Every day priests minutely examine the Dharma

and endlessly chant complicated sutras.

Before doing that, though,

they should learn how to read the love letters

sent by the wind and the rain,

the snow and the moon.

---

A meal of fresh octopus:

lots of arms, just like Kannon the Goddess

Sacrificed for me, garnished with citron--I revere it so!

The taste of the sea, just divine!

Sorry, Buddha,

this is another precept

I just cannot keep.

---

My real dwelling

has no pillars

and no roof either

so rain cannot soak it

and wind cannot blow it down.

---

Even if I were a god or a buddha you'd be on my mind.

I sit beneath the lamp, a skinny monk chanting love songs.

The fierce autumn wind nearly bowls me over

and my heart is choked with thick clouds.

---

Day and night I cannot keep you out of my thoughts.

In the darkness, on an empty bed, the longing deepens.

I dream of us joining hands, exchanging words of love.

But then the dawn bell

shatters my reverie

and rends my heart.

from "Wild Ways: Zen poems of Ikkyu"

May we raise children who love the unloved things

May we raise children

who love the unloved

things--the dandelion, the

worms and spiderlings.

Children who sense

the rose needs the thorn

& run into rainswept days

the same way they

turn towards sun...

And when they’re grown &

someone has to speak for those

who have no voice

may they draw upon that

wilder bond, those days of

tending tender things

and be the ones.

--Nicolette Sowder

Look Around In Wonder

Look around, look around,

Look around in wonder,

Trace the thunderous cloud above

That feeds the river under.

Look above and look below

And look at last within,

You'll see a river running there

And when you do, jump in.

See the seedling sprouting up,

See the tree that bends,

Keep on seeing through the years

How nothing ever ends.

Watch the hawk and watch the cat

And watch the prey they stalk,

Watch the infant reaching out

That slowly learns to walk.

Watch the curling fern unfurl

And watch it curl again,

See the sunlight through the mist

That hangs above the fen.

Watch the moon peek through the leaves,

And see the stars take shape,

Watch the earth go round and round

A sun it can't escape.

Watch your hands and watch your feet

And watch your changing face,

See it in a river's glass

That's never in one place.

Watch the mountains slowly rise

And sink down toward the sea,

Watch your chest both rise and fall

In perfect harmony.

Look around, look around,

Look around in wonder,

Trace the thunderous cloud above

That feeds the river under.

Look above and look below

And look at last within,

You'll see a river running there

And when you do, jump in.

--David Griswold

Miracle Fatigue

When the blossoms of the winter camellia

glowing white as bone China cups

through the late-February afternoon gloom

don’t give rise

to even a glimmer of delight

I figure I’m just tired

of getting my spirit teased

by every trivial outburst of beauty.

But later when I notice

drops of dew

suspended from the fence wire,

each bead reflecting another whole world

like a necklace of disembodied gods’ eyes

and I don’t shudder or gasp,

I realize I’m suffering

revelation overload.

Yeah, I know: any moment’s

run-of-the-mill exquisiteness

will never come again,

but I just can’t seem to absorb

any more amazement. I’m sick of epiphanies,

weary of wonders.

Dear world, grant me

a few more weeks of restorative boredom.

Your glories will not be diminished

by the absence of my attention.

Come spring, with luck,

I’ll be porous again.

--Charles Goodrich

One Heart

Look at the birds. Even flying

is born

out of nothing. The first sky

is inside you, open

at either end of day.

The work of wings

was always freedom, fastening

one heart to every falling thing.

--Li-Young Lee, from Book of My Nights

Lessons from Darkness

“I'm afraid of the darkness, and the hole in it;

and I see it sometime of every day!”

-Martin Luther, in Luther

Everything you love will perish. Try saying this to yourself

at breakfast, watching the amber-colored tea

swirl in the teapot. Try it on the tree, the clouds, the dog

asleep under the table, the sparrow taking a bath

in the neighbor's gutter. A magician’s act: Presto!

On a morning you feel open enough to embrace it

imagine it gone. Then pack the child’s lunch: smooth the thick

peanut butter, the jeweled raspberry preserves,

over the bread. Tell yourself the world

must go on forever. This is why

you feed her, imagining the day—orderly—

unfolding, imagining what you teach her

is true. Is something she will use. This is why, later, you will go out

into the garden, among the calendula, rosemary, hibiscus,

run your finger along the trunk of hawthorn

as though it were the body

of a lover, thinking of the child

on the steps of the schoolyard, eating her sandwich. Thinking nothing,

transparent air, where her hands are.

--Anita Barrows

I know, you never intended to be in this world.

But you’re in it all the same.

So why not get started immediately.

I mean, belonging to it.

There is so much to admire, to weep over.

And to write music or poems about.

Bless the feet that take you to and fro.

Bless the eyes and the listening ears.

Bless the tongue, the marvel of taste.

Bless touching.

You could live a hundred years, it’s happened.

Or not.

I am speaking from the fortunate platform

of many years,

none of which, I think, I ever wasted.

