the wild ride of grace….a fool’s game….

20121114-223107No, it’s not fools who turn to mystics. It takes a certain amount of intelligence and imagination to realize the extraordinary queerness and mysteriousness of the world in which we live. The fools, the innumerable fools, take it all for granted, skate about cheerfully on the surface and never think of inquiring what’s underneath……Aldous Huxley

a bit harsh, yet cogent and true….this ignorance we fall back on rids us of wonderment, awe, and beauty….may we weather the odd bits of our lives….like conquering the dark wood to find the magical forest……may we weave our spiritual connections into our challenges, adding depth and raw unity….

Refuge offers support for our journey as we move through joy and sorrow, gain and loss. In refuge, we reaffirm our sacred connection with the world. Refuge is not necessarily religious. We may take refuge in a higher power. We thrive with faith. To live wisely, we need to find a trusting connection to the world. Like setting an intention or dedicating ourself to a goal, taking refuge reorients our life. The ritual of taking refuge can transform our consciousness. Our refuge becomes an inspiration, a touchstone, a wellspring to draw from at every challenge we face….Jack Kornfield

may we remember to refuge in love…

From the window I saw the horses.

I was in Berlin, in winter. The light

was without light, the sky skyless.

The air white like a moistened leaf.

From my window, I could see a deserted arena,

a circle bitten out by the teeth of winter.

All at once, led out by a single man,

ten horses were stepping, stepping into the mist.

Scarcely had they rippled into existence

like flame, than they filled the whole world

of my eyes, empty

till now. Faultless, flaming,

they stepped like ten gods on broad, clean hoofs,

their manes recalling a dream of salt spray.

Their rumps were globes, were oranges.

Their color was amber and honey, fire itself.

Their necks were towers

carved from the stone of pride,

and in their furious eyes, sheer energy

showed itself, a prisoner inside them.

And there, in the silence, at the midpoint

of the day, in a dirty, shabby winter,

the horses’ intense presence was blood,

was rhythm, was the beckoning of treasure.

I saw, I saw and seeing, I came back to life.

There was a fountain, the dance of gold, the sky,

the fire that lives in beautiful things.

I have obliterated that gloomy Berlin winter.

I will not forget the light from these horses.

…..Pablo Neruda

6 thoughts on “the wild ride of grace….a fool’s game….

  1. The road less traveled … Has made all the difference … Not all poets are mystics, or maybe they are but never realize or profess it, for what he writes is often shrouded in mystery, a perception of something greater, or a guiding truth. The Lion in winter, Adonis lost to Hades … What rough beast slouches towards Bethlahem to be born?

    • we all desire to be reborn….admittedly or not….it seems that only falling deep into the mystery helps us to realize, to be in the shrouded mystery, living it….indeed this is the road less traveled….the poets and the wisdom healers….great insight g.f.s….

  2. A poet always, and a seeker still. Yet, I’ve ceased to question stars and signs. I have (at last) begun to listen to the teaching (the love songs) my blood whispers to me. I’ve found the truth in the silence of the heart. Beautiful, Blue. ~ Love ever, Bobbie

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