Different Perspectives

i am curious how you might explain further the idea that knowing the name of my cat captures the essence of our different viewpoints.
Fierce Freedom

I thought I’d address my friends comment here, just to do it justice.
Let me begin by a story that supposedly Jeff Foster tells:
He was out walking with his mother when she said, “Oh, what a beautiful tree.” In reply he launched into a long explanation of “There is no tree!”
A year later, he realized his response had been somewhat ridiculous. Of course, there was a tree to be enjoyed while on a walk.

Having realized there is no-self, how long and how loudly do you want to keep beating that drum?
I think you and I differ on this point.
To me too much drum beating or “fierce freedom” risks inherent contradiction and outright fundamentalism just as surely as a right-to-lifer shooting a doctor does.

And how does my asking for the name of your cat address our different perspectives?
It too centers of the emphasis we place upon the experience of no-self.
I have no idea what logic initially led me to make that statement regarding the name of your cat. Memory is gone.
But, while struggling to recall my thinking, this image filled my mind:

Your viewpoint was represented by the line. Mine was somehow held by that little dot.
It was a curious situation to be asked for a stream of logic and only come up with an image. But, with time I realized that our perspectives lay rooted in the differences between the two.

Now, I can say this:
When I hear, “There were three cats: roach, spider, cricket,” I notice that my heart goes, Ahhh. I draw closer and pay attention. And when I discover, “Roach died,” again I feel my heart.
In knowing something as simple as a name a whole story springs up and with that story comes love.
I don’t want to miss that, even at the risk of being lost or hurt by what unfolds.

Now, I grant you “roach” has nothing whatsoever actually to do with ultimate truth.
And perhaps its only due to my conditioning it has an effect upon me. But, rather than jump, “Oh God, a story! Stories can’t be true.” I am happy to enjoy the wave of love.
Knowing that the tree is an illusion, why not go on and enjoy it?

You could say that this is my perspective. And it struck me that in all of our discussion of the profound experience you had surrounding the death of roach, you never named her (or him - I still don’t know that detail). And it struck me as very curious that you felt no need for naming.

It was always, “The cat died.”
It sounds almost like Joe Friday wanting “just the facts ma’am.” And Joe will get the job done.
He just proceeds from a different perspective – that of the intellect, that serially logical gray line.
The intellect inquires into the nature of the self and discovers there is no-self to be found.
It realizes the danger and allure inherent in a flowery story. It is only logical to reduce the risk of slipping back into a self, back into illusion - so shave the story back “to just the facts.”

But, “The cat died,” is just as much a story as “Roach died.”
In one case intellect, and likely ego, does a cutting back? In the second case heart, and likely ego, surrenders into love.

To me our perspectives appear either predominantly intellect or heart centered. The heart would like a name, simply for the warmth. The intellect feels no need or even prefers the nameless.

That said, I would also emphasize that it’s probably much more accurate to say, one steps forward from the left foot while the other begins with the right. You obviously are learning deeply about love. And I can use my head. Heart and mind do work together, just as surely as left and right foot do… but still, there seems to be a preference of footing.

So, to end this in the spirit of merging heart and intellect, I’d like to share this video.
I never knew that the idea of love was brought to the west by the Sufis. And I love the concluding line:
this is the shoreless sea;
here swimming ends
always in drowning

Signing Off

Jumping into the bathwater
Originally uploaded by Seeking Tao

Midnight. No waves,
no wind, the empty boat
is flooded with moonlight.
Dogen

I sat down with Suzanne Segal’s Collision with the Infinite specifically to find the passage she has about playing the part of an actor on stage.
I was searching for those words because I knew that the ones in my own head,
“And finally he sat down upon a rock
and there he died…”
while expressing exactly the exhaustion of my soul, had no elegance and were not a poem.
(Does Chaucer have some rooster dying somewhere? I know those words are out there.)
Anyway…

I searched and searched Suzanne’s book and never found the passage that I sought.
But, I did find Dogen.
And he brought tears to my eyes.
Close enough. Go with that.

