My soul cries out,
snared by the beauty
of the formless one.
As I cry by myself,
night and day,
beauty amassed before my eyes
surpasses numberless moons and suns.
If I look at the clouds in the sky,
I see his beauty afloat;
and I see him walk on the stars
blazing my heart.
Fikirchand, from The Teachings of the Hindu Mystics, Edited by Andrew Harvey
Photo Credit: Nik Gaffney
That music always round me, unceasing, unbeginning, yet long
untaught I did not hear,
But now the chorus I hear and am elated,
A tenor, strong, ascending with power and health, with glad notes
of daybreak I hear,
A soprano at intervals sailing buoyantly over the tops of immense
A transparent base shuddering lusciously under and through the
The triumphant tutti, the funeral wailings with sweet flutes and
violins, all of these I fill myself with,
I hear not the volumes of sound merely, I am moved by the
I listen to the different voices winding in and out, striving,
contending with fiery vehemence to excel each other in
I do not think the performers know themselves—but now I think I
begin to know them.
The Music All Around Me, Leaves of Grass, Walt Whitman
Photo credit: Nishe
I arise today
In the name of Silence,
Womb of the word,
In the name of Stillness,
Home of Belonging,
In the name of the Solitude,
Of the Soul of the Earth.
I arise today
Blessed by all things,
Wings of breath,
Delight of eyes,
Wonder of whisper,
Intimacy of touch,
Eternity of soul,
Urgency of thought,
Miracle of health,
Embrace of God.
May I live this day
Compassionate of heart,
Clear in word,
Gracious in awareness,
Courageous in thought,
Generous in love.
Matins, Benedictus, John O’Donohue
Photo credit: Nik Gaffney
I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.
I loafe and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.
My tongue, every atom of my blood, form’d from this soil, this air,
Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their parents the same,
I believe in you my soul, the other I am must not abase itself to you,
And you must not be abased to the other.
Loafe with me on the grass, loose the stop from your throat,
Not words, not music or rhyme I want, not custom or lecture, not even the best,
Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.
Song to Myself, Leaves of Grass, Walt Whitman
Photo Credit: Nishe
You might be a person who likes to
argue with Eternity. A good way to
begin such an Argument is:
Why do You rule against me
Why do You silence me now
When will the Truth be on my lips
And the Light be on my brow?
After some time has passed, the answer to these questions
percolating upwards from the pit of your stomach, or downwards from the crown of your hat, or having been given at last, the right pill, you might begin to fall in love with the One who asked them; and perhaps then you will cry out, as so many of our parents did:
Blessed be the One
Who has sweetened
Argument, Book of Longing, Leonard Cohen
Photo Credit: Sylke Ibacj
Once there were brook trout in the streams in the mountains. You could see them standing in the amber current where the white edges of their fins wimpled softly in the flow. They smelled of moss in your hand. Polished and muscular and torsional. On their backs were vermiculate patterns that were maps of the world in its becoming. Maps and mazes. Of a thing which could not be put back. Not be made right again. In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery.
The Road, Cormac McCarthy
Photo Credit: The Mat Movement