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#2614 - Sunday, October 15, 2006 - Editor: Gloria Lee  

This issue features the work of Robert O'Hearn posted to Garden Mystics.  http://groups.yahoo.com/group/GardenMystics/

The most recent photographs shown here may be found at: http://www.1heart.us/gallery/v/Close+Up/Close+Up_001/October/Rose/Basket+of+Hearts/  

For more, the main index portal begins here: http://www.1heart.us/gallery/v/   

Flowers and inspiration grown by Mazie Lane.  


In this state there is no Shiva, nor holy union.  

Only a somewhat something moving dreamlike on a fading road   --Lalla        

One Dance poem by Lalla, images by Bob O'Hearn    

 

 

 

                                                     

Here Is Where    

As for us, we have been drunk for
as long as we can remember.

We stagger through these dreamy realms,
clouds and sun alternating,
unnoticed, unbidden.

There is no impediment for the mayflies
swarming around our dizziness, drunk
as we are, drunk as they are on the
intoxication of this Mystery.

You might ask a question now
for which we have no answer.

Whoever we think we are --
whatever we thought we were --
that is what disappears.

It is not happy, not sad.

There is a fine line where
the sky touches the ocean.

It appears to be a line.
There really is no line.

This doesn't belong to anyone,
it doesn't occur to anyone.

This Love floods out of nowhere,
sweeping the little leaves of belief and
identity along in a current of cool forgetfulness,
a gentle drowning in the swirling fluidity
of Love's watery simplicity.

One can stop pretending to be
other than what Is -
This Love --
naked and innocent,
Happy without any
reason for Happiness.

Lately all these costumes
seem to slip off on their own.

Heart-pierced.
Aimless.

All is getting done, mysteriously.

Like melting snow in warming
Spring stream swooning,
the fascination with any destiny
dissolves in the flow -
gradually,
timed to a perfection beyond
mind's comprehension.

In the letting go, something
approaches a transparency.

The dreamy sense of independence,
the perfume of some separate self-sense,
sifts, wafts, and weaves within the
full embrace of awareness,
of limitless space -
changing perpetually,
in harmony with ordinary circumstance,
white clouds vanishing in an immensity of blue.

The need for meaning drops away in
the bliss of remembrance, remembrance
prior to the arising of anything at all,
of any being, bird, or blessedness.

The search for God is consumed by
the God Who cannot be sought,
cannot be found.

Who Is.
I Am.
This.
 
Here is where we always meet -
in this silence.

Here is where
this Love is real.



 a poem by Bob O'Hearn
 

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