I sit in the dark, with growling gut;
and pay no mind to food or light,
as long as I'm inclined to write.
A fool claims the first and only thing he sees;
while a sage contemplates possibilities.
Nothing is heavier than what you have in hand.
I am more at odds with myself than with anybody else.
My teacher is love, and all that's made of love is bread for my spirit, life for my soul.
A pure soul is a polished flute, in the fingers of the muse.
When the heart is as clean as a whistle, the purest of muses will play.
Desire nothing of which life can deprive you. Not even life itself.
I am responsible for everything I say, and much of what you hear.
Said the Heart to the Head:
"It is only a matter of time, before you do me in.
You have your razor tongue, and I my paper skin."
Attention is blood well-supplied in the brain. Concentration, when it swells, upright and aroused, and carries all thoughts to the Shaivite shrine. Reflections, lifted on a river of desire, ford the furrows of the winding brain, towards a spiritual erection at the site of the crown.
Lord, strike all cruelty from out my breast! Give to me a good heart, or make evil every good I've got. For cruelty feeds on, and ends by consuming, the heart; as a worm works its way through a fleshy fruit. Consider how quickly a rotten organ, centrally place.d, spoils every organ in the body of virtues. Without love, the sacred wand of brilliance becomes a worldly scepter in a tyrant's hand. Humility is deformed to form servility. Industriousness used for personal gain. The example of the good more than pales before the evil by which it is employed, and only makes of the virtue a more cunning, facile, and sophisticated vice.
Suffering and strength are the same in everyone, and nothing is more beautiful. Knowing a person, -- her private, festering wounds, neglected because no one remembered how to heal them, and the most generous and expansive movements of her heart, -- we cannot help loving her. The closer we come to seeing her, the less we regard whatever separates us from her. We come to see how much we share, and that the things we share are, in fact, the very things which make us human, and which remain the most profound and affecting aspects of our being. Our fear, our aspiration, our courage, our vulnerability: It matters so little which particular conditions arouse these feelings, or what manner of expression they take. Granted, those are more or less unique for each of us, but the feelings themselves are what make us beautiful and human. We should always relate to the feelings of others, even when we are indifferent to, or differently related to, whatever evoked the feelings in them, and whatever behaviors the feelings provoked. The multitude of external stimuli and, finally, the outer effects, are not so important as the internal emotional responses which mediate between them, and which we all share, to greater and lesser degrees.
There is within you a saint, a mature spirit, who may look with circumspection on the writings of the saints, and have mercy on their sins.
I'm weightless, lost, hanging onto this planet by a fuzzy yarn;
a crazy story with threads of guilt, guile, grace, and grief.
Gentle honesty. Gentlemanly. A head more well-formed than well-fed.
I've never seen a fresh cadaver on the road.
Monday, September 9, 2013
Sunday, September 8, 2013
Pensées
Dreams are the rebellion of sleep, and stars are swords raised against a dethroned sun.
Dreaming will never get you where you want to go, -- unless your destination is a reverie; in which case, dreaming is a way of going, and maybe the only practical route there is.
Lightning can turn evening into day,
Yet, only for an instant;
Such is everyone who speaks the truth,
While living in the darkness of a lie.
Few people can perform complex mathematical equations in their heads, and fewer still would try. Yet, everyone imagines he can philosophize extemporaneously, without recourse to the page.
Philosophy is often slandered as an idle pursuit, but nothing could be further from the truth. Besides the fact that no endeavor is more critical to the survival and enlightenment of our species than patient, profound reflection, thinking is a veritable labor in its own right. The philosopher is not so far removed from the brick-layer as we might suppose. When ponderous matters are at stake, words have considerable substance and weight, and the structures erected must be of the finest workmanship, or long they will not stand.
To withhold can also be a form of generosity.
While man is surely mortal, mankind is something more.
The rich man, no less than the poor, dreams of what he does not have, and is disillusioned by what he has.
One day, we will think of sending children to school the way we now think of sending them to workhouses.
White light may be broken into many colors, and God into many gods, but white itself is not a color, and God is not a god. Love may be enacted in many ways, but in it's purest state, it has no form. So, God is worshiped differently in different lands, according to the "metaphysical terrain" of the place, and if the dimensions of the Godhead must be compromised to assume one form or another, it is a holy sacrifice, that God may become apparent in the world.
