29 September 2007

Song


I am the proud earth.
I obey the hand of man,
Only for love.
Whatever I take,
I give in return.
I harvest the dreams of God.



25 September 2007

trinity sure to me you bring

WHEN LILACS LAST IN THE DOOR-YARD BLOOM'D

When lilacs last in the door-yard bloom'd,
And the great star early droop'd in the western sky in the night,
I mourn'd - and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.

O ever-returning spring! trinity sure to me you bring;
Lilac blooming perennial and drooping star in the west,
And thought of him I love.



That's only the first verse of this famous poem by Walt Whitman. The scholars know it is an elegy for President Lincoln, but I know it is very beautiful. Read it all if you wish.

There is the dependable rhythm of earth. Rhythm makes fine poetry, not life and death - no, only emptiness and fullness, and both the same.

17 September 2007

Mr Natural

Last Friday, out the window at work, I saw a rainbow that was so perfect and solid - not in the least wispy at all - I promise you that I stepped right underneath it there and then.

On Saturday, I hiked to the peak of Mt Gingera with Amalendu: 1857m/6092 ft. The preceding link has extensive information about the area and good pictures too. The route it discusses is easier than the one we took. We started at about 500m/1700 ft and took two hours to get to Pryor's Hut, rather than driving most of the way. It was a beautiful sunny day but closer to the peak there was still a fair bit of snow lying around in the shadows. At one point I stepped in a patch and sank past my knee. This provided ample opportunity to throw snowballs at Amalendu. Unfortunately, this time he had gloves too, so the action was a little less one sided than our last hike.

I had fun with my new digital compact. Seeing as it fits in the palm of my hand, I can't complain. I really like the macro feature.







It was a satisfyingly exhausting experience, and there is nothing like the view from the top.


Tonight I saw a sleeping giant lying inside the row of hills near where I live. It was easy to see a very big man there, having a long rest. Maybe one day he will stand up and have a big stretch.

Grass

Walt Whitman called his life’s work Leaves of Grass.

In his masterwork, Song of Myself, he offers us the following visions of grass:

‘…it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven…’

‘…the handkerchief of the Lord…’

‘…the produced babe of the vegetation…’

‘....a uniform hieroglyphic…’

‘…the beautiful uncut hair of graves…’

In case there is any confusion, he reminds us in the final stanza:

‘I bequeathe myself to the dirt, to grow from the grass I love;
If you want me again, look for me under your boot-soles.’



Sri Chinmoy reveals the following about grass in Humility, from Illumination-Fruits:

‘How can we become humble? If we know the secret of identification, we can become humble. Look at Mother Earth who is protecting us, nourishing us and giving us shelter in every way. How many bad things are being done to Mother Earth! Yet she is all-forgiving. Forgiveness is all-humility. Right in front of us we can see humility in a patch of grass. When we see grass with our human eyes, we feel that it is something unimportant. Anybody can step on it. But when we see it with our inner eye, we feel how great it is. Early in the morning when we see dew on the grass, we say, "How beautiful it is!" And just a few hours later we will be walking on it; yet it never complains or revolts. When we have the inner capacity to appreciate the grass, we say, "How humble and self-giving it is!" When we identify ourselves with grass, we see that it has a very big heart. Consciously or unconsciously, from grass we get a feeling of humility.’

Let us return to Walt now and ponder his Passage to India:

'Swiftly I shrivel at the thought of God,
At Nature and its wonders, Time and Space and Death,
But that I, turning, call to thee, O soul, thou actual Me,
And lo! thou gently masterest the orbs,
Thou matest Time, smilest content at Death,
And fillest, swellest full, the vastnesses of Space.

Greater than stars or suns,
Bounding, O soul, thou journeyest forth;
—What love, than thine and ours could wider amplify?
What aspirations, wishes, outvie thine and ours, O soul?
What dreams of the ideal? what plans of purity, perfection, strength?
What cheerful willingness, for others’ sake, to give up all?
For others’ sake to suffer all?

Reckoning ahead, O soul, when thou, the time achiev’d,
(The seas all cross’d, weather’d the capes, the voyage done,)
Surrounded, copest, frontest God, yieldest, the aim attain’d,
As, fill’d with friendship, love complete, the Elder Brother found,
The Younger melts in fondness in his arms.'

The extravagant but humble Walt Whitman, rich son of nature, drunk with the fertile infinity of the heaven-blessed earth consciousness; ecstatic in his cosmic vision of unity.

I can say for sure this true son of earth has returned to the arms of heaven...wherever our feet may fall.

06 September 2007