Do you need a prod?

Do you need a little darkness to get you going?

Let me be as urgent as a knife, then,

and remind you of Keats,

so single of purpose and thinking, for a while,

he had a lifetime. 

~Mary Oliver

 Learn how to exhale; the inhale will take care of itself. -Carla Melucci Ardito

The Wave

(For John O’Donohue)

You arrived as a ripple of change emanating 

from an original, unstoppable,

memory: a then made now,

entirely yourself; found now in the world, 

now as creator of that world.

You were a signature written in sand 

taken by the ocean and scattered

to another wave form, your disappearance 

only made more beautiful

by the everyday arrival of a tide

where my voice can still join yours, 

hungering for the fall of water,

so that walking the reflected sand,

I set myself to learn by your going, 

knowing across death’s wide ocean,

the ultimate parallel to friendship.

From PILGRIM : Poems by David Whyte\

The world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper.

--WB Yeats

Stitching it Together

Today I gather the morning light

as it angles gold across the lawn.

I gather the scent of fennel fronds

in the garden and the surprising sweetness

of the one-bite strawberries

and the softness of the shawl

I thought was lost, but today I found.

I gather the weight of my daughter

as she leans into me on the couch

and the smooth burn of rye whiskey

and the purr of the cat as she naps

deeper into my lap, and I stitch

them together with the thread

of my attention.

Long ago, I learned what I focus on

creates me. Not that I ignore the bindweed,

the news, the drought, the young raccoon

dead beside the road. I do not turn away

from the stories that make me weep.

I am willing to be ferocious—

to stand up for what I know is true.

But I study what is beautiful,

what is generous. I offer it my devotion.

Even in this moment writing this poem,

I stitch in the pauses and the stumblings—

these, too, are beautiful because they are true.

I stitch in the pure potential that steeps

in uncertainty. I stitch in silence. I stitch in hope.

--Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer

Apricity

The miracle is not to walk on water. The miracle is to walk on the green Earth in the present moment, to appreciate the peace and beauty that are available now.

          —Thich Nhat Hanh

Today the miracle is to sit

in the sunlit room and be

in the sunlit room,

to be here and only here,

here in the bountiful silence,

here in the shifting shadows,

here in the hands of midwinter,

not in this same room five years ago,

but now as the tulips

drop the soft curls of their petals

like lingering pink praise.

So seldom in these grief ridden days

do I feel a feeling so pure

as this peace that arrives

on the low-angled light

when I am quiet and still

and the world invites me

to show up for whatever

slim warmth there is,

and know it is enough.

--Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer

when the world

goes mad

become wildly kind

to everyone

everyone

everyone

everyone 

my love,

~ you can’t control

much

but you control how

you treat others

in these breaking news

heartbreaking times 

when nothing feels

certain

let your raw kindness

be a certainty

allow your compassion

to become a North Star

stamped up in

the sky for

others to follow

back home

~ john roedel

I finally understood why I meditate

Nothing happened today

as I sat for five minutes in the dark,

but all day I could feel the everywhere of it,

even as the car was sliding sideways down the hill,

even as my daughter wept, even as my singing group

laughed until we cried, I could feel it still there,

the silence that holds up all sound, the stillness

that cradles all motion, the peace that supports

every disaster, the blue sky behind the clouds.

~ Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer

Small Kindnesses

I’ve been thinking about the way, when you walk

down a crowded aisle, people pull in their legs

to let you by. Or how strangers still say “bless you”

when someone sneezes, a leftover

from the Bubonic plague. “Don’t die,” we are saying.

And sometimes, when you spill lemons

from your grocery bag, someone else will help you

pick them up. Mostly, we don’t want to harm each other.

We want to be handed our cup of coffee hot,

and to say thank you to the person handing it. To smile

at them and for them to smile back. For the waitress

to call us honey when she sets down the bowl of clam chowder,

and for the driver in the red pick-up truck to let us pass.

We have so little of each other, now. So far

from tribe and fire. Only these brief moments of exchange.

What if they are the true dwelling of the holy, these

fleeting temples we make together when we say, “Here,

have my seat,” “Go ahead—you first,” “I like your hat.”

--Danusha Lameris http://www.danushalameris.com/poems.html

Darkness

You, darkness, of whom I am born —

I love you more than the flame

that limits the world

to the circle it illumines

and excludes all the rest.

But the darkness embraces everything:

shapes and shadows, creatures and me,

people, nations — just as they are.

It lets me imagine

a great presence stirring beside me.

I believe in the night.

~ Rainer Maria Rilke, from The Book of Hours

translated by Joanna Macy and Anita Burrows

ORIGINAL:

Du Dunkelheit, aus der ich stamme,

ich liebe dich mehr als die Flamme,

welche die Welt begrenzt,

indem sie glänzt

für irgendeinen Kreis,

aus dem heraus kein Wesen von ihr weiß.

