There is only one place where there are no disturbances. As long as I remain
Still in the center, peace will settle the ripples, creating a continued flow of balance.
Remaining steadfast to the strength that ever upholds me, I can relax, assured
Of my ability to maintain in clarity regardless of those energies not in alliance
The other day, as I was out to “buy” something, I realized that for me, things are much less valuable than experiences. My “things” have a habit of wearing out… my experiences, not so much.
I hold all of my experiences tucked inside of me, and I pull them out like a treasured photo album… ah, but here the analogy ends, for this particular photo album is alive. The photos have not faded, the corners are not bent, each unfolds again and again as I pull it out. The faces have not dimmed over time. None have turned to black and white. They are filled with bright colors, with the lessons and learnings, the emotions and the wonders of all that I am capable of feeling.
What a great camera, what a great cam-corder, I hold the magic button to. Press… LIVE !! Press I AM ALIVE, press I FEEL, press and I THRIVE.
Once upon a time, there was a most magnificent elephant. This elephant was the strongest animal in the land.? Its wisdom was beyond the wisdom of any of the other creatures that lived near it, although it did not condescend to any of those other creatures. It knew, of course, that somewhere in them also was the same wisdom, which the elephant itself relied on.
FulfillmentFulfillment is being held in the arms of that which has loved you since before you were born,
and the celebration of every breath in each moment of living …
Fulfillment is the banishment of all doubt and all fear by the force of an undefeatable love,which has always been and will always remain …
Fulfillment is eyes filled with clarity and a heart resting gently in an ocean of peace, which is home….Fulfillment is the light and melody of the song of truth which is eternally sung in the depths of the soul …
Fulfillment is the purest of healing waters, which has forever been rinsing the dust from the spirit, to clothe it in its own garments of beauty …
Fulfillment is the remembrance of that which has already been written.
Always was and forever will be.
This is the way
It’s inside you
Every minute of the day
Every moment of your life
Stay awake!
Watch your life unfold
Like a story being told
For the first time
As a middle class American male with a healthy dose of resistance to household chores, the broom has never been one of my favorite tools. While I’ve certainly appreciated its timeless design and universal appeal, the act of sweeping has always felt like somebody else’s job.
This belief radically changed for me one fine Spring day in 1980. That was the day I got word that Maharaji was coming to visit the house I was living in — a funky old dwelling on Detroit Street in mile high Denver, Colorado.
Clearly, my housemates and I weren’t ready. The kitchen was dirty. The bathrooms were a wreck. The lawn needed mowing. Mucho stuff needed to be done.
My task? To sweep.
This understanding of light and dark, clarity and confusion, illustrates that not only do both occupy our space, but that we have choice which to give our attention to.
I can sit down to the inner practice that has been revealed, to those who have received this Knowledge, and in the beginning the likelihood of being distracted by thoughts is fairly standard.
However there comes a point where peace occupies the field and I am no longer thinking, for I have entered the state of feeling.
When this occurs you can rest, for you see that the barrage of your thoughts has nothing to do with reality, for eventually your ideas and concerns dissolve back into the ethers, and you are left simply breathing in beauty.
I have written a thousand poems for you
that have never left my room.
They fill the pages of notebooks stacked high on a shelf
no one can reach.
Orphans they are, beggars afraid they are not noble enough for the King,
would never make it past the guards.
I make a vain attempt to dress them up,
disguise their ridiculous origins, but still they smell bad.
There are times, late at night, however, when they think I’m asleep,
I can almost hear them talking to each other,
conjuring new ways to make it to your court.
Oh, the arguments they have! The barroom brawls!
Some of them actually think a shower and a shave is all they need.
Others insist on practicing, all night long, the perfect way of greeting you.
There is much to be said for these backroom bards,
these arm wrestling vagrants from another world.
Indeed, if I was dead,
my ambitious biographer, after paying his due respects
and asking permission of my dear, sweet wife,
would borrow them just long enough to search for pearls
and find the perfect turn of phrase, the verse,
the sudden storm of brilliance even my harshest critics would have to praise.
He’d think of clever titles for the tome, describing, in his carefully written way,
the “man who left his muse too soon”
or some such thing that might make you wonder
why I never gave these poems to you -
the one for whom it all makes sense even when it doesn’t.
gold grass
around the poolbreath’s flute fills
& empties
It makes me weep
to feel how much holding.
(draw your mouth to my ear)What do I wait for, Love?
One chord, one tone.One song,
mine alone.
from the CD of poems,
Holding the Song, wiredonwords