I need to take a break from writing because I need to stop creating for a while.
I have found it impossible to complete anything and yet I keep making these attempts.
It might be nice to stop this struggle – it’s as hopeless as a fish hauled upon the bank continuing to flop.
There’s no way back into the creek.
There’s no point to struggle against the game that will play out.
So, let it go.
Let it go.

And here I'm not thinking so much about a paragraph as I am a sense of self.

Suzanne’s book also has these words of Rumi.
For years I pulled my own existence
out of emptiness…

That one line captures another element of what’s unfolding for me now.
I’m dog tired of hauling a false self up and out of Emptiness.

Mostly all that gets created is a lot of suffering, as well as clever chatty personae. I find it all exhausting.
And while I think this blog and blogging has been useful and enjoyable,
the effort seems counter-productive to me now.
Right now the next step for me is to play like a balloon and finally loose all that hot air.
Writing requires me to purse my lips and exhaling re-inflate that which needs to just
“blow off into emptiness.”

Don't worry. Everything continues just fine without me. I get to drive to work and do all the things I ususally do - playing out the greatest, silliest joke of total Impossibility, until once more I manage to haul my sorry ass back out into duality and create yet another drama.

Not so long ago, I was given an opportunity to receive a spiritual blessing.
While waiting for my turn, mind started chattering. "What do I want?" "What do I need?" "What am I missing here?"
Suddenly, I realized I have been blessed beyond all expectations.
I have received Everything, all that anyone is ever given.
And I got this long ago. I gave my life that night in gratitude and in all the intervening years, a spinning lifetime of drama, trauma, laughter and tears, the blessings of the Universe were always there. Though often I forgot,
I have been in need of Nothing.

So, I took the opportunity to bow my head.
Thank you, Thank you, Thank you.
Three by three it went.

And I think that is just enough for now. ...Thank you!
Also know – I could change my mind tomorrow. And I probably will post again. Not just this right now.

The Ghosts Inside Your Genes

Spinal Tap
Originally uploaded by Seeking Tao

For years I pulled my own existence out of emptiness.
Then one swoop, one swing of the arm, that work is over…

Do you think I know what I am doing?
That for one breath or half-breath I belong to myself?
As much as a pen knows what it is writing,
or a ball can guess where it’s going next.
Rumi, as quoted by Suzanne Segal, in Collision with the Infinite.

Today’s title comes from the subtitle of a lecture I went to yesterday on epigenetics.
The speaker, Dr. Michael Skinner (here he is on the BBC) opened by saying,
“My grandmother’s environment will cause me disease as an adult.”

This is not biology as usual and I have written about epigenetics before.
What Dr. Skinner pointed out was that the current paradigm for the genetic basis of disease does not explain well established observations:

1) There are regional differences in diseases. In Japan, for instance, there’s a lot of stomach trouble, but cardiovascular systems are strong. The reverse is true for the U.S.
2) There is a relatively low frequency of genetic diseases. E.g., only about 5% of breast cancers have the BRAC 1 and 2 genes. 95% of breast cancers are caused by something else.
3) Identical twins have different frequencies of disease.
4) Many environmental toxins don’t mutate the DNA, but they do cause disease.

Skinner’s list went on, but you get the point I hope.
We do inherit diseases tendencies, but that is not the entire story.
Diseases don’t always arise because a healthy gene mutates.
And yet, the environment is clearly doing something to our genes.

If a mother is exposed to an environmental toxin, her offspring can be affected in an “non-Mendelian” manner.
Usually, an inherited trait diminishes in frequency with each new generation.
But, Skinner spoke of finding 90% of off-springs affected even in the fourth generation- so we’re talking here about a great-great grandmother as if she was just yesterday.

My daughter was birthed in a darkened room, so she wouldn’t be shocked by bright lights, into a large basin filled with warm water to ease the transition…

How can one describe a baby being born to no one?
She had no mother, yet the birth occurred just fine, and in the years to come the mothering function would take care of her…

she was an extraordinary child who showed no signs of being traumatized in any way… I was able to “fool” everyone into thinking I was just as I used to be…. How extraordinary the mind thought. There is no one here, and it’s apparently unnecessary to be someone for mothering to take place.

