tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-52664263702037241002024-03-13T17:13:32.095-07:00The Pigasus Project.. . . In which a pig piñata project becomes a metaphor for life. If pigs could fly, it would be like a pigger pointing at the moon. This is not a place to collect sign posts. The pig as us!Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17168519733031796908noreply@blogger.comBlogger190125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5266426370203724100.post-11721423802474820102015-06-01T06:51:00.002-07:002015-06-01T06:51:33.249-07:00Wake Up!!<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>More and more.
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>Know less and less.
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>Heart voice sounds
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>Yes! </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>Still sitting; sitting still. </i></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17168519733031796908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5266426370203724100.post-41827567579149020962015-05-01T11:24:00.002-07:002015-05-01T19:11:35.767-07:00A bang or a whimper?<i>T.S. Eliot lamented in his poem, "The Hollow Men", </i><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdvBwiKOwa90abRKhTuMOomNH9hSGtPWb0BdEsuW8NPA8pchMBP9y3OG31pkBsFE_OqvJ8EccBWMc40NWh_8yJjDMjV0mNmy1WB1yesR6KIwkBn0U8ImRazfuNDZklAJD0SLXUx7tgsItx/s1600/images-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdvBwiKOwa90abRKhTuMOomNH9hSGtPWb0BdEsuW8NPA8pchMBP9y3OG31pkBsFE_OqvJ8EccBWMc40NWh_8yJjDMjV0mNmy1WB1yesR6KIwkBn0U8ImRazfuNDZklAJD0SLXUx7tgsItx/s1600/images-1.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i style="font-size: medium; text-align: start;">"This is the way the world ends not with a bang but with a whimper."</i></td></tr>
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Perhaps, if he was alive today Eliot may change his mind and say that the world as we know it may end both ways. Indeed with nature's cataclysmic bangs and shakes of earthquakes, volcanic eruptions, tsunamis, cyclones and tornados, as well as vast mountains of ice melting and raising the levels of the oceans on both ends of our blue green world, our small concerns seem pithy. Parts of our home planet experience devastating flooding, elsewhere years of drought.<br />
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As a simpering, whining species fuelled by an us vs them attitude we wreak havoc on our natural resources and the lives of others and deny that it is happening. The rich behave both wastefully and at the same time believe they don't have enough as they get bigger and wealthier on the backs of others. The middle class and the poor, suffer and struggle for mere survival as slaves to a greedy marketplace, be it for electronics, fashion or sex. We are all sold a bill of goods that states more stuff will make us happier. In our hearts, we know it's not true. We've lost the ability to listen and see what is so even though it is right before our very eyes.<br />
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We complain, "no fair"; we are adamant that it's "not my fault", we point our fingers at others' beliefs, religious, social, sexual preferences and blame them for contaminating "my" belief system. We ludicrously believe that the colour of someone's skin somehow makes them less than and they should be treated inhumanely. In some places, with less respect and care then we would give our cherished pets. It doesn't stop there, elsewhere, species that are not humans are treated as if they too were a belonging to be used, abused and discarded at our own whims. Our patriarchal, mechanistic view of the world continues to devalue women and children as possessions. We treat the temple of the body as a garbage dump and neglect to nourish the mind and soul.<br />
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In all these years on this beautiful planet with all we need for everyone to live a quality and fulfilling life we squander, destroy and bicker. Nature is the great leveller, the catastrophes of the world are a<br />
call for compassion and a dropping of our differences in support of a way we can be there for one another; to witness the loss and suffering of others and to offer a hand to those whose survival is hinged on the kindness and goodness of us all. It is a call to stop dumping our garbage, to stop destroying and wasting our natural resources, including the disregard for countless species.<br />
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Is it too late? Will we wake up and realize that our lives have always depended on the health of our Mother. Or will this chain of cataclysmic events simply burp us off Mother Earth so she can begin the next cycle without the behaviour of us human parasites.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17168519733031796908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5266426370203724100.post-1403792854650378592015-04-23T09:41:00.000-07:002015-04-23T09:41:12.810-07:00Waltzing With Wisdom Who takes the lead when we waltz with wisdom? Is it the brain or is it the heart? Does wisdom come at a cost? The price of innocence lost. Defining wisdom is difficult. Difficult because wisdom cannot be worded, truly. Yes, we are a world that loves words of wisdom, quotes from the wise. Quotes cannot confer wisdom, quotes can only act as pointers. Words of wisdom are often just words upon the ear that knows all. Yet at times wise words can open hearts, stop time, awaken to true self. We speak/quote wise words but it is in the deeds that wisdom is expressed. These deeds are nourished by humility, a longing to serve others and in the "knowing" that each life has its place.<br />
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Difficult or near impossible to define, people generally recognize wisdom when they encounter it. Some of the attributes of wisdom may be tolerance in the uncertainties of life, introspection, a sense of balance and calmness in facing difficulties. From a space of wisdom, we offer spaciousness to others, forgiveness to self and others; wisdom awakens us to the preciousness of this very moment, this very breath.<br />
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How is wisdom different then knowledge? Thinking cannot make it so; wisdom is not an attainment of knowledge. Nor intelligence gained by study or research. It can not be found in books or on the computer. It is not an achievement. Perhaps it can not even be in response to time although aging and its experiences may be fertile grounds for wisdom.<br />
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It is only in the experience of living and of learning from life's lessons that true wisdom is embodied. Wisdom is fluid, adaptable. This is the essence of wisdom.<br />
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What have I learned? We can aspire to wisdom with an open and true heart, a kind and loving nature, and the humility in waking up to all that is. This.<br />
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With these words, I fall short of explaining that which can not be worded.<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17168519733031796908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5266426370203724100.post-6349605314493660522015-04-09T08:40:00.003-07:002015-04-09T08:40:51.024-07:00Over and over and overAnd then over and over and over again in this moment<br />
I am gifted with this breath<br />
This fragrance so subtly sweet<br />
This (feel)<br />
This (sound) of (bird)<br />
This ray of sunshine rising over the hill setting over the field<br />
This terrible news<br />
This sorrow<br />
This kindness<br />
This laughter<br />
This shoulder to lean on<br />
This I love you in the ear<br />
This thought of how could I make up anything greater then this already...<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17168519733031796908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5266426370203724100.post-60135361233444096162015-04-01T08:34:00.000-07:002015-04-01T08:34:45.545-07:00April PhoolishThere's a fool born every minute. Thus we all have the potential to play the fool. Be it the trickster fool who tricks and teases in a harmless way or the malevolent trickster who means to guide us astray by tomfoolery. Or as an archetype, the shadow side of the fool has a bright side. One of waking us up to alternatives to the same-old-same.<br />
