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Jerry Katz
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Issue #2384 - Sunday, February 5, 2006 - Editor: Gloria Lee      

Winter, in the eleventh month
Snow falls thick and fast.
A thousand mountains, one color.
People of the world passing this way are few.
Dense grass conceals the door.
All night in silence, a few woodchips burn slowly
As I read the poems of the ancients.


- Taken from "One Robe, One Bowl The Zen Poetry of Ryokan"

trans. by John Stevens(1981) Weatherhill

Exposed on the cliffs of the heart

Exposed on the cliffs of the heart. Look, how tiny down there,
look:  the last village of words and, higher,
(but how tiny) still one last
farmhouse of feeling.  Can you see it?
Exposed on the cliffs of the heart.  Stoneground
under your hands.  Even here, though,
something can bloom; on a silent cliff-edge
an unknowing plant blooms, singing, into the air.
But the one who knows?  Ah, he began to know
and is quiet now, exposed on the cliffs of the heart.
While, with their full awareness,
many sure-footed mountain animals pass
or linger.  And the great sheltered bird flies, slowly
circling, around the peak's pure denial.--But
without a shelter, here on the cliffs of the heart...

Rainer Maria Rilke

(trans. by Stephen Mitchell)


posted by Mazie Lane to Allspirit  

I am in love with the winter sky today; in love with the smudged charcoal and cool steel that somehow lend a certain substance...a certain reality.  Its soft light is soothing to the eyes today.  There are colors in the world...but it is as if they wish to be less obtrusive, more subtle...easy.  Even sound travels through this thickness differently.  It is muffled and more gentle.  Mood is neither buoyant, nor does it sink under this weight, which is rather like a gray wool about my shoulders. The whole world feels somehow soft... listening...and very present.  As the winter sky becomes the night sky once again, I think: What sky shall I love tomorrow?    

posted by Aly to nondualnow

The clouds that wander through the sky have no roots, no home,
Nor do the distinctive thoughts floating through the mind.
Once the Self-mind is seen,
Discrimination stops.

-Tilopa, "The Song of Mahamudra"
From "Teachings of the Buddha," edited by Jack Kornfield, 1993    


true faith
is what remains
after you lose
all your beliefs.

posted to Allspirit


Resistance does not mean walls and fences, nonresistance does not mean open space. If you can understand in this way, mind and matter are fundamentally the same.

From "The Pocket Zen Reader," edited by Thomas Cleary, 1999    

Alan Larus writing from:    


A picture of my friend Steinar last weekend
as we crossed the lake Sandungen( = Sandy child : )

I prefer cross-country skiing.
Most of the winter I ski on the east side of the country.
The hills and mountains are not so steep.

Here it is possible to find a flow deep into the forest,
and there is no shaking of the body as with running.
The right rhythm requires little energy and gives a pleasant heat in the body.

On the west coast the mountains are steep, there are vast areas without people or tracks
and skiing here is a different story : )

From Stranda ( = The beach, it is down below : ) on the west coast.



We are breaking all the rules.

There are no positions, no asanas.

But in all this crazy movement:

tumbling, falling, flowing

down the mountain, exploding

through cornices, jumping

over sudden bumps & smashing

the edges of our skis into hard ice–

there is something inside us

which moves less & less,

slows & finally stops.


It happens first in powder:

you float motionless

above both skis & skier,

inside, above & below the snow,

watching yourself make perfect turns,

not just in snow, through time

& frosty air: You have let go

of your skis, & at last, they obey.

Neither gravity nor friction

nor muscles make them turn,

but only love - powder yoga.


Motionless motion, timeless time,

high-speed quiet, high-tension repose:

the self no longer skis, no up, no down,

no discipline, no freedom, no contradiction.

Eventually we surprise ourselves

doing powder yoga through the bumps,

in crusty snow or junk,

on blue ice, & one day

even after we kick off our skis.


Lito Tejada-Flores presented with author's permission   from: breakthroughonskis

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