Mothering mothers, just as talking talks and thinking thinks.
The mind has a hard time getting used to this.
Suzanne Segal, Collision with the Infinite, on the birth of her daughter, Arielle.

We are all conditioned to have expectations, both in life and in science.
Buddhists call it conditioning. Scientists speak of paradigms.
Something’s got to give in our preconceptions for progress to occur.

Dr. Skinner is working with “endocrine disruptors,” molecules that bind to hormone receptors, molecules like phthalates. They are in shampoo, that new car smell, plastic bottles, the fungicides for fruits including those for wine.

What he’s found is that exposing a mother to these poisons, or rather, exposing her embryos (for we’re talking rats here) led to a huge array of adult onset diseases.

The genes themselves are not changed in the sense of being mutated.
Rather, the DNA in the embryos is being methylated in new patterns.
The new pattern of methylation turns some genes on that usually would be off, while other genes, usually on, are forever silenced.
In the past when I’ve heard of this it was called imprinting.

We have such potential within our cells. We begin life truly “totipotent.”
Development and growth requires turning off most of that potential.
We need to differentiate into tooth and claw and hair to become our human selves.
We get a double dose of most chromosomes, one paternal one maternal.
Often that’s too much. Imprinting can silence genes and whole swaths of chromosomes.

But, that full potential still resides inside us.
And while some environmental inputs to our mother’s womb cause hyper- and hypo- methylation that drive us to disease, there’s no reason a priori that these shifts must all be detrimental.
Some changes may be beneficial. And they definitely impinge on evolution.
Dr. Skinner is licking his chops on that angle and I am intrigued myself.

To Arielle, who was born into the infinite…

She was a delightful, happy child who was constantly impressing people with her precociousness. She was able to laugh in the face of any challenge…
I was relieved to see her so happy, since I had repeatedly wondered whether …the radical shift of consciousness that had accompanied the last five months of my pregnancy had left any problematic impressions on her.

Whatever impressions may have been left did not appear to have traumatized her. As she has matured into a teenager, she has continued to exude the wise happiness that has always radiated from her… In fact, she has frequently expressed a clear knowing that she is both different from and the same as other people.

At times she finds this confusing, and generally she would rather not speak about it. But on at least one occasion she has said, “You know, Mom, when people look at you and they think you’re someone, but you know you’re not that person?”

“Yes, sweetheart,” I’ve answered, “I do know that experience.”
Suzanne Segal

Drawing the Line

Mosaic II
Originally uploaded by Seeking Tao

Admit something:
Everyone you see, you say to them, “Love me.”
Of course you do not do this out loud, otherwise
someone would call the authorities.
Still, though, think about this, this great pull in us to connect.

Why not become the one who lives with a
full moon in each eye that is always saying,
with that sweet moon language,
what every other eye in this world
is dying to hear?
Hafiz

The other day my family got into something of a heated political debate via email.
It doesn’t really matter now what the issue was.
In the midst of the swirl my nephew wrote, “It doesn’t affect me, so I don’t care.”
Last night, I realized, “I care and so it does affect me.”

Apparently, self interests are determined by where we draw the line between my self and Other.
Dealing with this very line is the real task of spiritual cultivation.
For instance, we may come to understand:

The heart of a mother is full of tenderness, but it is limited to her child only;
but the heart of the Saint is all inclusive,
it knows the how and whence of the origin of each one and the vicissitudes they have to go through.
Nisargadatta

Or, as in politics, we might describe the issue from a very different angle:

Know that the outward form passes away,
but the world of reality remains forever.
How long will you play at loving the shape of the jug?
Leave the jug; go, seek the water!
Rumi

I found these poems and words at a wonderful site, Seeker After Truth.
It’s Sufi sponsored, but covers much Advaita and refers to itself as “A Mystic’s Reference Repository.”
I find it soothes my heart.