There are matters, and religion is certainly one of them, so obscure as to attract mostly fools and wise men; the former by the ease with which they misinterpret what is said, and the latter by the sagacity with which they find sense in it. Average intellects, on the other hand, heap equal scorn on things too great and too small for their understanding. They deride and hasten to pass by those subjects which fools have deformed, yet, give their credence to these same interpretations of fools, refusing to countenance them even when sages have reformed them. Rather than question the pronouncements of the foolish, and suppose that such things must appear differently in the eyes of a more contemplative soul, instead, they merely wonder how wise men can be taken in, and commend themselves for being wise, at least, in this. In fact, they are themselves taken in. Though they rightly call the interpretations of fools absurd, they nonetheless assume the correctness of the interpretations, and promptly conclude that the matter is itself absurd. They will not hear it, when a wise man retells the tale a fool has corrupted, but cry out, "We have heard all this from the mouths of fools, and know well what we should make of it." Thus, matters of the highest merit are confounded with the most abject.
That the writings of the mystics sometimes lack lucidity ought to be taken as a matter of course, and not as a serious criticism. It is the least, and therefor the most forgivable, of their faults, -- if indeed it is a fault; for the matters in which they deal are not simple by any means, but subtle beyond the power of language to express. In attempting to indicate the reality of such things as mystery and paradox, it may not only be unavoidable, but even beneficial to retain some elusive sense within the text. The appeal of mysticism is not specifically to the intellect, but to the whole of a man's being, -- so, the objects considered will not be served by the mind which claps down upon them in a spirit of finality, but by the soul which, upon encountering them, unfolds and opens itself out onto infinite vistas of providence and possibility. Truth is not held in the mind, but moves like breath upon the lungs, and alone embraces the world.
Saying a person thinks too much is like saying they climb too much. Trees or mountains. Whatever they like to climb. However high they like to go. The fact that climbing is dangerous, that it may precipitate a fall, is reason enough for many to abandon and advise against it. But then some folks are incurable climbers. They belong in the trees, or in the mountains. Maybe they belong TO them, in some way. Maybe they speak for them.
We live in a culture now where mediocrity passes for modesty, and flippancy for strength. If you speak with any gravity of purpose or breadth of vision, if you give expression to any lofty sentiment or noble aspiration, they'll call you pretentious. If you speak with sincerity, they'll say you just don't get the joke; you're too sensitive. Don't believe it. Don't buy into any of it. It's better to care about something important, and to be sincere; to care about anything at all. I'm tired of the jokes that make light of everything good and real and true; the madness that laughs to scorn everything worthy of respect. Tell me it's not insanity, when the same people who think it's judgmental to challenge empty chatter, are the first to criticize more meaningful words for not being deeds. When you say nothing, they act as though nothing is lacking, and ask nothing of you, but when say something, they scoff and demand action. Do they hear themselves, at all?
Dreaming will never get you where you want to go, -- unless your destination is a reverie; in which case, dreaming is a way of going, and maybe the only practical route there is.
Lightning can turn evening into day,
Yet, only for an instant;
Such is everyone who speaks the truth,
While living in the darkness of a lie.
Few people can perform complex mathematical equations in their heads, and fewer still would try. Yet, everyone imagines he can philosophize extemporaneously, without recourse to the page.
Philosophy is often slandered as an idle pursuit, but nothing could be further from the truth. Besides the fact that no endeavor is more critical to the survival and enlightenment of our species than patient, profound reflection, thinking is a veritable labor in its own right. The philosopher is not so far removed from the brick-layer as we might suppose. When ponderous matters are at stake, words have considerable substance and weight, and the structures erected must be of the finest workmanship, or long they will not stand.
To withhold can also be a form of generosity.
While man is surely mortal, mankind is something more.
The rich man, no less than the poor, dreams of what he does not have, and is disillusioned by what he has.
One day, we will think of sending children to school the way we now think of sending them to workhouses.
White light may be broken into many colors, and God into many gods, but white itself is not a color, and God is not a god. Love may be enacted in many ways, but in it's purest state, it has no form. So, God is worshiped differently in different lands, according to the "metaphysical terrain" of the place, and if the dimensions of the Godhead must be compromised to assume one form or another, it is a holy sacrifice, that God may become apparent in the world.
