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#5132 -  Unrealities, Bodhisattvas, Lorca poem, Touch by David Whyte
Nonduality Highlights - Monday, January 6, 2014 - Editor: Gloria Lee
see blog for images:
Mind and body dropped off; 
dropped off mind and body!
This state should be experienced by everyone;
it is like piling fruit into a basket without a bottom,
like pouring water into a bowl With a pierced hole;
However much you may pile or pour you cannot fill it up.
When this is realized the pail bottom is broken through.
But while there is still a trace of conceptualizations
which makes you say ‘I have this understanding’
or ‘I have that realization’,
you are still playing with unrealities.

~ Dogen Zenji
via Tao & Zen on Facebook by Mary Byrne
"A bodhisattva doesn't have to be perfect. Anyone who is 
aware of what is happening and who tries to wake up other 
people is a bodhisattva. We are all bodhisattvas, doing our 
~ Thích Nhat Hanh
Yaşar Koç Photography

"Every morning I awake torn between a desire to save the 
world and an inclination to savor it. This makes it hard to plan 
the day. But if we forget to savor the world, what possible 
reason do we have for saving it? In a way, the savoring must 
come first."
~ E.B. White 

"Love has reached the seventh heaven.
Before the mind can figure how
Love has climbed the Holy Mountain.
I must stop this talk now and let
Love speak from its nest of silence."
~ Rumi

Hour of Stars
The round silence of night,
one note on the stave
of the infinite.
Ripe with lost poems,
I step naked into the street.
The blackness riddled
by the singing of crickets:
that dead
that musical light
by the spirit.
A thousand butterfly skeletons
sleep within my walls.
A wild crowd of young breezes
over the river.
- Federico García Lorca
Image by Peter Shefler. (Moon reflected on the Milles River).

is what we desire in one form or another, even if we find it 
through being alone, the agency of silence or the felt need 
to walk at a distance: the meeting with something or 
someone other than ourselves, the light brush of grass on 
the skin, the ruffling breeze, the actual touch of another’s 
hand; even an understanding we formally could not hold.
Whether we touch only what we see or the mystery of what 
lies beneath the veil of what we see, we are made for 
unending meeting and exchange, while having to hold a 
coherent mind and body, physically or imaginatively, which 
in turn can be found and touched itself. We are something 
for the world to run up against and rub up against: through 
the trials of love, through pain, through happiness, through 
our simple everyday movement through the world.
And the world touches us in many ways, some of which are 
violations of the body or our hopes for safety: through 
natural disaster, through heartbreak, through illness, 
through death itself. In the ancient world the touch of a 
God was seen as both a blessing and a violation, at the same 
time. Being alive in the world means being found by the 
world and sometimes touched to the core in ways we would 
rather not experience. Growing with our bodies, all of us 
find ourselves at one time violated or wounded by this 
world in difficult ways, and still we live and breathe in this 
touchable, sensual world, and through trauma, through grief, 
through recovery, we heal in order to be touched again in 
the right way, as the physical consecration of a mutual, 
trusted invitation.
Nothing stops the body’s arrival in each new present, 
except death itself, which is intuited in all cultures as 
another, ultimate form of meeting. Nothing stops our ageing 
nor our witness to time, asking us again and again to be 
present to each different present, to be touchable and 
findable, to be one who is living up to the very fierce 
consequences of being bodily present in the world.
To forge an untouchable, invulnerable identity is actually a 
sign of retreat from this world; of weakness, a sign of fear 
rather than strength and betrays a strange 
misunderstanding of an abiding, foundational and necessary 
reality: that untouched, we disappear.
© - David Whyte from Readers' Circle Essay, ‘Touch’ 

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