Enjoy exploring it. Meanwhile, I don’t think I’ll be writing here as much as in the past.

Knocking from the Inside

Whitetail Deer
Originally uploaded by Broompl (Pete)

I’ve been living on the lip of insanity
Wanting to know reasons, knocking on a door
It opens
I’ve been knocking from the inside!
Rumi, translated Coleman Barks

I had dinner the other night with a young friend who related two stories that I’d like to share.

First, she mentioned that since her father’s death she has been doing paintings of his feet – just the feet, sticking out from under things. Painting after painting.

Oh! I thought, how appropriate.
But, then my next thought was, “Why? What is it about feet and death?”
I thought about my own father dying. I’d knelt down upon the sand and grabbed hold of his feet.
I’d hoped to latch onto his soul and not let him leave.
It hadn’t worked.

But, there was something else, something more universal about feet and the dead.
Then it hit me, “Ah, yes, the toe tag!” They tie your identity right to the big toe.
For a moment, I had this image of all the feet and toe tags lined up in the morgue.

Meanwhile, my friend was getting to her point.
She’d learned that in Japan there is the belief that when someone dies their souls, in the next world, walk upon the water. And the bottom of their water is the bottom, or the top (we had some trouble with the image’s topography) of the water that our souls walk on in this world.
As it works out, the soles of our feet can touch the soles of the dead.
And my friend had realized her feet were built just like her fathers. So, in painting him she was studying herself.

I looked at my thumb and index finger. After Pop died, with the body in the hospital, I had made a point of looking one last time at his hands and forearms.
I didn’t want to ever forget.
Now, I see how very similar we are. That knob of arthritis on my thumb, the flatness of the nail, they’re just like his.

I don’t know what I said, right there at the table.
But, I love the image of souls walking on the water and worlds interpenetrating.

Then, my friend wanted to know what I thought of pear trees.

“Only that a neighbor has one filled with luscious fruit that hang out over the fence and into the road. And I cannot take any, for they still belong to him, even though he doesn’t care. They’ll drop onto the ground and rot, but still I won’t pick any.”

Wrong answer. I knew that going in, but I go through this every year with the pears - forbidden fruit.

When my friend was a child she played alone for hours in the woods.
She’d meet deer and follow them. She would commune with the trees.
And then she had to “grow up.” She had to put the “fantasies” aside.
She was put on many medications. And this went on for years, until she was able to reclaim herself.
Back into her body, back into her strength.

The other day she was walking in the woods and came upon a deer.
It was the first time a deer had visited since those days “before.”
The doe walked across her path, stopped and looked at her.
She followed it into the woods, until it stopped at a pear tree ladened with fruit.
My friend thought, “So, you have brought me to the tree.”
And now she wanted my opinion on just what that pear tree meant.

I had no idea.
Pears? Do the specifics really matter?
Being led to a tree full of fruit, alone in the middle of the woods, by a deer was simply mythic to me.
I shook my head to clear out the astonishment.
Myths aren’t really told to us – they exist all on their own inside.

Deer have always been a supernatural animal.
Had she ever read The White Goddess, by Robert Graves?
A strange, strange book I read 30 years ago, about the power of sacred language and the Druids. Wasn’t there a white deer in that tale somewhere?

The White Goddess is about power, Nature, and the gods, as well as language, myth and poetry. I mentioned that with the Druids, poets stood right next to the king. Their language was that powerful.
I wanted to explain that once we start stirring the energy along the channels inside of us we start accessing the myths that reside there.
Our bodies spontaneously take on mudras and exotic dances. From our mouths come shouts and cries, and spats of poetry in tongues we do not know.
And this is why the deer returned and led her to the tree.
But, I couldn’t really get any explanations out.

Later, I would come across a young poet who knows, a Sufi who explains beyond any expression I might give:

Silence is a door to Allah – so is music
And both solitude and love are paths to Allah.
I am surrounded by doors, I can open none of them
For none of them are closed -
Nor can I go out to meet my Beloved
For He is here.
Tiel Aisha Ansari, Knocking from Inside

It’s all the inside, the poetry and myths and magic. Still we might insist that it is “out there.” And that is fine. It’s called Awakening.