There are matters, and religion is certainly one of them, so obscure as to attract mostly fools and wise men; the former by the ease with which they misinterpret what is said, and the latter by the sagacity with which they find sense in it. Average intellects, on the other hand, heap equal scorn on things too great and too small for their understanding. They deride and hasten to pass by those subjects which fools have deformed, yet, give their credence to these same interpretations of fools, refusing to countenance them even when sages have reformed them. Rather than question the pronouncements of the foolish, and suppose that such things must appear differently in the eyes of a more contemplative soul, instead, they merely wonder how wise men can be taken in, and commend themselves for being wise, at least, in this. In fact, they are themselves taken in. Though they rightly call the interpretations of fools absurd, they nonetheless assume the correctness of the interpretations, and promptly conclude that the matter is itself absurd. They will not hear it, when a wise man retells the tale a fool has corrupted, but cry out, "We have heard all this from the mouths of fools, and know well what we should make of it." Thus, matters of the highest merit are confounded with the most abject.
That the writings of the mystics sometimes lack lucidity ought to be taken as a matter of course, and not as a serious criticism. It is the least, and therefor the most forgivable, of their faults, -- if indeed it is a fault; for the matters in which they deal are not simple by any means, but subtle beyond the power of language to express. In attempting to indicate the reality of such things as mystery and paradox, it may not only be unavoidable, but even beneficial to retain some elusive sense within the text. The appeal of mysticism is not specifically to the intellect, but to the whole of a man's being, -- so, the objects considered will not be served by the mind which claps down upon them in a spirit of finality, but by the soul which, upon encountering them, unfolds and opens itself out onto infinite vistas of providence and possibility. Truth is not held in the mind, but moves like breath upon the lungs, and alone embraces the world.
Saying a person thinks too much is like saying they climb too much. Trees or mountains. Whatever they like to climb. However high they like to go. The fact that climbing is dangerous, that it may precipitate a fall, is reason enough for many to abandon and advise against it. But then some folks are incurable climbers. They belong in the trees, or in the mountains. Maybe they belong TO them, in some way. Maybe they speak for them.
We live in a culture now where mediocrity passes for modesty, and flippancy for strength. If you speak with any gravity of purpose or breadth of vision, if you give expression to any lofty sentiment or noble aspiration, they'll call you pretentious. If you speak with sincerity, they'll say you just don't get the joke; you're too sensitive. Don't believe it. Don't buy into any of it. It's better to care about something important, and to be sincere; to care about anything at all. I'm tired of the jokes that make light of everything good and real and true; the madness that laughs to scorn everything worthy of respect. Tell me it's not insanity, when the same people who think it's judgmental to challenge empty chatter, are the first to criticize more meaningful words for not being deeds. When you say nothing, they act as though nothing is lacking, and ask nothing of you, but when say something, they scoff and demand action. Do they hear themselves, at all?
Thursday, September 5, 2013
Fragments
If your body is not your temple, your heart is not in it.
Fear darkens that which knowledge had brought to light. It is a kind of "second doubt", which occurs even in the midst of certainty, when the intellect is satisfied, but the will still has need of faith.
In order to be certain of the reality of God, we have to observe his movements in the higher chambers of the heart. Before he will show himself, we must spend a night in the tower of this dark, neglected building. If we hesitate, our indecision is not intellectual, but purely of the will, for we know perfectly well the direction we should take. Who among us has not overheard the spirit of Christ, pacing and dragging a cross, somewhere in his own breast? Or who is not haunted by the specter of his highest ideal, whatever form it takes? Much daring is required to encounter what is closest. It is the fear of powerlessness which causes us to pause before the entrance; for our will would surely be seduced and overcome in the presence of the Most Beloved One. Moreover, it is pride which causes us to fear this loss of power, and not to yield in the name of one admittedly greater than ourselves. Love is only possible when we are humble, for it is when we are humble that we allow ourselves to be led and ruled by love. We must dare to lose ourselves to discover him.
The Holy Spirit moves within us as more or less subtle promptings in the direction of God. It arises from the deep core of our being to remind us of the present moment, -- and of the Divine Presence, the Shekhinah, which infuses all things. It is calm, strong, compassionate, spontaneous, gentle, and detached. It receives with humility all that happens, and has no interest apart from the glorification of God in every moment; to sing the praises of the good, to inspire what is good, and call him "Lord" who is the source and fountain of goods.
