Fire of Devotion

 

The sun does not warm the earth by being nice.

In whichever old language divine praises are sung,

all Traditions are in agreement that it be done with devotion.

If it is not one's native tongue so much the better,

knowing the sense and direction of the content

neither requires knowledge of every word, nor will the mind

be thus hampered with linear conceptual thinking.

Pronunciation is of more value, also rhythm and melody.

For this, devotion is needed.

And what is this devotion?

It is the fire of present love, of love being present.

It is natural that one feels lazy, too familiar, unmoved, or some panic.

And it is natural to one's discipline, to resist this influence.

Go into that love, go into the gut of it, the heart of you,

renew it, fall in love every time and be a lover.

Nothing is ever lost, and the gain

is in every moment one returns inward to that love.

This love goes out to all who would awaken,

if you would just recite once more

that prayer, that mantra, that hymn -

for the sheer love of intoning it, hearing it,

in your own voice.

Inspirations may come, you keep at it.

Reminders may come, of those in need of succor.

You keep at it, and hold it in that gut, sing from your heart.

Be present, and if you are not present yet-

get there by love's own blazing radiant will.

Let every recitation count, every repetition, every syllable and note.

First time is the last time...is always the first time.

You fall in love - and stay there.

It will give you presence of mind for the outer life;

it will give you the tenderness to nourish others;

it will give you the intestinal fortitude to go forth into steady combat,

in defense against the tyranny of the day.

The tyranny of conformity and flatulently flat-talking relativisms,

of platitudes of political correctness and its iron grip on the soul,

of the deadening cudgel of manipulated thinking

by a jaded, complacent era.

And the tyranny of that which most deny exists,

much less appreciate the imminent and gathering danger.

When one takes a medicine against illness,
sometimes the active substance is given inside
a compatible, neutral fluid - as with infusions, injections, drops.
The fluid carries the substance into the intended environment.
Just so, is the devotional intensity of your love that substance,
carried through your singing and recitations,
neutral of ego, of preferences or self-consciousness,
into the intended environment - reaching you, reaching all.

Prana sends its breath throughout your bodily form,

strengthening your immunity, your patience, your determination.

When you sing with devotional prana,

it begins to sing you, carrying off into the world -

and you become the Word.

This is love, in action.

The sun does not warm the earth by being nice.

Contemplating "Suicide" – 2B or not 2B...

Having recently come across a message showing a young girl with a sign reading: "Suicide does not end the chances of life getting worse, suicide eliminates the chances of it ever getting better," I was moved by the image, and commented as follows:

Life is not "short."
I take no pleasure in hearing when lives are cut short (man, woman, teen or child, animals or Nature). As John Donne beautifully put it in No Man is an Island: "Each man's death diminishes me, for I am involved with mankind."

In view of our eternity – yes ours, let's own it – a life is indeed short. (I'm 60 and I want to stick around much longer, I'm half-way there). But life is not short. It is long, ever so long, and supercedes our short-sighted view of what length and strength and grace mean. How long or short life appears is entirely also relative, but how rich and enriched and enriching a life is, is often undervalued, understated, worst of all one's own.

Life, each and every life, is sacred, by God! it is sacred. Who does not respect that is dead already, but can be resurrected even now, this moment – it does happen.

Some would view what I am saying skeptically, because so many have deep personal and situational histories and issues, societal, social, or psychological issues, physical and mental health issues – and we are so self-conscious about our being here, cutting ourselves down, then cutting others down to compensate for that, cowering and dominating, both.

Some have depression to battle with – and I intimately do understand that, because I am involved with mankind – I'm a healthcare-giver long in the tooth, and a masseur to boot, including plenty of psychiatric.

But life matters, your life matters, and you matter. You, reading this, whoever you are (or by whomever this winds up), listen to me once: God loves you. Trust me on this, I know, and I have proof: because I love you. And I want you living.

That's it. Oh, and there's this bit I did compose back in 2005, passing a typically dour-faced, aged-before-her-time, obediently-dressed Turkish Muslim woman at my bus stop one evening:

What sort of religion is that then,
that lends you no joy
wherewith the world may see your smiling forehead,
your heart radiating love for Humankind?
What sort of faith teaches you no singing
instead of shouting or that tight-assed mistrust in your glance,
and contempt toward the "other"?
Sure, everybody has woes, who doesn't -
but honestly now: has no one ever told you
that God's name is compassionate and merciful?
. . . that He is indeed nearer to you than your jugular vein,
nearer indeed than your breath?
. . . or that in Him we live and move and have our Being?
. . . perhaps even once, that He dwells within you, actually as you?
And is that then no cause for joy?
 
And now, in almost closing, I offer this great in its own right:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g2cgcx-GJTQ
Dylan Thomas reciting his villanelle 'Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night'

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

(To which I take the liberty of adding here...)

And now you, my dear, contemplating suicide,
Curse the fierce confusion of your life, if you will.
But don't "go gentle into  that good night," don't go at all!
Stay, stay and choose the worthy fight, and it's you
                                                                      who must decide!

Wrathful Love

When I am freed of "my" love,

then can God's love come through me

and greet and behold you.

When I am freed of "my" wrath,

then can God's wrath make itself known within me,

and reveal where it will strike and when.