Hearing Voices
"The poet doesn't invent. He listens." ~Jean Cocteau

Listen: what do you hear?
I hear a dead tree weeping in the rain,
sorrow hangs from her naked branches.
In the deep ocean, salmon sing of the return home.
Leaves whisper in the wind's tongue.
I hear cicadas in their strident triumph,
seventeen years of darkness ended at last.
Like a seashell lamenting the distant sea,
I empty myself and echo the world's voices
and call it poetry.
Tiel Aisha Ansari, Sol Magazine

Once More...

sakura twilight
Originally uploaded by tia*

I have posted this Rumi poem before.
Today, I have come across it yet again.
I find it just right.

For years, copying other people, I tried to know myself.
From within, I couldn't decide what to do.
Unable to see, I heard my name being called.
Then I walked outside.

The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you.
Don't go back to sleep.
You must ask for what you really want.
Don't go back to sleep.
People are going back and forth across the doorsill
where the two worlds touch.
The door is round and open.
Don't go back to sleep.

Rumi

I came across this poem while visiting Douglas Hardings' teachings on the web.

If you would like to try a fairly direct and immediate way to experience the Silent Nothingness within, I point you to Right Here.

Who Says Words With My Mouth?

Night Buddha II
Originally uploaded by f/1.4

These are Rumi's reflections regarding where thoughts come from.

(and once again I wrestle with Blogger formatting...)

Who Says Words With My Mouth?

All day I think about it, then at night I say it.
Where did I come from,
and what am I supposed to be doing?
I have no idea.
My soul is from elsewhere, I'm sure of that,
and I intend to end up there.

This drunkenness began in some other tavern.
When I get back around to that place,
I'll be completely sober. Meanwhile,
I'm like a bird from another continent,
sitting in this aviary.
The day is coming when I fly off,
but who is it now in my ear
who hears my voice?
Who says words with my mouth?

Who looks out with my eyes? What is the soul?
I cannot stop asking.
If I could taste one sip of an answer,
I could break out of this prison for drunks.
I didn't come here of my own accord,
and I can't leave that way.
Whoever brought me here will have to take me home.

This poetry. I never know what I'm going to say.
I don't plan it.
When I'm outside the saying of it,
I get very quiet and rarely speak at all.

Rumi, trans. by Coleman Barks

What Our Lips are Thirsting For

Originally uploaded by akiruna

The Keeper of the Lips allowed as how
I might be
The Holder of the Cup.

I’d call it something of a compromise.
Something concocted to put skittish minds at ease.
You do this and I’ll do that, not unlike dividing up the kitchen tasks.
Not to imply at all, at all, at all
any other housekeeping arrangement.
No. Not That at all.

But still,
Be still,
I am now, officially,
Holder of the Cup.

These words of Czeslaw Milosz immediately came to mind:

You asked me what is the good of reading the Gospel in Greek.
I answer that it is proper that we move our finger
Along letters more enduring than those carved in stone,
And that, slowly pronouncing each syllable,
We discover the true dignity of speech.

I love these words and have absolutely no idea
why they are germane to this moment.

Perhaps Keeper of the Lips
will whisper a hint or two. (She is one most clever bird.)
Meanwhile, I inscribe them upon a piece of mental parchment
And drop it into the Cup; safe keeping.

Of course there is the Cup itself
And the words of Jeanette Winterson that originally defined it:

The best work is a cup that holds the liquid that you are…
We learn about ourselves through someone not ourselves – it is like falling in love – the stranger brings the gift.

I scribble this down too
And in it goes.

And now we’re really talking.
‘Cause love has entered in the conversation.

Yet another “devoted reader” (not her words, but mine)
sent me a Rumi poem today.
It inspired me to collect more snippets of his poetry
creating quite the love fest.

No apology intended,
simply more treasures for the Cup.

Because we need to know, What it's Going to Take.

