Creative expressions from Sangha Members
May We Exist
By Ed Sancious
How often do we see?
How often do we see ourselves?
How often are selves inclined to be seen?
Is certainty only face to face?
The body tries to say all,
yet it barely offers what it can.
Wholeness, by design,
hinges on the lyrics of the heart.
Syncing breath with being.
Embracing ancestors in the blood.
We are birthed inert, yet bonded,
by ordinary miracles
and manageable necessities.
Being human – being perfectly imperfect.
Being mindful,
learning there is that watershed moment
which is a drop,
which is a stream,
which is the wave
that washes away illusion
that without the mud
there will be a lotus.
Dysfunction Junction
by Kathy Smith
The Seven Languages of Sorrow: How Grief Can Be Expressed by Stephen Garrett
Circle of Life by Sangha Member Kathy Smith inspired by one of our Sangha Gathering Calls.
The Glass is Already Broken
By Stephen and Ondrea Levine
Once someone asked a well-known Thai meditation master, "In this world where everything changes, where nothing remains the same, where loss and grief are inherent in our very coming into existence, how can there be any happiness? How can we find security when we see that we can't count on anything being the way we want it to be?" The teacher, looking compassionately at this fellow, held up a drinking glass that had been given to him earlier in the morning and said, "You see this goblet? For me this glass is already broken. I enjoy it. I drink out of it. It holds my water admirably, sometimes even reflecting the sun in beautiful patterns. If I should tap it, it has a lovely ring to it. But when I put this glass on a shelf and the wind knocks it over, or my elbow brushes it off the table and it falls to the ground and shatters, I say, 'Of course.' When I understand that this glass is already broken, every moment with it is precious. Every moment is just as it is, and nothing need be otherwise.
When we recognize that, just like the glass, our body is already broken, that indeed we are already dead, then life becomes precious, and we open to it just as it is, in the moment it is occurring. When we understand that all our loved ones are already dead — our children, our mates, our friends — how precious they become. How little fear can interpose; how little doubt can estrange us. When you live your life as though you're already dead, life takes on new meaning. Each moment becomes a whole lifetime, a universe unto itself.
When we realize we are already dead, our priorities change, our heart opens, and our mind begins to clear of the fog of old holdings and pretendings. We watch all life in transit, and what matters becomes instantly apparent: the transmission of love; the letting go of obstacles to understanding; the relinquishment of our grasping, of our hiding from ourselves. Seeing the mercilessness of our self-strangulation, we begin to come gently into the light we share with all beings. If we take each teaching, each loss, each gain, each fear, each joy as it arises and experience it fully, life becomes workable. We are no longer a "victim of life." And then every experience, even the loss of our dearest one, becomes another opportunity for awakening.
If our only spiritual practice were to live as though we were already dead, relating to all we meet, to all we do, as though it were our final moments in the world, what time would there be for old games or falsehoods or posturing? If we lived our life as though we were already dead, as though our children were already dead, how much time would there be for self-protection and the re-creation of ancient mirages? Only love would be appropriate, only the truth.
Relax
by Ellen Bass
Bad things are going to happen.
Your tomatoes will grow a fungus
and your cat will get run over.
Someone will leave the bag with the ice cream
melting in the car and throw
your blue cashmere sweater in the drier.
Your husband will sleep
with a girl your daughter’s age, her breasts spilling
out of her blouse. Or your wife
will remember she’s a lesbian
and leave you for the woman next door. The other cat—
the one you never really liked—will contract a disease
that requires you to pry open its feverish mouth
every four hours. Your parents will die.
No matter how many vitamins you take,
how much Pilates, you’ll lose your keys,
your hair and your memory. If your daughter
doesn’t plug her heart
into every live socket she passes,
you’ll come home to find your son has emptied
the refrigerator, dragged it to the curb,
and called the used appliance store for a pick up—drug money.
There’s a Buddhist story of a woman chased by a tiger.
When she comes to a cliff, she sees a sturdy vine
and climbs half way down. But there’s also a tiger below.
And two mice—one white, one black—scurry out
and begin to gnaw at the vine. At this point
she notices a wild strawberry growing from a crevice.
She looks up, down, at the mice.
Then she eats the strawberry.
So here’s the view, the breeze, the pulse
in your throat. Your wallet will be stolen, you’ll get fat,
slip on the bathroom tiles of a foreign hotel
and crack your hip. You’ll be lonely.
Oh taste how sweet and tart
the red juice is, how the tiny seeds
crunch between your teeth.
TOO MUCH
by David DInner
Too much to bear, this terror-filled
incarnation.
Too much to squeeze into coherent thoughts—
into pan fried, butter toasted, pressure cooked
Existence.
Drawn and quartered, given no way
to barter for the dollar we paid.
But we try.
We contrive to ask questions `
that have no answers,
or at least,
blinded by hindsight from injurious pasts,
no way that we know of to arrive at
solutions.
Sitting by the window in the morning light
I arrive again at an irrefutable conclusion.
Infinite reality contains everything and nothing,
all at once,
and by inference, I am not real-
I am not my body, not everything, not nothing.
An illusion.
And yet, I have this goddam flesh,
bone, nerves, blood vessels,
a crick in my neck, an ache in my heart,
ingrown toenails and the flu.
And dreams. Yes, dreams,
that contain immediate pleasures,
pains and memories, grief and trauma.
