No, 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
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.