Last year I wrote,
“Falling in love is how we practice falling into Love.”
Love (with that large-case letter) being just another word for Being.
Falling in love and Awakening: seems to me the first is simply rehearsal for the second.

Rumi’s poetry offers perhaps the best defense of this proposition.

And the Cup will be here too, less there be any doubts
Regarding what our lips are really thirsting for.

~
Someone who does not run
toward the allure of love walks
a road where nothing lives.

But this dove here senses
the love-hawk floating above
and waits and will not be driven
or scared to safety.

~
Flying toward thankfulness, you become
the rare bird with one wing made of fear,
and one of hope. In autumn,
a rose crawling along the ground in the cold wind.
Rain on the roof runs down and out by the spout
as fast as it can.

Talking is pain. Lie down and rest,
now that you've found a friend to be with.

~
The way of love is not
a subtle argument.

The door there
is devastation.

Birds make great sky-circles
of their freedom.

How do they learn that?
They fall, and falling,
they’re given wings.

~
A thousand half-lives
must be forsaken to take
one whole heart home.

Let the lover be disgraceful, crazy,
absentminded. Someone sober
will worry about things going badly.
Let the love be.

Lovers don’t finally
meet somewhere.
They’re in each other all along.

Courage!

Fledgling
Originally uploaded by De Seven

I can see in your eyes a fear and confusion.
All this talk of endings brings a tremble to your bones.
But fear not, for I do not speak of death or chaos except to point out that you have already fallen prey to both.
No, I talk of awakening from the death of sleepwalking in dreams and veiled imagination. …

Have you not been told how grand you are, how uncontained, how limitless?
I for one maintain that you are as unseen and eternal as the space that spans beyond the myriad universes.
I praise the immortal self—not one self among many, but the self within all selves.
For everywhere I go, and in each and everyone I meet, I greet my secret and unseen self.
For I know each man and each woman as I know myself,
none greater or lesser in essence or worth.
Adyashanti, Everlasting Inheritance.

I happened to catch Angelina Jolie as “Laura Croft, Tomb Raider” the other night on TV. Wow!
She’s some kind of buff chick: good with knives, machine guns, capes, and somersaults punctuated with these kicks aimed right at opponents’ throats.

Wish I had some of her moves. Huh?
The moves of a Super-Chick, Super-Hero… wouldn’t life be easier?
If only I were Really brave and Really beautiful!

Have you ever thought this way?

So, I was looking at my biceps, just this morning.
Not bad for 57 and my little skivy fitting tight.
Makes me almost overlook the liver spots beginning to appear on the back of my hands.
In all honesty, they are not freckles. I know that now.

Ohhh, Laura.
Ohhhh, Angelina.

Ohhhhhhhh.
I am trying to get to know Her
and I can
Hardly stand the pain.
The fear.
The Belly.
The confusion.

I wish I could be like Einstein,
a little bird too early dropped out of his nest.
A pigeon I think, with a naked bottom
bulging out above these legs that were way too big.
I carefully bundled him into a warm box and set him in a quiet corner.
But he wouldn’t stay there.
He insisted upon standing dead center in the middle of the room
these naked chicken wings held out akimbo
and the feathery fuzz of Einstein’s head sticking out at all angles framing
Such ferocious eyes.

The smallest living creature in the room
was ready for whatever Life might bring.

And his courage split my heart wide open.

Try to live with the spirit of one little bird!
That’s what I learned in that moment.
And I find it such a challenge.

So let’s go back to Rumi.
back to the classics of love and consciousness…


The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you.
Don't go back to sleep.

You must ask for what you really want.
Don't go back to sleep.

People are going back and forth across the doorsill
where the two worlds touch.

The door is round and open.
Don't go back to sleep.


