breath’s spirit as I hold one keepsake after another. I acknowledge the memories, images, feelings that each memento evokes with the reminder that I am in a space of healing serenity and that I am not alone.
I feel a slight tugging within my heart as dark memories hidden within darker shadows accept the invitation to ride upon the in-breath of the compassionate guardian. With their departure, my body releases long-held tears. With my in-breath, I hear her whisper, “This is a time of healing transformation”, and I feel a wondrous golden energy spread throughout my body.
A calling beckons me from beyond this house that feels like home. I hear permission to leave with a chosen remembrance or to place whatever arose back in the trunk. I step over the threshold; I feel an invitation to return whenever I wish.
Excerpts from B Koeford, A Meditative Journey with Saldage
In the higher Buddhist view, appearances rise from emptiness and dissolve again…It is a process like birth, living, and dying…practice letting come and go…we may rest longer and longer in the space of openness…Don’t try to shape the oneness, or see it as one thing or another, or gain anything from it. Just let things be. This is the way to find your center. ~Tulku Thondup, The Healing Power of Mind