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The fool imparts wisdom with social satire and shows us that we don't always have to take the narrow, culturally/socially/politically defined path. Fools may think out of the box and at the same time mock those who are boxed in by tradition. "Little boxes on the hillside, little boxes just the same." The Fool On The Hill looks down, not necessarily on us, but above us with compassion that we have been mesmerized into believing that the socially accepted ways are the only way.<br />
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The jester jests us with gestures of freedom. We can shake off the cloak of illusion and choose to live in a way of kindness and harmony with all beings.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17168519733031796908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5266426370203724100.post-61569294100612083282015-03-31T12:21:00.003-07:002015-03-31T12:21:55.579-07:00Revisiting Pigasus<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Time, perhaps, to briefly review why this blog is called "The Pigasus Project". </span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1SQXXY_kFqVqwWG_MZzCoArNOG0HqRTIM4DPWKBg6jLPZ7wiMQu8-9hKY7aZ8MlKWtn_8cT0YGPHLCMWPJNJR5PYPJVHVlbyawV36njk00Z8x1B8V34CqIqyho1FXZ3W-0QCt4rXULWjz/s1600/Before.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1SQXXY_kFqVqwWG_MZzCoArNOG0HqRTIM4DPWKBg6jLPZ7wiMQu8-9hKY7aZ8MlKWtn_8cT0YGPHLCMWPJNJR5PYPJVHVlbyawV36njk00Z8x1B8V34CqIqyho1FXZ3W-0QCt4rXULWjz/s1600/Before.jpg" height="400" width="323" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Pigasus</b></span><br />Born May 21, 2011<br />Died May 30, 2011<br />"She Hung Around A Short While"</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Annually, in May, we, at Zenwest, offer to the public, adults and children alike, a celebration of Buddha's birthday. Fun for the whole family, it features story telling by our Abbot Eshu Oshu on the birth of the historical Buddha, a chanting ceremony which involves pouring tea over the baby Buddha statue, music, baked treats and, for the kids, a <span class="s1">piñata. (Check on-line at Zenwest.ca if you want to find out more about this event.)</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span class="s1">In 2011, I was assigned the art project of creating the </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">piñata</span><span class="s1" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> and thus, the idea of Pigasus was born. Nobody liked the concept of filling it with assorted veggies wrapped in colourful tinfoil, toothbrushes, dental floss and the like. So candy it was. The tradition of wacking a </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">piñata seems a wee bit brutal. "I will beat you until you give me sweetness." </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">But, perhaps, it's a metaphor for the transient nature of all things. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">As surely as Pigasus was to be born from newsprint, glue, paint and goodies so to was Pigasus to perish. The Pigasus Project grew larger for me as I began to see it more as a symbol of our existence, in a punny way, as the Pig-As-Us. Since I more often play with words then I do art supplies, The Pigasus Project Blog was birthed. The blog limps along, some times fully engaged, other times in a kind of hibernation. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Pigasus herself, created, birthed and lovingly annihilated in a very short span became the impetus of the story of an on-going inward journey and exploration. We are all the pig, not to denigrate the innate intelligence of the sometimes pink mammal, but our behaviour is often piggy. We seem to live in a culture where more is best, more stuff, more ideas, more thoughts. We struggle with letting go while clinging to that which we believe to be "good"; we also are adverse, push away that which we label as bad. That too can be stuff, ideas, thoughts, beliefs, people. You name it, we often make relationship in one of two ways craving (clinging) and aversion. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Take me for example, I seem to suffer from a narrative that is infused with struggling with depression and anxiety (which I want to push away) or feeling connected, peaceful, at one (which I would love to embrace forever). Sometimes I am balanced, other times, I am not. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">This journey of making relationship is often in a state of flux. After all, every thing comes and every thing goes. Both simple and also not so simple, it is cultivating an understanding from experience of the impermanence of ALL things. How do we do this? Look around. Be present. On the grander scale, all planets, all universes, all galaxies are born and die, </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">all civilizations rise and fall,</span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> some i</span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">deas take root and flourish and then falter and disappear or become the compost for other ideas. All beings become form, live and then eventually die and nourish, in many senses of the word, the next generation of the living.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So it goes. It is inarguable. The proof is right before our very eyes. Indeed we are the very "Eyes Of The World". </span><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17168519733031796908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5266426370203724100.post-12519932326959247762015-03-28T14:29:00.001-07:002015-03-30T08:14:58.192-07:00Dancing With Perfection Thinking. Thinking. Thinking about this dance we have with perfection in our culture. Seems to me we put a lot of stock into doing things perfectly. It could be anything. I have always thought that just because I don't know something it only means one thing, I don't know. It doesn't make one less than, in any sense of the word, by level of intelligence, by understanding of cultural differences, by manners, by you-name-it any kind of skill. <br />
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Perfection thinly disguises the mores of a shame based culture. We all make mistakes. With compassion for each other and self, in every mistake there lingers the possibility to manifest something greater. Each mistake offers the chance of choice and change.<br />
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The "holy grail" of perfection is wholly unattainable. Any master will tell you there is always the opportunity to sink deeper into a learning, to experience from a different perspective. Freshness of experience and understanding comes from the "beginner's mind" not from the mind of know-it-all. <br />
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I will never forget a time, in my late teens, I, as many teens not only felt a sense of invincibility but we also believed we knew everything (especially more then our parents). Whenever, my papa would offer me a thought or a different perspective my stock answer was, "I know." Finally, one day he said that if I continued to say I know to everything that was presented, people would stop sharing new things with me. This stopped me mid-sentence; how true this simple observation. I still struggle with those two little words that can shut down true understanding. Now, more frequently, I am inclined to say nothing. Now I believe that the more I think I know the less I know I know.<br />
