We all have our stories. Most of us have always reacted passively to our stories, as if they were scripts written in stone, as if they were destiny. Most of us have almost always believed them. To do this work of awakening, our stories are pivotal. We share our stories to gather the courage to attend to our wounds. When the wounds are healed, we can release the stories. With the stories let go, we can stare down the self, now more naked, now thinned, and let go of our attachment to the illusion. We can look at every tender pain, each wound of the fragile psyche, and see that each one led us to this very moment when we can actually see an alternative to living in such a wounded state. Each was a piercing of the paradigm of selfing, each piercing allowing a tiny bit more of the sacred to shine through.
~Kathleen Dowling Singh
when you catch a glimpse of the gracious heart….
inquiry for today~ this is a full summer day……now……
This new year makes it fifty suddenly
gone. Thinking of life’s steady return
to rest cuts deep, driving me to spend
all morning wandering. Skies clear,
air’s breath fresh. I sit with friends
beside this stream flowing far way.
Striped bream weave gentle currents;
calling gulls drift above idle valleys.
Eyes roaming distant waters, I find
ridge above ridge: ti’s nothing like
majestic none-fold immortality peaks,
but to reverent eyes it’s incomparable.
Taking the winejar, I pour a round,
and we start offering brimful toasts;
who knows where today might lead
or if all this will ever come true again.
After a few cups, my heart’s far away,
and I forget thousand-year sorrows;
ranging to the limit of this morning’s joy,
it isn’t tomorrow I’m looking for.