Aber die Dunkelheit hält alles an sich:

Gestalten und Flammen, Tiere und mich,

wie sie's errafft,

Menschen und Mächte -

Und es kann sein: eine große Kraft

rührt sich in meiner Nachbarschaft.

Ich glaube an Nächte.

Some years ago, I was stuck on a crosstown bus in New York City during rush hour. Traffic was barely moving. The bus was filled with cold, tired people who were deeply irritated with one another, with the world itself. Two men barked at each other about a shove that might or might not have been intentional. A pregnant woman got on, and nobody offered her a seat. Rage was in the air; no mercy would be found here.

But as the bus approached Seventh Avenue, the driver got on the intercom. 'Folks,' he said, I know you have had a rough day and you are frustrated. I can’t do anything about the weather or traffic, but here is what I can do. As each one of you gets off the bus, I will reach out my hand to you. As you walk by, drop your troubles into the palm of my hand, okay? Don’t take your problems home to your families tonight, just leave them with me. My route goes right by the Hudson River, and when I drive by there later, I will open the window and throw your troubles in the water."

It was as if a spell had lifted. Everyone burst out laughing. Faces gleamed with surprised delight. People who had been pretending for the past hour not to notice each other’s existence were suddenly grinning at each other like, is this guy serious?

Oh, he was serious.

At the next stop, just as promised, the driver reached out his hand, palm up, and waited. One by one, all the exiting commuters placed their hand just above his and mimed the gesture of dropping something into his palm. Some people laughed as they did this, some teared up but everyone did it. The driver repeated the same lovely ritual at the next stop, too. And the next. All the way to the river.

We live in a hard world, my friends. Sometimes it is extra difficult to be a human being. Sometimes you have a bad day. Sometimes you have a bad day that lasts for several years. You struggle and fail. You lose jobs, money, friends, faith, and love. You witness horrible events unfolding in the news, and you become fearful and withdrawn. There are times when everything seems cloaked in darkness. You long for the light but don’t know where to find it.

But what if you are the light? What if you are the very agent of illumination that a dark situation begs for?. That’s what this bus driver taught me, that anyone can be the light, at any moment. This guy wasn’t some big power player. He wasn’t a spiritual leader. He wasn’t some media-savvy influencer. He was a bus driver, one of society’s most invisible workers. But he possessed real power, and he used it beautifully for our benefit.

When life feels especially grim, or when I feel particularly powerless in the face of the world’s troubles, I think of this man and ask myself, What can I do, right now, to be the light? Of course, I can’t personally end all wars, or solve global warming, or transform vexing people into entirely different creatures. I definitely can’t control traffic. But I do have some influence on everyone I brush up against, even if we never speak or learn each other’s name.

"No matter who you are, or where you are, or how mundane or tough your situation may seem, I believe you can illuminate your world. In fact, I believe this is the only way the world will ever be illuminated, one bright act of grace at a time, all the way to the river."

~ Elizabeth Gilbert

When I choose to see the good side of things, I'm not being naive. It is strategic and necessary. It's how I've learned to survive through everything. I know you see yourself as a fighter. Well, I see myself as one too. This is how I fight. The only thing I know is that we have to be kind. Please, be kind. Especially when we don't know what's going on. 

--Waymond Wang in Everything Everywhere All at Once

Start close in

Start close in,

don’t take 

the second step

or the third,

start with the first

thing

close in,

the step

you don’t want to take.

Start with

the ground

you know,

the pale ground

beneath your feet,

your own

way to begin

the conversation.

Start with your own

question,

give up on other

people’s questions,

don’t let them

smother something

simple.

To hear

another’s voice,

follow

your own voice,

wait until

that voice

becomes an

intimate

private ear

that can

really listen

to another.

Start right now

take a small step

you can call your own,

don’t follow

someone else’s

heroics, be humble

and focused,

start close in,

don’t mistake

that other

for your own.

Start close in,

don’t take

the second step

or the third,

start with the first

thing

close in,

the step

you don’t want to take.

Many Rivers Press © David Whyte

The perfection of generosity challenges us to identify our expectations, projections, and attachments—those things we think we need or don’t need in order to have a “perfect” life—and find a way to release and go beyond them.

Lama Tsomo, “The Depth of Generosity: A Reflection for Giving Tuesday”

In Praise of Craziness, of a Certain Kind

On cold evenings

my grandmother,

with ownership of half her mind-

the other half having flown back to Bohemia-

spread newspapers over the porch floor

so, she said, the garden ants could crawl beneath,

as under a blanket, and keep warm,

and what shall I wish for, for myself,

but, being so struck by the lightning of years,

to be like her with what is left, that loving.

--Mary Oliver

Even this late it happens:

the coming of love, the coming of light. 

You wake and the candles are lit as if by themselves, 

stars gather, dreams pour into your pillows, 

sending up warm bouquets of air.

Even this late the bones of the body shine 

and tomorrow’s dust flares into breath.

Mark Strand, “The Coming of Light,” from The Late Hour (Alfred A. Knopf, 2002)

 “...we toss up our questions and they catch in the trees." (Annie Dillard)