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I think the pleasure is in the practice. When I find the joy in the discovery of new interests and skills, I am inclined to continue to explore. This place of "beginner's mind" is in the present moment, in the reward of an ever evolving engagement with curiosity. Perhaps, this is "the investigation of the fundamental nature of self."<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17168519733031796908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5266426370203724100.post-58862287576816751062015-03-25T08:40:00.001-07:002015-03-25T08:40:09.387-07:00Note To Self & Bonus HaikuI struggle. I suffer. I suffer with struggling. I struggle with suffering. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwRC-8Vjh590gL7z28A-Co64CHLm5u3PeP1pxJmqBexOksH9fb2Jbaq1XEa3w_9PLKxaMjT1ySdLn-mji9yYzaZAYH5_L2-X4oBsKWSba5p7QND04tWGLwnZ_8vf0I4bSb9-P5hyphenhypheng3wXNU/s1600/Squirrel+Sits2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwRC-8Vjh590gL7z28A-Co64CHLm5u3PeP1pxJmqBexOksH9fb2Jbaq1XEa3w_9PLKxaMjT1ySdLn-mji9yYzaZAYH5_L2-X4oBsKWSba5p7QND04tWGLwnZ_8vf0I4bSb9-P5hyphenhypheng3wXNU/s1600/Squirrel+Sits2.jpg" height="400" width="298" /></a>And then I look up in the night the brighter stars are popping out, a crescent moon floats like a cradle. This vastness and here I am, small and insignificant suffering with I don't really know what. It's not a sense of doom, a knowing of mortality.<br />
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I suspect as a sensitive individual awash in a sea of suffering, I am many times swept under by the current. I bob up, gasp for a deep calming breath.<br />
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I affirm this over and over, that at this moment all is okay. The past has passed; the future never comes. The only moment is this one, here now. But knowing and deep, down in the gut, in the core of being "knowing" are very different. The getting there is never going to happen. It's the being here with whatever is is the practice. And, it IS a practice.<br />
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Invite the "I" to take a backseat sometimes, be gentle with self, laugh at self, be okay with what is because after all that is what is. (Be okay with how many times the word "is" is used in a sentence.)<br />
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...and maybe, just maybe, I may offer and accept service to others. After all, we are all in this together.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17168519733031796908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5266426370203724100.post-12071750922050615892015-03-20T11:52:00.000-07:002015-03-20T11:52:12.937-07:00Ramble OnWell, here it is. Time has passed since I last blogged. Can't say I haven't been thinking about it. A lot. Somehow, writing notes, half completing posts but never finishing. As if there ever is a finishing line.<br />
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Everything so transitional. What is written! What my thoughts are about what is written! And perhaps underneath it all, this sense that it isn't good enough, that the words don't really say what is in my heart. Sometimes the writing is hard words that are trying to convey a sadness, a disappointment, a why haven't we learned to be kinder, more loving to one another. (How can I write softer words to convey horrors?)<br />
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We all have experienced loneliness, a feeling of alienation, perhaps even a sense of purposelessness. We may wallow in self pity. Then, at other times, puff up in a righteous, egoic entitlement. This is the course of life, this and that and then the other. If it can be felt, we as humans can feel it. If it can be worded, we word it. If it can be done, we do it. If it can be thought, we think of it. <br />
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What is the meaning of all this? Perhaps, as I have written in past, life itself is the meaning of life. The game of life wobbles between what we define as success and what we define as failure. The definition becomes more important than the experience. The "reward" becomes the thing. When we hold that reward it becomes pale and unsubstantial. When we breathe our last breath,as far as I know, no one has wished for more stuff. But we don't live our lives this way. I think of the word wisdom as comprised of two words, wise-dumb. We become wiser because of our mistakes, because we have fallen down and picked ourselves up again.<br />
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It is the rambling that, upon looking back, shows us that the way is not straight and narrow. And although many, many things happen in our lives that seem unfair and unjust. Ultimately, we do have the choice of how to respond. <br />
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Over and over and over.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17168519733031796908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5266426370203724100.post-45354480190442148932014-12-27T11:33:00.000-08:002014-12-27T15:23:25.663-08:00Seasonal Foolosophy <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnR_JF7ldbQ6BMIM4NaPrATYmAwB7Pqrddwjc7pvlL1bBBQ2DZv5hfUlGTLMNnwhVlsYt11RcFuxSKzmEFM2bjwP_s-6dsjFA-uYrTMe0LJxCR7fLS79NKXtydl7d4foqXpaMVUpiMabFZ/s1600/imgres.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnR_JF7ldbQ6BMIM4NaPrATYmAwB7Pqrddwjc7pvlL1bBBQ2DZv5hfUlGTLMNnwhVlsYt11RcFuxSKzmEFM2bjwP_s-6dsjFA-uYrTMe0LJxCR7fLS79NKXtydl7d4foqXpaMVUpiMabFZ/s1600/imgres.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gratefully borrowed from <br />www.sunshinedaydream.biz</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And what is this within me that requires tending, the weeding of the gardening,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">the pot of soup that needs stirring?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The recurring thought, "I need mending."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">What is this unrequited love, </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">this lonely sorrow so deep that if </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I were ever to step to the edge</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">of its steep blackness and peer down</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I fear I would teeter and fall forever?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And yet, yet there is this yearning, this curiosity that dares the leap of faith,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">the great jump into the unknown knowing, somehow knowing without understanding, that wings will lift me up to fuller heights.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">That the loft of a divine breath will send me soaring.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And perhaps not, perhaps this is all the stuff of childhood fairy tales, of happily ever afters, of great expectations, flights of fantasy, Christmas Eve anticipations. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It takes year after fear, recurrent let downs, frequent set backs, sensing, experiencing that none of it matters, that only these things are none such, non-sense. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Because really what it all comes down to is this, exactly this,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">this breath,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">this moment,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">this this with only the utmost respect for exactly what it,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">in all its infinite myriad of beingness,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">is.</span><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17168519733031796908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5266426370203724100.post-7354519028039647592014-12-16T13:50:00.001-08:002014-12-16T13:52:41.255-08:00One For The Boomers!!