Monday, September 2, 2013
The Dead Law And The Living Word
It is not true, that if you appeal to a man's emotions -- his pity, his misery, his sense of honor, or of wonder, -- you may not then make an equal appeal to his reason. For the heart is no impediment to the mind. Even the heart's desire for the fantastical is not altogether unreasonable. It is simply one more thing, the existence of which cannot be gotten around by any maneuver of logic; one more thing which should be admitted into our calculations.
The imagination will have its due, and any picture of reality which does not allow for the existence of miracles will never sit well in the bowels of man. He only sees the world, after all, through the lens of himself, and experiences himself in the midst of his dream. It is natural for perceptions, upon passing through this lens, to become transfigured, embodied in larger-than-life legends, symbols, and characters with personal resonance for him.
These images are not abstracted from the laws and themes for which they stand; on the contrary, they are the fulfillment and the "fleshing out" of those things; their exemplar, and actual manifestation in history. The fact of their subjectivity is no shameful secret; it does not make them less real, but is precisely what allows them to approach mankind, so as to become personal for him.
"Love" is general, while "Christ" is specific. He is One Who Loves, and so lends a face to love in the world. If we cling to him, it is because he provides something tangible to hold. It is a concession to human infirmity, yes, but one which God's mercy evidently permits and puts to good use. And it is nothing if not reasonable.
The imagination will have its due, and any picture of reality which does not allow for the existence of miracles will never sit well in the bowels of man. He only sees the world, after all, through the lens of himself, and experiences himself in the midst of his dream. It is natural for perceptions, upon passing through this lens, to become transfigured, embodied in larger-than-life legends, symbols, and characters with personal resonance for him.
These images are not abstracted from the laws and themes for which they stand; on the contrary, they are the fulfillment and the "fleshing out" of those things; their exemplar, and actual manifestation in history. The fact of their subjectivity is no shameful secret; it does not make them less real, but is precisely what allows them to approach mankind, so as to become personal for him.
"Love" is general, while "Christ" is specific. He is One Who Loves, and so lends a face to love in the world. If we cling to him, it is because he provides something tangible to hold. It is a concession to human infirmity, yes, but one which God's mercy evidently permits and puts to good use. And it is nothing if not reasonable.
Friday, August 30, 2013
Ritual Intention
"There was nothing in it, but then I offered it to God"...
The ceremony would be empty, meaningless and without effect, if we did not perform it for the loving sake of God. It is the purity of our intention alone, which transmagnifies the ritual and makes it real. In the offering of our efforts to God we make them holy, and sanctify the smallest thing. Even the highest is exalted by our praise.
The Virgin Mary herself would be powerless to intercede for us, if her simple appearance were not enough to excite our subtlest affection, inspiring within us the recollection of God and His Love.
How beautiful is the Holy Mother of God? Beauty itself is ugly beside Her; She is beauty when beauty is not. No speech can convey the splendor of Her gestures. Never a heart mistook Her intention; none failed to yield Her its utmost. O, Blessed Virgin, magnify the sensitivity to beauty in our hearts, that we may receive you in the fullness of perfection which is yours!
All the power in a cross is the substance of remembrance; for we have within us the memory of the true cross, of which the outer is a servant and faithful reflection.
Thursday, August 29, 2013
Flashes
There was nothing holy in it, but then I offered it to God.
Write your love letters to God, and seal them with a mist.
Nobody makes history like one who lives in the present.
I crash the alchemical wedding, and stumble onto everything;
see more than I am fit to say, and say more than I am fit to do.
I had to lose the way, to find the wilderness.
Write your love letters to God, and seal them with a mist.
Nobody makes history like one who lives in the present.
are consumed by their enthusiasm for God.
The highest intelligence makes matters simple. It speaks with the innocence of a child, so that children can understand. It does not hesitate to call a mystery a mystery, or a miracle a miracle. It has no desire to complicate them, nor explain them cleverly away. Children do not need miracles explained, anyway. They take them as a matter of fact.
It wouldn't be a miracle, if it didn't happen.
I crash the alchemical wedding, and stumble onto everything;
see more than I am fit to say, and say more than I am fit to do.
Lightning can turn evening into day, yet, only for an instant;
such is everyone who speaks the truth, while living in a lie.
such is everyone who speaks the truth, while living in a lie.
It is not stealing when the man is rich;
nor is it charity when he is poor, --
only the beginning of justice.
Arrogance is when I accuse you.
Modesty is when I accuse myself.
Humility is when I accuse us both.
