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#2236 - Saturday, August 20, 2005 - Editor: Gloria Lee  

Meet your own self.  Be with your own self,
        listen to it, obey it, cherish it, keep it in
        mind ceaselessly.  You need no other guide.
        As long as your urge for truth affects your
        daily life, all is well  with  you.  Live your
        life without hurting anybody.  Harmlessness
        is a most powerful form of Yoga and it will
        take you speedily to your goal.  This is what
        I call nisarga yoga, the Natural yoga.  It is
        the art of living in peace and harmony, in
        friendliness and love.  The fruit of it is
        happiness, uncaused and endless.

                          - Nisargadatta Maharaj

        ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` ` `

"I Am That"
Talks with Sri Nisargadatta Maharaj
The Acorn Press, 1973
posted to Along the Way


    There is a wonderful interview with poet Li-Young Lee in this month's SUN magazine. He speaks eloquently about the sacredness of poetry.

Here's a brief quote:

'...I feel the real medium for poets is silence...To inflect that inner silence, to give it body: that's all we're doing. We use the voice to make the silence more present. It's like in architecture, where the medium is not really stone or metal, but the space they enclose...So I would say that the real medium of poetry is inner space, the silence of our deepest interior.'
you can download the interview in PDF format...

http://www.thesunmagazine.org/356_Lee.pdf
   


 

What Are REAL nothings, Anyway?

     "Real nothings" is a phrase I heard used by Eruch Jessawala, one of the closest Disciples of Meher Baba, whom I believe to be the Spiritual Authority of our age. When I was on pilgrimage at Meher Baba's community in India in the mid-90s, Eruch used the phrase in one of his talks in Mandali Hall, the place where Meher Baba, during His time on earth, met for many years with his closest male disciples.
     Eruch said that every form, every object in Illusion (the world) is "nothing in itself, but bears the stamp of Reality (God)."
     "Real nothings," he continued, putting the concept in a single phrase.

     I felt I'd heard something important that day. "Real nothings" describes something like a work of art for me, as well as life-forms I see each day, and my own life here in the realm Baba refers to as Illusion.

http://www.REALnothings.com

Editor's note: I ran across this delightful place and spent a few hours wandering around. There is a lot to see, as Max Reif says, he's offering a life. Art, poetry, stories, even songs you can listen to, and jokes! I especially liked his "delivery guy" musings and movie reviews. And of course the thread of his odyssey with Meher Baba unites it all. Max comes across as very open, relaxed, and unpretentious. What's not to like about that? I'll highlight a few things, because that's what we do, but don't stop there. As Max says, "Come when you can, leave when you must"  


 

"Close-up" painting by Max Reif http://www.realnothings.com/oldwebsite/baba%20paintings/close-up.jpg  

Coming To Meher Baba , a brief narration of the experience, way back in 1971, that set me on the spiritual oddyssey which continues to this day. I could never do justice to the experience in words, but have tried to convey something of its essence.
http://www.realnothings.com/intro.html  


  http://www.realnothings.com/otherprose/moviereviews/moviereviewstitlepage.htm  

Movie reviews by Max Reif of films off the beaten path, yet most available with blockbuster or netflix.  


  The Stairwell Crooner

He had tried the club circuit when he'd been younger.
He loved to sing, but that had been a no go.
Perhaps he'd been too shy, performing in front of crowds.

Now, he sang in stairwells.
Great acoustics! Arias, pop songs, show tunes...
Nobody ever saw him. He was always
A flight below, or above,
But his voice throbbed through the entire
Stair vestibule of a building—stirring, thick, authentic.

Closing your eyes, you could really imagine yourself
At Carnegie Hall or somewhere.
After some years, during which he bacame
a kind of legend, he disappeared.
Nobody ever knew if he had died, or moved,
Or retired. But hundreds of souls downtown
Had been touched by the Stairwell Crooner,
Many never ducked into a vestibule
To walk a few flights in leiu of a slow elevator,
Without remembering him,
And hearing his liquid voice
Again in their minds.
  http://www.realnothings.com/otherprose/courierdiary/courierdiary1.htm

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