<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Okay, let's give credit where credit is due. Perhaps, one of the greatest retro fashion statements from the boomers is the "stretchy jean". Oh how self serving is this perfect garment that fits round bodies that were once not. Or, in my case, the ever-round body. </span><br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEift0dE9J2sxNi-kcrfx4UQXHT-_Key_yeFzsXJUPNlbcccfv-7bUijsPI5CchAd9jgVrpEg-_jAkdsv1qxISeSFscyi4zZAWEjUQTkFl5ZqZh0OrUpCrNjMLVhZGpzLtpzynL5adnz6VLm/s1600/images-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEift0dE9J2sxNi-kcrfx4UQXHT-_Key_yeFzsXJUPNlbcccfv-7bUijsPI5CchAd9jgVrpEg-_jAkdsv1qxISeSFscyi4zZAWEjUQTkFl5ZqZh0OrUpCrNjMLVhZGpzLtpzynL5adnz6VLm/s1600/images-1.jpg" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Image shamelessly borrowed from Zazzle.com</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I remember the torture of watching my friends squeeze their lithe bodies into freshly washed Levis. Jeans which somehow shrunk a whole size or two smaller in the dryer. We were clever back then though, either put the jeans on slightly damp or once you have the jeans up over your thighs and butt, lay down on the bed, hold your breath and wrestle the zipper shut. A few deep knee bends and you're ready to rock and roll. Mind you, squatting too frequently could cause baggy knees. Another requirement of the cooly groovy attired was to peek over your shoulder and check the length of the pants, flood pants could completely outcast. And always the big question, "Do these jeans make my butt look big?" </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I don't know if as a teenager in my $5 a pair Levis and my $5 a pair North Star running shoes would I ever consider wearing a stretchy jean. I'm sure it would've been so square. Now a jean with a little elastic in it makes me smile. Enough elastic to hold in the bulgy bits and still let me breath with ease. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And that is a great advancement fellow boomers!</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17168519733031796908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5266426370203724100.post-69224957247836482962014-12-15T15:14:00.000-08:002014-12-15T15:14:35.680-08:00A Pondering <span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">How many times does it take bumping up against that same old thing? Skinning a knee on a past trip up or bruising a shin on an old memory. How often do we settle into habit patterns that wound self and other? What does it take to shake off this same-old-same and wake up with a different response, a different perspective of the world and each other? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Perhaps, it begins with first admitting that, "I have been disillusioned." Through conditioning and learnings familial, social and cultural I have been treading the path of familiarity even if this path is one of suffering and struggle. Maybe I need to move away from the mores of tribe and see what's before my very eyes. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Shining of the light of awareness on what has been so long accepted as the way it is without questioning, without a closer look can herald a fresh beginning. Neither wrong nor right, it is simply noticing that what may once have worked no longer serves. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Then willingness may step in. I am willing to see I may have not been seeing clearly. I am willing to, at the very least, look through beginner's eyes. Willingly, I can offer patience, kindness and compassion to self and others. This journey is the learning. Each step, each breath the opportunity for a fresh beginning. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"Forgiveness says you are given another chance to make a new beginning," so said Desmond Tutu. With forgiveness we give ourselves and others the permission to let grievances melt and the heart to soften. There is none among us who has not made a mistake. The salve of forgiveness heals while bitterness only hardens the heart. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Can we look at all this through the eyes of gratitude? All this, everything has brought me to this point in time. Every bit, the tough and the tender, is fertilizer to grow and nurture a life well lived and well loved. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">These thoughts/steps are not a prescription for curing all that ails. I don't even ask that you believe what I've offered here. I put them out as a possible new view approach for when unhappiness, discontent, sadness, anxiety, depression are more prevalent in life then the simple joy of being alive and meeting all of life's ups and downs with an open heart and a fresh eye. </span><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17168519733031796908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5266426370203724100.post-49804544921584331162014-12-12T12:00:00.000-08:002014-12-18T08:37:30.675-08:00Thanks For All This<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">".... happiness is an inside job," a nice, oft-quoted, aphorism, a pointer if you will. I remind myself that every pointer has two ends. Maybe not two pointy ends and maybe not so clearly delineated in direction, inner or outer, self or other. What comes with seeking happiness inwardly is that there most assuredly will be a bumping up against that which, in a dualistic way of thinking, would be called not-happiness. We may have discovered that striving for happiness outside self may manifest as an addiction to approval, praise, drugs (add your own) or getting bigger, better faster stuff. But alas, still none of this provides ever-lasting happiness. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">In walking the middle way, we begin to become friendly with the nature of impermanence. Realizing that everything comes and everything goes, we experience no thing is permanent. When we open our eyes to what is, tangible and experiential evidence presents every day in every way. Outwardly, we see and feel how our bodies change, inwardly we know how happiness 24/7 is just not the truth. Yet, and this is a big yet, at any given time there exists the possibility for any truth absolute and relative to co-exist. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOzOzkOcMvBM7WZBEXHXVeHh7oH-jqQSlt_MP1W6jy7xWFjgJKcFDJmv5AwmZq_yYzMAZ_JMDME1oOI7jUz2tLDLo_RZxZWTm45-NWG50QJI27HJ_NNmJLBg0uxJSehKmzCYR3MaPS8G2a/s1600/DSC01042.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOzOzkOcMvBM7WZBEXHXVeHh7oH-jqQSlt_MP1W6jy7xWFjgJKcFDJmv5AwmZq_yYzMAZ_JMDME1oOI7jUz2tLDLo_RZxZWTm45-NWG50QJI27HJ_NNmJLBg0uxJSehKmzCYR3MaPS8G2a/s1600/DSC01042.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Perhaps in co-existing with both shadow and light we can cultivate a practice that supports "the investigation of the fundamental activity of self." And then we can heartily and honestly proclaim gratitude and exclaim. "Thanks for all this."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">A short story: </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">One day I was walking in downtown Prince Rupert. Ahead of me was a child of young age, say 4 or 5, with her Mom. I don't know what they were talking about or what prompted the child's reaching her arms skyward with a jubilant exclamation, "Look at me God, I'm alive." </span><br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17168519733031796908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5266426370203724100.post-19825883423516963372014-11-29T20:55:00.000-08:002014-11-29T20:55:01.912-08:00This Practice Yes, this practice of zazen, seated meditation, has its challenges. The chattering monkey mind. The not so limber body sitting straight and steady. The ever bubbling up emotions. However, when the rubber of the practice meets the road of this experience, this moment, this response, as it is, this is the meeting place. <br />
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As Rumi penned,<br />
"Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and right-doing, there is a field. I'll meet you there.<br />
When the soul lies down in that grass, the world is too full to talk about.<br />
Ideas, language, even the phrase "each other" doesn't make any sense."<br />
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It doesn't make sense, we can never be prepared for what may happen because the experience of being human is that we truly don't know. We can only bask in its fullness and respond to its senselessness, the senseless beauty and the senseless horror with what is appropriate in the moment.<br />