Love is when God pardons all.
nor is it charity when he is poor, --
only the beginning of justice.
Arrogance is when I accuse you.
Modesty is when I accuse myself.
Humility is when I accuse us both.
Love is when God pardons all.
I had to lose the way, to find the wilderness.
Why do we say "talents", when we could say "gifts"?
Because we lack the humility to honor God for all things.
Because we lack the humility to honor God for all things.
Don't think it very strange, --
When your child has the gift
Your grandfather took to the grave.
Apologetics
If we had no vices, we would have no use for the training of virtues at all. You see vice in the Church. Very well. The Church was founded on one who denied Christ three times. Vice is a given. But can you see virtue, as well? Can you see a billion learning how to love, as you see a million learning how to hate? There is so much that is good in this. Do not throw away the baby (Jesus) with the holy water. Sure, it got a little dirty when Mary baptized him. What did you expect?
Religion, -- which is to say, the various outer forms of individual religions; their visible shells, if not the inner seed of truth they all share as one -- corresponds to a realm which is subjective, but no less REAL than the objective realm we hold in common. Shiva appears to a Hindu. Or Vishnu, or Brahma... Allah to the Muslim... I have Jesus.
He is God, for me. For me, He is God. He is my personal choice for a "Divine Ideal". He is my avatar. But I do not begrudge other faiths their heroes. If they are idols to me, it is because they must be; because I can choose only one faith, one path, and cannot follow all at once.
And, yes, I would be lying if I said I did not secretly believe that I had guessed correctly; that, in some more objective sense, he really is the one and only true -- or, at any rate, the most honest and faithful, -- reflection of the Godhead and "the will of God for man".
I require a personal god; the most personal god; a brother in Christ, -- as well as a Way.
And I foresee a kingdom where Christianity overwhelms all faiths, not by force, but by love, and the most gentle persuasion. I see Buddhists of the future converting for the love of Jesus, and Pagans for the sake of Mary. And maybe it is only my arrogance or foolishness. But I think Christ deserves to win. Correction: I think he has won, and deserves the honor.
No, I do not mean to be antagonistic about it. Not at all. It is my opinion. And I would not force it on anyone, or threaten them with "hellfire". I only sing the most beautiful song I know, and hope one day they'll join me.
I can also sing with John:
"You may say I'm a dreamer, but I'm not the only one.
I hope one day you'll join us, and the world will live as one."
Of course, he was IMAGINING a world without religion. I know that. But I believe religion IS the dream. The deepest part of it, anyway. Beyond the firmament of artists. In the realm of the mystics. The ones who live in their creations, and make their lives their masterpiece. They are the cathedrals among men.
Religion, -- which is to say, the various outer forms of individual religions; their visible shells, if not the inner seed of truth they all share as one -- corresponds to a realm which is subjective, but no less REAL than the objective realm we hold in common. Shiva appears to a Hindu. Or Vishnu, or Brahma... Allah to the Muslim... I have Jesus.
He is God, for me. For me, He is God. He is my personal choice for a "Divine Ideal". He is my avatar. But I do not begrudge other faiths their heroes. If they are idols to me, it is because they must be; because I can choose only one faith, one path, and cannot follow all at once.
And, yes, I would be lying if I said I did not secretly believe that I had guessed correctly; that, in some more objective sense, he really is the one and only true -- or, at any rate, the most honest and faithful, -- reflection of the Godhead and "the will of God for man".
I require a personal god; the most personal god; a brother in Christ, -- as well as a Way.
And I foresee a kingdom where Christianity overwhelms all faiths, not by force, but by love, and the most gentle persuasion. I see Buddhists of the future converting for the love of Jesus, and Pagans for the sake of Mary. And maybe it is only my arrogance or foolishness. But I think Christ deserves to win. Correction: I think he has won, and deserves the honor.
No, I do not mean to be antagonistic about it. Not at all. It is my opinion. And I would not force it on anyone, or threaten them with "hellfire". I only sing the most beautiful song I know, and hope one day they'll join me.
I can also sing with John:
"You may say I'm a dreamer, but I'm not the only one.
I hope one day you'll join us, and the world will live as one."
Of course, he was IMAGINING a world without religion. I know that. But I believe religion IS the dream. The deepest part of it, anyway. Beyond the firmament of artists. In the realm of the mystics. The ones who live in their creations, and make their lives their masterpiece. They are the cathedrals among men.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)