Poetry is pure white.
It emerges from water covered with drops,
is wrinkled, all in a heap.
It has to be spread out, the skin of this planet,
has to be ironed out, the whiteness from the sea;
and the hands keep moving, moving,
the holy surfaces are smoothed out,
and that is how things get done.
Every day, hands are creating the world,
fire marries steel,
and canvas, linen, and cotton come back
from the skirmishings of the laundries,
and out of light a dove is born-
innocence recovered from the foam.
our commitments not to cause harm begin a beautiful journey to weather this life with grace and clarity….and even when all seems muddied and ugly, the heart lies in softness….waiting for us to remember…..
There is a higher kind of happiness than even the happiness of heaven. That is the happiness and bliss of concentration. We sometimes limit ourselves by preconceptions of purity and happiness. We burden ourselves with unnecessary wings or halos or harps thinking that happiness consists of having certain things or acting in a certain way. When we leave aside our limited views it is possible to open up to deeper experiences of joy. The ‘Divine Abodes’ are states of mind which can be developed through the power of concentration. The first is universal lovingkindness. A mind that has reached this stage of concentration is capable of projecting love infinitely in all directions. The second is compassion for the suffering of all beings- feeling and caring for the sorrow and pain of others. The third is a quality of sympathetic joy, which means sharing and delighting in the happiness of others. The last is equanimity, the perfect balance of mind undisturbed by vicissitudes, ups and downs, joys and sorrows. This is the happiness of clear perception where the mind becomes luminous, and consciousness begins to shine in its clarity. Through the practice of awareness, the mind can enjoy the extraordinary feeling of happiness which comes from deep insight…….Joseph Goldstein
Gripping white bone to the tea kettle
skids me away from a tunneled melancholy,
the oily ripple in a wide, cold day.
A delicate tea becomes a flowing movement, like humble warriors,
stroking and polishing a hot, deep fear.
Making beauty from desolate stones.
Merciful, gleaning and pleasurable, leaf and water and cup
shift unease to solace in a gentle sip.