Not nothing, not everything
I don’t mean to sound callous
like that bit of skin
that refuses to allow
a feeling in.
After all, those memories are often held
in small packages of cells,
secreted somewhere in hidden places
hard to find.
But when I breathe and allow my mind
to cease its baby screams,
I do not want to escape.
Somewhere in the before-it-all,
I made a pact, whether real or conceit,
to live exactly what’s in the miracle
of existence.
Now I can cease striving to escape
into so-called enlightenment,
inhabit my body–– become fully me—
to stare the serpent in the eye,
turn it back to where it came.
My fear.
Only Shakti, the feminine expression
of the whole enchilada
could manifest such a laugh as this,
for Shiva’s entertainment.
atoms, molecules, cells, bodies
and all it takes to venture
out of the unity of the Garden,
into the wonder of wonders,
the push and pull, up and down,
back and forth of that duel
with duality.
I see her dancing up in Heaven
or wherever Gods hang about
with her Mona Lisa smile
at her own ingenious craft
of piddling, fiddling and riddling me
to pull off this magic trick of life
with my unconscious accord.
Cosmic jokery.
Ha Ha.
Gupta
by Gene Pascucci
Met this little holy man in Puttaparti, India in 1988, at Sai Baba’s Ashram.
Can’t remember his name so I called him Gupta. It means... the protector. I was 35 on a spiritual, meditation, sojourn with three of my best buddies.
Little did I know, he was about to share a Golden Nugget that was very enlightening, transformational and awakening.
He invited us into his small abode. I asked, him what it is like to observe 4 Westerners? In his Hindi accent and cute little manner- tipping his head side to side- he said, “it is quite entertaining to observe the West.” He asked me, “are you aware of the chakras?” (The energy centers in the human spine), and in the West it is our endocrine system. I answered yes. He said: "in the West you have everything in the lower three chakras. They are the lower self- represented by your bowel, your gonads, and your belly…your survival, your sexuality, and your power.” "If you can’t eat it, make love to it, or own it…you are not very well entertained by much else. "
He said the heart is the 4th chakra, the crossover, from the lower self into the higher self. It represents compassion and recognition of one’s connection to Deity. The 5th chakra, the throat, is how we express our higher self in the world. The 6th chakra, the third eye, is awakening and living from our higher self. The 7th chakra, the crown chakra, is liberation from the physical body.
Observing... the collective consciousness of the world is trapped in the lower self and the perversions that can be done with them. Survival, sexuality, and power are the media’s captivating narrative. We are so embedded in food, sex, and power.
Gupta… 35 yrs ago- said to me…"when you go home; read your newspapers, your mail, watch your television commercials, and notice… it’s all about lower consciousness... very little attention is given to spirituality.
I’m watching the wealthy elite… the megalomania, the narcissism, the arrogance and the addiction to power...looking down their noses at the rest of us as though we are all stupid and powerless. Jordan Peterson has the psychological definition; he calls it, the Dark Triad... psychopathic, narcissistic, Machiavellianism.
Out of control, miserable, insatiable, power hungry beasts. Gupta said they think they have everything; and he said they do… in the lower self. But they are dead spiritually. Sadly, with politics and media they have trapped the masses.
Culturally, we are banging against the floor of the fourth chakra captured in the lower self wondering what else is there and how do we find it?
Wu ist deine Aufmerksumkeit?… No, not a misspelling.
German for; “ What is your attention on?” How do we manage our attention? Hopefully over the next several newsletters this conversation can be explored. Within all the negativity evokes the opportunity for shifting our attention and moving into our heart chakra. Exploring… kindness, compassion, empathy, and experiencing our direct connection with Deity.
LEGACY
by David Dinner
Why did you wake me,
And who are you anyway?
Your fusty, distant voice
coming from deep within the who-knows-where,
pricking my sleep with words I could not hear.
You put them on my morning tongue to spit
upon this page with stiff, uncertain fingers
without telling me what’s the point.
So here I sit
brewing and stewing and screwing in
nonsense phrases,
squeezing them into some tight
parking spaces
and thinking of death
as I’m wont to do
in the morning
of this evening
of my life cycle.
Not fearful, not tearful but pondering
what I will leave to my loved ones
and those who may wonder where the hell
I have wandered off to and why.
A handful of shekels, a piece of art.
Paltry windfall for a life of joy and suffering.
Advice that is worthless despite that it worked
when the darkness pushed too hard
against my striving toward the maw.
My loved ones.
Your lives have different curses
and different blessings too
Advice of so-called wisdom
will be as if a hammer
to one who lacks a saw.
So, confused, I stumble outside,
lie down and inhale
the damp wisdom of the lawn,
open my senses, the ones still asleep,
to the comfort and terror of Nature.
Jasmine bloomed for nocturnal beings
the hours I slept, their scent
now drifts across the grass,
whispering an olfactory
“good night.”
Ocean waves from Secrets Beach
sing eternal tunes.
Small spears of light crack the day,
spilling it’s worries.
My mind has stories about
nothing, so engaging and important.
Dear Lord! Please let me shut up.
I steady and soften and quiet the words
feel my old body expand and release.
Words subside, mind disappears, body disappears
I disappear.
But when I return I know why you called.
You ushered me to the cemetery of thoughts
to find what I’m leaving behind.
Stillness, I leave you stillness.
A quiet place inside you
with no roadmap to show the way.
Just that it’s possible.