And that is the practice. <br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17168519733031796908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5266426370203724100.post-51181395272864681722014-11-26T10:59:00.001-08:002014-11-26T23:37:29.549-08:00It is So<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It's not that any "thing" is ordinary or extraordinary; it is only perception that makes it so. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Here, the crash of an old, yellow "Brown Betty" tea pot laced in fine cracks, wrinkles, tea wisdom, crashes to the kitchen floor in a hundred possibilities of waking up. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9ch50BZKJk8zM24ZLbDST0dyeruLuTGw9wwiRGNS9g1E8e5TdNT1rQo71-x080AKhnYaRIzaCBxgaiN4SvbBKSo-ERfQpnpdzxYgTgvf8mFnMSATQmPvLvjoMufxSM7Aa2Bo2m4sctfLJ/s1600/Teapot.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9ch50BZKJk8zM24ZLbDST0dyeruLuTGw9wwiRGNS9g1E8e5TdNT1rQo71-x080AKhnYaRIzaCBxgaiN4SvbBKSo-ERfQpnpdzxYgTgvf8mFnMSATQmPvLvjoMufxSM7Aa2Bo2m4sctfLJ/s1600/Teapot.JPG" height="213" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Here too, the recycling truck outside my doors beyond the gate and up the driveway opens up and accepts the leftovers, two weeks worth of packaging and then with a gulp and roar moves on. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And here, the whirlwind, whizzing blur of hummingbird wings, compact, aerodynamic body with long beak sips a sugary offering on grey, dampish autumn day. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Before now, when young, I used to "try" and look at "things" from a different point of view. Lying with head over the edge of the bed, getting up high and looking down, squinting, tilting head from side to side, one eye open, sensing that all was not as it appeared. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Ahhh, look outside, the hummingbird has settled, resting on the perch of the red feeder, its beak dipped into the nectar. No questions asked. </span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17168519733031796908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5266426370203724100.post-54866971790013167682014-11-24T10:22:00.002-08:002014-11-26T11:15:22.957-08:00Coming Full Circle <div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Chalkduster;">
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Memorized in flesh; etched in bone.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">When does a sad heart turn to stone.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Whispered yearnings, unspoken fears.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Clever weeps its angry tears</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Voices speak yet ears don't hear. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">--ON this go round</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">This day on earth</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Sad beginnings</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">A backass birth. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC6k_mHoioSQXJSEiyV8iao_tyy-eugD33DZtn7XvloAc8rqeZ2KSKEo-zTQPL4d-9CnZ5ORUtR6_lM8JX631983CYhucc16eXA0hoF8DKXUahI5CA73mbsbf39yuPjpdfKpPdoOhH7Hrq/s1600/sagittarius.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC6k_mHoioSQXJSEiyV8iao_tyy-eugD33DZtn7XvloAc8rqeZ2KSKEo-zTQPL4d-9CnZ5ORUtR6_lM8JX631983CYhucc16eXA0hoF8DKXUahI5CA73mbsbf39yuPjpdfKpPdoOhH7Hrq/s1600/sagittarius.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">There is a time for letting go. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Winter's heart, cold, hard like frozen snow</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Bitter, breaks and does not know </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">With spring's tentative revealing </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Warm salve of light begins the healing.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">When an arrow strikes the mark</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Ignites the flame that wisdom starts</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Love overflows and soon reveals</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">This is where ALL this heals. </span><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17168519733031796908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5266426370203724100.post-10794328310864853552014-11-23T07:53:00.000-08:002014-11-23T07:53:02.377-08:00Now what?!<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Now what?!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I've deFaced myself (deactivated my Facebook account) for now. That "for now" is a little bit of a safety net. I am hoping I will bolster the courage to cut the cord completely. I'm not against technology or a Luddite. I am enthralled how my devices can communicate. I positively adore their usefulness and, at the same time, realize the great capacity for distraction. I savor the word processing program Pages. I delight in clicking, hovering, using mouse, keyboard, all the tools of the trade. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-gbbHr2HpcrzHHJJAT7CFvzRHtAraQBta4gzFR6JtC-6caYLh-LYpbcm-BeofkG7L4U-SnGcsGj-BDONKVVNYWvHhIx2jt3MvICgQUkxzcosa_-tpi4oKd4KrXm821wQ1kHv0KcHmzON3/s1600/th.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-gbbHr2HpcrzHHJJAT7CFvzRHtAraQBta4gzFR6JtC-6caYLh-LYpbcm-BeofkG7L4U-SnGcsGj-BDONKVVNYWvHhIx2jt3MvICgQUkxzcosa_-tpi4oKd4KrXm821wQ1kHv0KcHmzON3/s1600/th.jpg" /></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Somehow though, something is lost. Perhaps that sense of intimacy. At times, I forget how to write by hand, certainly my hand writing muscles have atrophied. But oh how I savour something handwritten. Among my most cherished written possessions, a letter written from baby me by my mom to my young first time father, a letter from my Dad to me, and a beautiful, long birthday letter on Gumby letterhead paper from my dear sister, still kept in the bedside drawer. I cherish the printings and early writings of my children.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">On the other hand, how astounding that we can change fonts, add colour, pictures, symbols to create, personalize, a written project, letter, report, what-have-you into a unique expression. And blogs! Web-logs, a diary, journal, travelogue that, if we so wish, can be shared with others. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Alas, I have many beautiful paper diaries started with enthusiasm or, as is a tendency, written in pencil or not written in at all. As if pen on paper is too permanent, too close to the heart. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Let me unpack, tease out the main reason why I am attempting to break the Facebook addiction. Yet, I'm still very capable of distracting myself from present moment. However, the pondering is perhaps in the quality of the distraction. If it somehow enhances life for self or others can it still be labelled a distraction? Or does it even matter? All I know now is that has been a number of days since the deactivation. I'm okay without Facebook. I'm savouring time often wasted on triviality. I'm still finding distractions. Best of all, I've rekindled passions. This one. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">*Thanks to M.C. Escher & Wikipedia for the image.</span> </span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17168519733031796908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5266426370203724100.post-31990026054844710702014-11-18T07:45:00.001-08:002014-11-26T11:13:23.157-08:00The Distraction Attraction<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(63, 69, 73); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; color: #3f4549; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue';">
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">I have been pondering this, why am I so attracted to being distracted from what is right before my very eyes? Like salmon spawning upstream, I have let myself be swept along in the collective consciousness of distraction. I am minimizing what I am experiencing, how I view the world is not as meaningful as how others see it </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span></div>
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Instead of taking shared wisdom with as is said, a grain of salt, I am swayed more by the status of others, those deemed successful, the shakers and movers, celebrities and the comings and goings, contrived, exaggerated, opinionated on Facebook (read here social media). In other words, I have lost touch with the “real” world and am mesmerized by a world that is filtered through another’s vision or belief. </div>