Light Breeze

As regards feeling pain, like a hand cut in battle,
consider the body a robe

you wear. When you meet someone you love, do you kiss their clothes? Search out

who's inside. Union with God is sweeter than body comforts.
We have hands and feet

different from these. Sometimes in dream we see them.
That is not

illusion. It's seeing truly. You do have a spirit body;
don't dread leaving the

physical one. Sometimes someone feels this truth so strongly
that he or she can live in

mountain solitude totally refreshed. The worried, heroic
doings of men and women seem weary

and futile to dervishes enjoying the light breeze of spirit

Not Here

There's courage involved if you want
to become truth. There is a broken-

open place in a lover. Where are
those qualities of bravery and sharp

compassion in this group? What's the
use of old and frozen thought? I want

a howling hurt. This is not a treasury
where gold is stored; this is for copper.

We alchemists look for talent that
can heat up and change. Lukewarm

won't do. Halfhearted holding back,
well-enough getting by? Not here.

Wraith of the Desert

Wraith of the Desert
Originally uploaded by Seeking Tao.

How 'bout some Rumi today -
searching for God in the desert.


The Funny Thing Is…

When I want to leave
You hold my feet and won’t let me go.
You steal my heart,
and sit on top of it. …

You saw me lost, waving and crying
and said, “I am the guide.
I’ll show you the road
for which you have been searching.”…

My friend, you thought you lost Him;
that all your life you’ve been separated from Him.
Filled with wonder, you’ve always looked outside for Him,
and haven’t searched within your own house.

The funny thing is
that in this search,
Beauty has always accompanied you.
Wherever you have been,
He is the One holding your hand.

Keep looking for Him with Him;
You and He are on the same road.
O Beloved, You’re so obvious
You’re hidden from sight!



Love Is like a Lawsuit

I am amazed at the seeker of purity
who when it’s time to be polished
complains of rough handling.
Love is like a lawsuit:
to suffer harsh treatment is the evidence…

That harshness isn’t toward you,
But toward the harmful qualities within you.
When someone beats a rug,
the blows are not against the rug,
but against the dust in it.



The Edge of the Roof

I don’t like it here, I want to go back.
According to the old Knowers
if you’re absent from the one you love
even for one second that ruins the whole thing!...

When you want dessert, you choose something rich.
In wine, you look for what is clear and firm.
What is the rest? The rest is mirages,
and blurry pictures, and milk mixed with water.
The rest is self-hatred, and mocking other people, and bombing.

So just be quiet and sit down.
The reason is – you are drunk,
and this is the edge of the roof.

Guided Movements

Ripples, I
Originally uploaded by Seeking Tao.

Guided Movements, also called Spontaneous Qigong are part of my Taoist meditation practice. In the Sum Faht tradition, this practice is begun by standing, closing the eyes, and bowing to the four corners of the universe. Then, mentally, one requests guided movements. Next one waits for one’s internal energy to shift. You have to feel the energy or qi build until it is strong enough to move your limbs and body on its own accord. You must allow yourself to follow the energy, never rushing or anticipating. The mind must be kept out of the process.

Most Qigong practices or forms follow a specific pattern and sequence of movements. For example, in the Five Animal Play system movements of the deer, tiger, monkey, crane and bear are mimicked. Bone Marrow Cleansing or Eight Pieces of Silk Brocade will have other patterns of movement.

In spontaneous qigong the body may shake, gently sway, dance or reel, perform martial art moves, mimic any number of animals, or adopt a mudra-like pose. Movement can occur on one side of the body only, or be performed bilaterally. Whatever movement appears is deemed appropriate for that person at that moment given his or her own, unique physiological and psychological needs.

Often the effects of guided movements can feel very cathartic, allowing one to release deeply held emotions. Afterwards one may also feel relaxed and harmonious. The practice is one way to strengthen the body so that it can handle the flow of energy accessed in the deeper levels of sitting meditation.

The poet Rumi has written,

The spiritual path wrecks the body
And afterwards restores it to health.
It destroys the house to unearth the treasure,
And with that treasure builds it better than before.


Some schools of Taoism have emphasized the necessity of strengthening the body prior to instruction in meditation so that the fire and destruction, so beautifully described by Rumi, may be ameliorated if not avoided. A stronger body will also support a clearer psychology.