tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13907413246596037952024-03-05T03:35:16.817-08:00Open Awareness SanghaUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger2125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1390741324659603795.post-47784791789287958892010-02-21T12:35:00.000-08:002010-02-21T12:42:47.053-08:00No Room For Form<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPFGDJFUQ5QypOuFYg-jjCxFwGC9VBu6RiA8tSXN1GHGYbdO_jX1zNXdWKNKXtZstjiHer42gilbsrGEtHdGry63wy0mlCvVaBzvrCbtSNJETNJrRgcpM52acWPjK7D_kBmlG761FFzvk/s1600-h/IMG_0229.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPFGDJFUQ5QypOuFYg-jjCxFwGC9VBu6RiA8tSXN1GHGYbdO_jX1zNXdWKNKXtZstjiHer42gilbsrGEtHdGry63wy0mlCvVaBzvrCbtSNJETNJrRgcpM52acWPjK7D_kBmlG761FFzvk/s320/IMG_0229.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5440799645260497922" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>In loving memory of Joan Morrison</i></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>On the night when you cross the street</div><div>From your shop and your house </div><div>To the cemetery </div><div><br /></div><div>You'll hear me hailing you from inside </div><div>The open grave, and you'll realize </div><div>How we've always been together. </div><div><br /></div><div>I am the clear consciousness-core </div><div>Of your being, the same in </div><div>Ecstasy as in self-hating fatigue. </div><div><br /></div><div>That night, when you escape your fear of snakebite </div><div>And all irritations with the ants, you'll hear </div><div>My familiar voice, see the candle being lit, </div><div>Smell the incense, the surprise meal fixed </div><div>By the lover inside all your other lovers. </div><div><br /></div><div>This heart tumult is my signal </div><div>to you igniting in the tomb. </div><div>So don't fuss with the shroud </div><div>And the graveyard dust. </div><div>Those get ripped open and washed away </div><div>In the music of our final meeting. </div><div><br /></div><div>And don't look for me in human shape, </div><div>I am inside your looking. No room </div><div>For form with love this strong. </div><div><br /></div><div>Beat the drum and let the poets speak. </div><div>This is the day of purification for those who </div><div>Are already mature and initiated into what love is. </div><div><br /></div><div>No need to wait until we die! </div><div>There's more to want here than money </div><div>And being famous and bites of roasted meat. </div><div><br /></div><div>Now, what shall we call this new sort of gazing house </div><div>That has opened in our town where people sit </div><div>Quietly and pour out their glancing Like light, like answering?</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>~ Jalaluddin Rumi </div><div>version by Coleman Barks, The Essential Rumi </div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1390741324659603795.post-16165793773714975772010-02-13T16:57:00.001-08:002010-02-14T15:48:32.248-08:00It Is So Obvious<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih39Tgysh00327ETFW8wq8iQ4Viui2-8xyr80Gh5aVpR08DxRxcOQzv6cbXfruy-iya-VY8cGpFYP4Hb9LOcy1eSUX2rTGWFMSNeWHWXWVqbDFV-HILb0-altXCMCzIHa-huustxGv5CE/s1600-h/IMG_1125.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih39Tgysh00327ETFW8wq8iQ4Viui2-8xyr80Gh5aVpR08DxRxcOQzv6cbXfruy-iya-VY8cGpFYP4Hb9LOcy1eSUX2rTGWFMSNeWHWXWVqbDFV-HILb0-altXCMCzIHa-huustxGv5CE/s320/IMG_1125.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5437903717626326594" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div></div><div><br /></div><div></div><blockquote><div>"It is so obvious that it is not noticed. </div><div><br /></div><div>It is so close that it cannot be known as an object and yet is always known. </div><div><br /></div><div>It is so intimate that every experience, however tiny or vast, is utterly saturated and permeated with its presence. </div><div><br /></div><div>It is so loving that all things possible of being imagined are contained unconditionally within it. </div><div><br /></div><div>It is so open that it receives all things into itself. It is so spacious and unlimited that everything is contained within it.</div><div><br /></div><div>It is so present that every single experience is vibrating with its substance. </div><div><br /></div><div>It is only this open Unknowingness, the source, the substance and the destiny of all experience, that is indicated here, over and over and over again."</div><div></div></blockquote><div><br /></div><div>—Rupert Spira</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0