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Please, don’t get me wrong here. There is a lot of value from hearing, seeing other’s impressions of this every changing existence. The problem, as I see it, is when we stop trusting our own experiences, our innate wisdom of body, mind and soul because of a feeling of wrongness or less than or of being swayed by a standard that is set elsewhere. </div>
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I am also more and more aware that this tendency is also how we can be manipulated by the Bigs. This lack of confidence is a gold mine for Big Politics, Big Media, Big Business, Big Oil, Big Pharma, Big Fashion, Big Money, add your own. When our belief systems and opinions of self are so malleable by what is presented as trending or the way it is we become pawns to a greater agenda. An agenda where who we are matters less than feeding our insecurities with a need for more distraction, be it food, more stuff, fast stuff, expensive stuff, the latest stuff. The need for this stuff helps to feed with our energy and attention the agenda of the Bigs, to get Bigger. All this stuffing distracts us from what really matters, this present moment, the experience of all of this with all of us, all sentient beings, a unified consciousness of harmony and co-existence. </div>
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Which leads me to, in a very round about way, what has compelled me to write this, this will be my last visit on Facebook for a while. (Kudos to friends and family who have taken a fast from other “habits” Facebook included.) Although I will continue to ponder on this blog, the Pigasus Project, my association with Facebook will take a hiatus. For how long, I don’t know. If you would like to continue reading the Pig, join this site. I will focus closer to home, writing, yoga, zen, to my own healing. Perhaps, this will be of benefit to others. If you would like to get in touch through other means and you don’t know my e-mail address, private message me through Facebook. I will keep the account open until this evening. </div>
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Gasho. Nine bows. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17168519733031796908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5266426370203724100.post-60059956188226750922014-11-13T03:03:00.000-08:002014-11-13T03:05:52.098-08:00Awake<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">3:00 A.M.</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></b>
<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">Still sitting; sitting still.</span></b><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjofXYoMsNCdM9gNMJm5YozNin3C-Fc5QDFSsQgmrOhA4BlS7kXsThBmBKpEw7PH6YfwI8RYSyrV_Xf5zCrMnJ8rLArowEeM-Gg11Txcp1IPMmO7w7MotKj6yUTYxSIFVL9aUsiC4QBvYCN/s1600/images-1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjofXYoMsNCdM9gNMJm5YozNin3C-Fc5QDFSsQgmrOhA4BlS7kXsThBmBKpEw7PH6YfwI8RYSyrV_Xf5zCrMnJ8rLArowEeM-Gg11Txcp1IPMmO7w7MotKj6yUTYxSIFVL9aUsiC4QBvYCN/s1600/images-1.jpeg" /></a><b><span style="font-size: x-large;">Present, there really <span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: red;">only</span></span> is the </span></b><b><span style="font-size: x-large;">inescapable now.</span></b>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17168519733031796908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5266426370203724100.post-7333314454282535622014-11-11T08:03:00.000-08:002014-11-11T08:11:07.467-08:00On This Day Of Remembering <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4omx7EL06uHpj3FZUTaTIsrciCBLfYwTNICudZSUjGppv_RO6bIsVi4iWYDjyXoELtDCZn9EOFHKc6lACmhS-kKr3AepuIgTCmz9UHY7a30J06oqUDSfH2vyYH4Tp4I7g_zUtF8Z9k1jN/s1600/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4omx7EL06uHpj3FZUTaTIsrciCBLfYwTNICudZSUjGppv_RO6bIsVi4iWYDjyXoELtDCZn9EOFHKc6lACmhS-kKr3AepuIgTCmz9UHY7a30J06oqUDSfH2vyYH4Tp4I7g_zUtF8Z9k1jN/s1600/images.jpeg" /></a>War is a messy business. Yet, still I honour the sincerity that men and women of past present laid their lives down on the lines. We still hold the naive belief that war will bring peace. I also honour those who have given their lives, both literally and figuratively, for peace. We all know what happens when we let our beliefs define and divide us. Let us collectively, in a spirit of celebrating all life, come together and seek solutions. <br />
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I offer this from what I call the "Olden Days Words"</div>
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<br />
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The War Chronicles</div>
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My heart weeps.</div>
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I bought myself a rose yesterday.</div>
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I am reminded of an old reprint, my mother’s, called “The Weeping Rose”</div>
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Its head bending down from the vase,</div>
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A few petals fallen.</div>
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Soon my rose will suffer the same fate.</div>
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Age and time will take its toll.</div>
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<br /></div>
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A mother’s head is bent over,</div>
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Her child is dying.</div>
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Petals falling.</div>
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She weeps like there is no tomorrow.</div>
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Her child dies because someone from somewhere else is</div>
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Liberating her country.</div>
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She is not asking for liberation.</div>
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She is only asking for the life of her child.</div>
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Those who have never wept for a dying child</div>
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Say it is the price of freedom.</div>
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I ask you if she were asked to choose lives of her family to pay the price</div>
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Who would she choose?</div>
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<br /></div>
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My heart weeps.</div>
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I resolve to keep my rose</div>
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Until all its petals have fallen.</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17168519733031796908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5266426370203724100.post-72876273822242615872014-11-10T17:31:00.000-08:002014-11-10T17:32:30.559-08:00All Ways A Letting Go<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(63, 69, 73); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue';">
<span style="color: blue; font-size: large;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Lighten the load.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Widen the footstep.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Step out beyond the usual comfort zone. Sometimes going back to go forward.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">Sitting in meditation, this morning the discomfort of this churned in belly.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">I sat with it. Breathe in. Breathe out, one. Breathe in. Breathe out, two. I listen to my gut. I tremble both in fear and excitement. It is time.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">I feel this deep to the very core. Time to move away from the same old used to be.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: blue; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: blue; font-size: large;">This sameness of the past five-six-seven years ~ the years of building a safety net at first comforting now enmesh me, feel constrictive and unyielding. The false sense of security begins to strangle like a safety line slowly tightening. Tentatively emerging from a cocoon, not yet sure of wing span or ability to fly but with the sense of leap or fly, I must. </span></div>
