we rise early, silently, in the darkness before dawn
each brush stroke of sound a meditation on the smallest of life’s tasks: making the bed putting on clothes glasses off, contacts in, jacket and hat the rain drums its fingers on the roof impatiently as we move about but each actions requires attention its own planting, blooming, and dying we make our way to the dharma hall the inhospitable nature of the world evident our houses, our places of comfort subject to its dominion it is not cruel, nor kind it is indifferent it just is lights in the hall now, brashly against the morning there is coffee to be made tea to be poured the warmth of a mug pleasant to the hands each moment is a wreath, both solemn and joyful laid at the altar of awareness which is always falling, dying with each breath then rising, born again here we sit silently listening, noting, drifting and returning there is love here, great love the kind of love that soldiers and farmers know the kinship of sacrifice and fertile soil loneliness and yearning for refuge all things converge in the now we breathe rising and falling rising and falling soon we will join the dance hall of life the rushing stream the crowded confusion the delusion of separation but for now we breathe together and await the arrival of the newborn sun —Glen Gaidos
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When the signs of age begin to mark my body (and still more when they touch my mind); when the ill that is to diminish me or carry me off strikes from without, or is born within me; when the painful moment comes in which I suddenly awaken to the fact that I am ill or growing old; and above all at that last moment when I feel I am losing hold of myself and am absolutely passive within the hands of the great unknown forces that have formed me; in all these dark moments, O God, grant that I may understand that it is You (provided only my faith is strong enough) who are painfully parting the fibers of my being in order to penetrate to the very marrow of my substance and bear me away within Yourself. Pere Teilhard de Chardin Le Milieu Divin 1926-27 While spoon-feeding him with one hand
she holds his hand with her other hand, or rather lets it rest on top of his, which is permanently clenched shut. When he turns his head away, she reaches around and puts in the spoonful blind. He will not accept the next morsel until he has completely chewed this one. His bright squint tells her he finds the shrimp she has just put in delicious. Next to the voice and touch of those we love, food may be our last pleasure on earth– a man on death row takes his T-bone in small bites and swishes each sip of the jug wine around in his mouth, tomorrow will be too late for them to jolt this supper out of him... |
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