I have spent many days stringing and unstringing my instrument while the song I came to sing remains unsung….Rabindranath Tagore
images appear like soft rain and sometimes like a storm reverberating through the lit-up sky….french love songs spread through us and the moon is reinvented…..snow becomes an ancient hush that allows our outcry to land in pools of lapis or stillness…..may we know our root senses…..
During peak moments we come ‘out’ of ourselves and connect with something infinite, beyond self. Here is full, pure awareness: we feel ourselves the cause of our creations and simultaneously a part of some expansive, sacred All. Here is the nonduality during which we are most innocent, childlike, spontaneous, vulnerable, unguarded, defenseless and open. We are all these things because our separateness has ended. We are bonded to a unitive force that creates feelings of worthiness, compassion, love; of being responsible, capable, fully able to do. The transcendent instance bestows the sense that all of creation is wonderful, God-filled, orderly and safe. Fears dissolve as if they had never existed, were a lie, a delusion. In fact, my radical suggestion is that none of us cultivate wholeness until, and unless, we have had a peak experience, call it what you will, thus transcending our limited perspective self and meeting ourselves in and as ‘being.’ It is likely that those who have the ‘cosmic sense’ are healthier than the norm. Whatever our faults, we who ‘peak’ are likely to be more autonomous, integrated, open and fully developed than we who haven’t transcended or cannot recall such moments or who actively resist the idea…….Marsha Sinetar
Picks it up, the earth, and gives it to me.
He somewhere walking
and the feel of it: like tides
fingering up, the feel
feeds up me, me a shore, a rising ground.
The earth runs round,
Even oceans hold in its folding plan
and acres that sink
climb dry again.
(There’s philosophy in it.)
No brinks. No
far forever lost and fallen away with you.
Bear up, I. Retaliate with love.
The earth’s turned round like a mill,
and slaves. Observe:
We blind and touch-taught. I catch,
I catch your print, imprint, your pressing,
here. Up my trunk like sap- wells brilliantly-
my coils, current; nerve it is.
Quicker at least I am.
Or it’s he somewhere a-walking, dear.
You man and we can be.
It’s the clay claims us and the
day that says stir and step out