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<span style="color: blue; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: blue; font-size: large;">A cycle comes to an end, another slowly, indiscernable at first like the tail of yin or yang, growing to finally emerge into it’s own fullness. </span></div>
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<span style="color: blue; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: blue; font-size: large;">I am reminded of a verse from Lorin Roche’s “The Radiant Sutras”.</span></div>
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<span style="color: blue; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(63, 69, 73); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue';">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAI2u8U1uQBV-Kt09Eka3ezLcTXu_FLr5_vDsZ-5C0mhsFA89Ao8g9AZYxbnM7zk023WlwbxOwgR4QuhdPoCNY3e9_XNofMT424kxkC_BUCdLj7t1MuYIc0hzZhj1wgJC893HjWCtTHz8_/s1600/Unknown-1.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: blue; font-size: large;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAI2u8U1uQBV-Kt09Eka3ezLcTXu_FLr5_vDsZ-5C0mhsFA89Ao8g9AZYxbnM7zk023WlwbxOwgR4QuhdPoCNY3e9_XNofMT424kxkC_BUCdLj7t1MuYIc0hzZhj1wgJC893HjWCtTHz8_/s1600/Unknown-1.png" /></span></a><i><span style="color: blue; font-size: large;">Enter these turning points,</span></i></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(63, 69, 73); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue';">
<i><span style="color: blue; font-size: large;">Where the rhythms of life transform</span></i></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(63, 69, 73); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue';">
<i><span style="color: blue; font-size: large;">Into each other.</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: blue; font-size: large;">Breath flows in, filling, filling,</span></i></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(63, 69, 73); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue';">
<i><span style="color: blue; font-size: large;"> Then surrenders to flow out again.</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: blue; font-size: large;">In this moment, drink eternity.</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: blue; font-size: large;">Breath flows out, emptying, emptying,</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: blue; font-size: large;">Offering itself to infinity.</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: blue; font-size: large;">Cherishing these moments,</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: blue; font-size: large;"><br /></span></i>
<i><span style="color: blue; font-size: large;">Mind dissolves into heart,</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: blue; font-size: large;">Heart dissolves into space,</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: blue; font-size: large;">Body becomes a shimmering field</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: blue; font-size: large;">Pulsating between fullness and emptiness.</span></i></div>
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<span style="color: blue; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: blue; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
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<span style="color: blue; font-size: large;">And here, now. As I fondle the possessions, the memories, some loved, some weathered beyond recognition, one by one, turn them over in my hand/mind. This to pass on, this to keep, this to trash. Let go. Over and over again, I am reminded, it is always a letting go. </span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17168519733031796908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5266426370203724100.post-4077857822175272032014-11-09T07:30:00.000-08:002014-11-09T12:37:25.043-08:00A Year Of Change<span style="font-size: large;">As Charles Dickens penned, "<i>It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair...</i>" </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA8UlL0Agk6n06d_gvPjH9CTrL4B2ZjJLv5kq9RsRVfLSrChdvIuym1UG6k2U_8wZfCVnhdfuoLePAXXdhK4sqppXEelEr-0w7-WwiSDH2OrksvkEpLbFPPfd_bAh0VOkecfvkgH5aEYJg/s1600/DSC00018.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA8UlL0Agk6n06d_gvPjH9CTrL4B2ZjJLv5kq9RsRVfLSrChdvIuym1UG6k2U_8wZfCVnhdfuoLePAXXdhK4sqppXEelEr-0w7-WwiSDH2OrksvkEpLbFPPfd_bAh0VOkecfvkgH5aEYJg/s1600/DSC00018.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></span></a><span style="font-size: large;">Yes, all this and more. And yet more to come. All ways, the best of times, all ways the worst of times; all ways something in the middle. The middle way, the path that I have, at times, reluctantly set foot on. The path that in my heart, I feel/know/intuit is the only road. This way beckons me to look at what is present before me, now. This path invites me to engage with what is in this very instant as no other. Not to turn away from past as passed. Indeed it is gone, but to forget what was learned is folly as well. Nor to never turn to the future for brief glimpses of what may be is to grope around in the dark when the light switch is within reach.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I reach backward for the hands of elders and the wise who</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> have gone before me. I look forward to the fresh vision of youth and seers alike. Now, I live here, open eyed, open hearted, open to all this.</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17168519733031796908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5266426370203724100.post-80484924139686900842014-02-17T10:31:00.000-08:002014-02-17T15:10:15.836-08:00The Pigger Playing <div style="font-family: Chalkduster;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">There it is again! Small mind. An attention seeking little person, waving its arms, jumping up and down and shouting "me, me, look at me, I have something to say, I know that."</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Chalkduster;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRihbSPDsfMPYFWPJq3xcHb9zhrrDYsw9lifM_fDqpFQ0eh8lFSXyx2SVcK7EI2-DuskZfnjQrRj0dxUChZdmouvVIkRg0PS3uq6AuHlnWFpeMhn2EIFMkl_vVvID0oxvqHGlje7HNKhF8/s1600/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRihbSPDsfMPYFWPJq3xcHb9zhrrDYsw9lifM_fDqpFQ0eh8lFSXyx2SVcK7EI2-DuskZfnjQrRj0dxUChZdmouvVIkRg0PS3uq6AuHlnWFpeMhn2EIFMkl_vVvID0oxvqHGlje7HNKhF8/s1600/images.jpeg" /></a><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Let's not completely demonize little mind, it handles the day-to-day, work-a-day concerns like shopping and that red light up there and what to pay the babysitter. All these small things are both important and they have their place. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Chalkduster;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">It seems to me, little mind is mostly concerned with that which is associated with the basics, to survive and thrive, (beyond immediate fight, flight and freeze). It makes the decisions about how to nourish the body (or not), how to care for the body (or not), what to do about emotion and sensations (or not). Sometimes it can get stuck in a rut of bad habits where we feel we don't have choice; where we feel the "or nots" <u>are</u> the ones in control. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Chalkduster; min-height: 20px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Chalkduster;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Small mind can be very, very sticky (and tricky) it may have us believing that "our thoughts, words inside our heads; images, pictures inside our heads; and sensations, inside our bodies"* are real. They are not, they are just thoughts, just images, and just sensations. Important yes, but not the absolute truth only, just one version of the truth. