the denial of aging is the denial of death
neither the flypaper
nor my hand
keeps the fly
from its appointed buzz
never too old –
college town shop girl
smites heart with smile
I’m taking a break from daily posting. I’ll start again by August 17th.
Best,
Richard
good friends are love in the Way made flesh
suffering comes from our attachment to preferences (or desires), not their occurrence
(with thanks to Seng-ts’an and Richard Clarke)
like autumn leaves I am dying,
much more slowly,
no less certainly
only now!
then is now!
only now!
we act on our desire, not our reason; without desire, nothing happens
with thanks to Humberto Maturana
different and the same,
different and the same –
the beauty of her face,
the beauty of this cove.
different and the same,
different and the same,
her face, this cove,
beauty is the same.
seagulls float
on waves in the cove,
I float on the ledge above.
if your boat is empty, nothing in the world can oppose you on the river of living
with thanks to Thomas Merton and Chuang Tzu
the self is good for distinguishing oneself from others, other than that…
the “law of karma” is a story told to encourage people who behave badly to behave better
above the weather
until thinking of you –
clouds at eye level
for CN
being present, being here now, is not a choice or an act of will, but an outcome in living best characterized as a gift
spring 1967 –
one night in the kitchen
two friends stand talking when . . .
words stopping the world.
emptiness . . .
light . . .
laughter . . .
words . . .
the world beginning again,
one night in the kitchen.
for GG
we can accept our pain without liking it even though the pain remains until it, as all things, passes
wind-flashed hints of red
from the Chinese pistache –
first notes of fall
sprinting amidst the concerns of everyday life we miss both the finite and the infinite now
late evening solitude –
lightly, quietly,
thoughts resting on you
for BB
102 in the evening shade –
birdsong welcomes night
slowly, softly
for good or ill human beings can believe just about anything . . . I know, I have
whether to speak of the One, emptiness, God, or even in the philosophy of Zen, the nothingness beyond God, is not to describe reality, but to make a poetic choice
there’s nothing to do but what we’re doing until the next moment when we’ll be doing that, whatever that may be
looking forward into the stream of living,
I see hopes, dreams, plans, expectations;
looking back, I see the luck of the drift
a way doesn’t show up in the walking,
it shows up in the telling
a way is only a way afterwards
and then only in the telling –
never in the living
the pointers of a master never reach the Way
garden yin, garden yang
doves and jays
pecking at scattered seed
giving up giving up anger (and sorrow and…)
seems to be doing a job
giving up anger was supposed to do
arrogance limits the already partial view we have of the world leading to cataracts on our capacity for insight and wisdom
in any practice, in any art, the invaluable gift is the critique of the master
morning white highway noise,
once made an anxious beginning,
now lulls me awake
hopeless –
a romantic till the end –
a look, a smile, a lilting voice and dreams arise
I tell myself, “you’re too old,
too bald, too fat…”
no matter, dreams arise