Your clear eye is the one absolutely beautiful thing.
I want to fill it with color and ducks,
The zoo of the new
Whose names you meditate —
April snowdrop, Indian pipe,
Stalk without wrinkle,
Pool in which images
Should be grand and classical
Not this troublous
Wringing of hands, this dark
Ceiling without a star.
The two hardest tests on the spiritual road are the patience to wait for the right moment and the courage not to be disappointed with what we encounter-
*I’m writing with a broad perspective this morning. I do so because I may have unearthed a major obstacle along my path in life and maybe along your path as well … *
Quick question: What does it truly mean to be patient as defined by you, not defined by a self-help book, nor by a friend or coach – You?
In the still, frigid morning light, I tried to untangle the meaning of patience and its assorted complexities. What does it mean to find peace in the very moments that intrinsically seem to bring frustration to me? To show compassion to other drivers on the road who are in more of a hurry than I am? How does it feel when we stop rushing towards an unknown future,instead, turning our appreciation to life unfolding in front of our very eyes?
Impatience, is not a part of myself I’m particularly proud of. I am far more patient with the many inspiring people in my life, than I am with my own self. It takes far too much effort and energy to have patience with my broken down body, to forgive myself for all the ways I am not perfect and believe me, there are many painful war stories to tell – figuratively and literally. Little do those stories matter, my insatiable thirst for instant gratification dictates otherwise.
Patience is a far more difficult than searching for polysyllabic words to describe how I am feeling this morning. Simply, patience is my kryptonite against the irrational demands I place upon myself, each and every day.
I haven’t been patient enough with my blogging thing recently as I have been in the past. I need to step back, step back to listen to the warmth in my heart, that so very often gets rushed and misplaced due to my need to post as often as I do.
I am working on many exciting and cool “things” I believe you will find useful, not only on the mat or out on the trail, but rather more importantly … This “thing” called life.
I am not absentminded. It is the presence of mind that makes me unaware of everything else-
It never fails folks. I string together a series of post(s) discussing spirituality, intimacy, love, passion, yoga, meditation, mindfulness and inevitably the emails come pouring in with such graceful comments like:
“All this stuff you have been trying to talk about – comes naturally. Especially intimacy and physical relationships. If you need instructions on how to enjoy these, something is wrong with you.”
What is the underlying reason that discussing our feelings, no matter what they may be – Rattles our cage so much?
There are those among us (check your blog role and yoga studio) who solely identify themselves as spiritual simply by observing holy practices, being a natural lover, super flexible and sporting the latest fashion trends. This behavior Dear Reader? Is akin to calling ourselves athletes when we are merely spectators of a sport …
Are you a fan (short for fanatic), a spectator of yoga, cycling, sex, running, walking – whatever? Or are you a participant?
Embracing a spiritual life requires participation over observation for the encounter, surrendering to a spiritual transformation.
Have a beautiful weekend and please take care.
... The kindness of others is all they ever wanted, the laughter of neighbors prospering in the blue light of summer. Those of the small sputtering flame and the sudden white sprung hair, who feed off envy and grow old quickly, desire largesse. The role of poor relation evokes a lack they are not apt to admit, or unbearable pity. They prefer to penetrate the giver’s effortless knack of giving they perceive as vitality, a pulsating entity that rewards the kindness of others tenfold. This they have witnessed. This they have tabulated relentlessly. The generosity of others whose spirits, like their long-legged children blossoming into a progeny of orchards and fields, flourish. Those who have never known kindness drag into the privacy of their smallness the baskets of fruit appearing year after year on their porches, to be picked apart in the hushed posture of thieves. They peel skin, probe flesh the color of honey as if the seeds will yield something other than a glimmer of sweet air rising from the roots of trees and licorice-laced, half-opened leaves. Those of the small flame, who feed off envy and grow old quickly, live out their lives hungry, glaring at themselves across the table, wife of the cruel mouth, husband of the thin broth trickling like spittle. - Cathy Song