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Chalkduster; min-height: 20px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Chalkduster;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">When you (I, we) wake up to the understanding that whatever version of truth you abide by is a product of culture, religion, upbringing, sex, environment, so it goes. The wild card is a matter of perception. Perception is like a filter, the red filter colours our world red, whatever that means to us. Red could mean love or anger, that is the perception. How you perceive the world is your choice; how you respond to your perceptions with voice and action (or not) is also your choice. Once you realize that you perceive the world through your conditioning, upbringing, life experiences and so forth, you have choice. You have choice because you are aware of your perceptions. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Chalkduster; min-height: 20px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Chalkduster;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Perhaps this is one shade of big mind. And what is this big mind? It is simply an invitation (in human terms) to be with what is, to experience that which is already occurring naturally in every possible form of expression all ways what ever, where ever, when ever. Why? Because it is. It is an awareness of reality that transcends the personal. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Chalkduster;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">It is, as Rumi expresses on emotions in the inspirational "The Guest House" "an expected visitor". He encourages to "Welcome and entertain them all!" It is not the what that is happening but the acceptance of it because it is happening. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Chalkduster;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">In this moment of openness you can not guess what you're being opened up for. It is also more then these emotions that cause us to e-mote and make motion, it is all this beyond all grasping and rejecting, without beginning and end. The very nature of this so-called "big mind" is that words can not describe nor compare. It is the impersonal happening personally. It is as if mind is a sky with all manner of weather coming and going. No matter how we, in these meat suits feel or think about it, the sky and the weather goes on and on and on. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Chalkduster;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Any feeble attempt to describe it is merely a description, just a finger pointing at the moon. Or in my puny (read punny) sense of humour, a pigger pointing at the moon. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Chalkduster; letter-spacing: 0px;">*"The Happiness Trap" by Dr Russ Harris</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17168519733031796908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5266426370203724100.post-68726772223964566482014-02-05T10:09:00.001-08:002014-02-05T10:09:24.023-08:00Yoga Practice; Yoga Play<div style="font-family: Chalkduster;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrFxpmJPoxA__1Xm9Sgf8bNpND7tn7M2g1zVn6DdBGOsD8cUOxRiVPKPde4upcwQ8EnHQ0xyK3MbTFSePkfZYJCS6vh6PQEQM4_TgfV-4O-cNI5tHxf2pkQxU1hVrku_0xSaeaTnc6W0Yi/s1600/Unknown.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrFxpmJPoxA__1Xm9Sgf8bNpND7tn7M2g1zVn6DdBGOsD8cUOxRiVPKPde4upcwQ8EnHQ0xyK3MbTFSePkfZYJCS6vh6PQEQM4_TgfV-4O-cNI5tHxf2pkQxU1hVrku_0xSaeaTnc6W0Yi/s1600/Unknown.jpeg" /></a><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Seriously, folks. Life is serious enough with our work-a-day worries, concerns of future tough stuff or scary ghosts in the closet. There is no reason why time on our mat in yoga practice needs to be the same.</span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Yes, we can be committed, dedicated, devoted to our practice.</span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Bring all those attributes and with a quality of play, awaken the divine. </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">That sense of play, in sanskrit, Lila acknowledges the cosmic play, this, all of this, whirling and dancing in all possible permutations. The exquisite perfection of play is when we forget who we pretend to be and who we truly are begins to stir. Yoga stirs the pot; play stirs the soul. Yoga as play beckons us to let go, invites us to take the practice less seriously. Divine play awakens when the asanas practice us.</span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Seriousness as firmness is brittle and easily broken. In play, we explore flexibility, our body is free to move, emotions free to express themselves and spirit free to soar. When we laugh, when we take </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px; text-decoration: underline;">all</span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> of this less seriously we open up to the possibility of just settling into the moment as it is. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">And then, accepting this as it is, the veils of illusion lift, and we remember. From the wisdom of Mufasa in "The Lion King". "You have forgotten who you are and so have forgotten me. Look inside yourself, Simba. You are more than what you have become. You must take your place in the Circle of Life." </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Yes, no matter what the practice we can never step out of this circle of birth, life and death. We are it. It is encoded in our DNA; it is the energy that we are; it is the whole in one.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">This is not a description of how or even if you should practice yoga. For me, play helps me to move deeper in awareness of this intimate connection with source. Play invites me to relax into the experience of unification moving beyond oneness as “just an idea”. Don’t believe me. Try it yourself! Fall out of a balance laughing, chuckle quietly at the seriousness of you and look to the children (you are one).</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Let yoga (asanas, meditation, way of life) be play instead of a means to an end. Because there is no end. We are all all ways intimately dancing in this circle of life. </span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17168519733031796908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5266426370203724100.post-60416907082201812932014-02-01T09:28:00.000-08:002014-02-01T17:35:21.903-08:00Write on...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Since way back when, as long as I can remember, I’ve always been a writer. I don’t really ever recall thinking I want to be a writer. It’s just something I innately knew and actually did. As I think back, it was not so much of a calling as a listening. I intuited, I listened and then described the ideas and thoughts with words which then were arranged into sentences and other vehicles of penned (yes back then we used pens or pencils) expression. Sometimes it was styled as poetry; other times prose. It struck me that this was prosetry. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">At this time I wasn't even writing to amuse or impart wisdom. I was just playing; this was wordplay. As I grew older it became word working. Then I would add my own not very kind words, “I’m not a good enough writer,” “I don’t know enough to publish a book.” “I don’t have enough life experience to give what I write value.” I am now listening to the poisonous self-criticism that stopped me from being/doing many things because it came with an “I’m not good enough,” clause. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">As sure as I was of being a writer, I also was sure I didn’t want to be a teacher. Teaching was the profession and, for some, a vocation of many of my relatives. For whatever reason, I did not want to follow in that track. Maybe my not good enough voice was sabotaging what I really was good enough at, teaching. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I laugh at this other me, this younger naive me, I laugh with compassion, from a wiser me who knows that all steps on the journey have brought me to the perfect place, exactly where I am. I know now that writing is teaching. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I think/feel perhaps I may catch this trick of light that we call life, just out of the corner of my eye. But the moment I turn to focus on it, that’s not what it is at all. It’s far greater, far more mysterious, far more wonderful then I could ever word. And that is good enough for me.</span><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17168519733031796908noreply@blogger.com0