The learner-on-the-path
Who will penetrate this earth
& this realm of death
with all its gods?
Who will ferret out
the well-taught Dhamma-saying,
as the skillful flower-arranger
the flower?
will penetrate this earth
& this realm of death
with all its gods.
The learner-on-the-path
will ferret out
the well-taught Dhamma-saying,
as the skillful flower-arranger
the flower.
--Dhammapada (translation by Thanissaro Bhikkhu)
From the current batch of stories circulating today in Western mainstream news: more violence in Iraq, this time directed at the Kurds; there are reports that North Korea tested a new missile by firing it into the Sea of Japan; it is now Easter Sunday for the (Eastern) Orthodox (Christian) Church; and the news is still spreading about the siting of a species of woodpecker thought to be extinct.
At this precise moment in space and time: It is overcast and mildly wimdy outside with a chance of rain. It was dry and sunny this morning just long enough to permit me to mow the lawn. The cola drink I set next to me has become too watery from melting ice to taste very good.
I thought it might be nice today to share a poem. But not from some famous poet or great relatively unknown creative genius. It's one of mine. It stuck out at me today for some reason, so here it is:
The song floats freely on the breeze
playful and without a care
Eyes that smile have heard the tune
Urgency is far away
Hearts welcome tomorrow
yet are content with today
Dreams are waiting just beyond
to fill the sky with stars
The song seranades the setting sun
and shares the beauty of twilight
I was recently talking to someone about the practice of Tibetan Buddhists in which they spend a large amount of time creating intricate and beautiful mandalas to depict the qualities of beauty and interdepedence throughout all of existence and then *poof*, they are wiped away. He shared with me the story of a friend of his who is legally blind who spend weeks or months with his face an inch from the canvass to make painstakingly beautiful paintings, invites his friends over for a viewing, then burns the canvass. I shared the advice I once heard from a famous author (was it Kurt Vonnegut) who suggested writing a poem and then tearing up the paper and throwing away the pieces.
What does all of this mean to you?
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