The dark forces at work in our time,

yes here and now,

the destructive and the cruel,

the narcoleptic and appeasing;

ideologies of the Left or of the Right;

networks of satanic cults whose active existence

no rational person dares take seriously, and will not act;

the vast sway of pedophilia, and of gender-mainstreaming,

of manipulated indoctrination and Islamisation;

the twisting of words and their meaning,

defamation of character and the unbridled preference

for perpetrators as "victims" – ignorance of the day

brings on the darkness of night, and it will get darker.

The sun of my inner character is greater than I,

it is fed on the divine beauty,

and will inform me when the time comes:

to step aside and stand firm – and let God act.

I am but a witness of the time, and time when it comes.

His love holds all the power I need.

When I am freed of "my" love,

then can God's love come through me

and greet and behold you.

Deepener of Your Faith

I am neither Jew nor Christian, nor Sikh nor Buddhist,
and neither am I Hindu nor Muslim, certainly not atheist.
I AM the Deepener of YOUR Faith. That is my job.
Concentrate and behold, give focus there, don't sob
about your uncertainty or project your conviction
on everyone else – pay attention in self-reflection!
Trust the Sun in your breast, in your belly its fire,
go there – give in to its breadth! - breathe, radiate higher
into all spheres penetrating out, out – touching hearts:
burning forth, bringing health, knowing every cell every part,
loving every dimension of each, detached and indifferent
toward being right or being wrong, toward Orient or Occident –
sloughing all identity you probe the subtle, let guide divinity...
Compassion toward past, here is reality, birthing your future – now is eternity.
You have no idea – and that is well, you don't always have to know –
your ear atuned within, your eye as well, allowing this certainty to grow;
no time wasted over heaven or hell, but empathy and lovingkindness
count for everything, and with sincerity you will know what success
tastes like when your tongue repeats the sound of breath which is the Name
which came to you in the womb of her from whom you sprang –
and has been with you from the Beginning, before Time.

Hanuman Springing

No dollars no sense
I haven’t a goddam nickel
I can count on –
this non-cents has got to stop!
Yet there is this love so rich,
at moments unannounced
I do sense such wealth,
Hanuman springing from my chest
swallowing the sun!

Buddha Did This

The sun ever burning its own ego

is a powerhouse of Light for that;

it sees no clouds, doesn't even know

what a cloud is!

Clouds for their part, belong

to our weather, protect us

from all that seamless solar might.

The clouds of your opposition, however,

seek only to block and inhibit your light.

Be that sun you are, dismiss their existence –

let your ego burn and let their shadows

swallow them, not you.

Be Light, travel light, in this delight,

triumph without a fight.

Breath of Buddha, Breath of Christ

As Christmas Approaches: The Breaths

Friends, readers, browsers: this is to be put to use and it's free. This is nothing new, I put it to practice but am not its originator. This is as old as Buddha and as fresh as your own very next breath, it is for all regardless of what you call your faith, your religion, your ecclectic sortof-sortof, or most valuably: your highest most intimately cherished reality.

And as Christmas approaches I decided this year to put this out there, as it has been received, and in my own manner of presentation – if being Christian (whatever denomination or however you define that) you take this and own it, make it yours – not by reading and thinking about it or having an opinion about it but only by giving it your devoted concentration and following the simple few steps, you will be really fulfilling both the Sermon on the Mount and the Prayer of St. Francis: by letting yourself be made an instrument of service in the most Christian real sense there is. Now do it and I'll shut up:

Sit up straight, whether on a chair (feet flat) or on a mat or rug, however you best do that, back straight but relaxed, neck also. All breathing is through the nose. What you do with your hands is of little matter, mudra or no mudra or hands held or free – just concentrate. Take a few shallow breaths, a few deep ones, some strong then gentle, adjust – consciously adjust your breathing to be long and deep, into the belly and back out, let your focus settle in your chest, just central there, your Heart. Just breathe. You can direct your thoughts better with any of the following, they are only three suggestions of many: Inhale “Toward the One” and exhale “United with All” (meaning all the illuminated souls who are actually leading you in this as we speak) – or, inhale “Christ in me” and exhale “United with All” – or if you're Jewish doing this you can inhale “Ha-Shem Echad,” and exhale “Baruch-Ha-Shem” – whatever works for you.

Now: you have adjusted your breathing and it's long and deep, you should focus your most devoted thought on Whom or on That which you most love – and yes, you are “worthy” of doing this – let the feeling in the center of your chest open to that and receive that. Let into you the presence of your greatest Trust, your greatest Love, let yourself imbibe that, be sourrounded by that, just as the conducting wire (you) inside a glass bulb is surrounded by a generated current and light is produced going outward. Just breathe this way. Let it fill you, in and around you. As this is a Christmas Concentration I'll address it accordingly. Let Jesus abide here, or as it says in Scripture, put on the Mind of Christ, you can even mentally intone Jesus Jesus if it helps – now we can begin.

Refining that breathing, refining like a bare thread coming and going, breathe into yourself all the Love you can draw in from the Universe, from the Cosmos, from the space around you, from so many dimensions, and from the here-now, and in reality. And breathe it out, out, out. Let it be with you, let it be in the room, let it abide, in and out. Whatever else is there with you, family or cares or worries or joys – let all this be of no disturbance, for you are sovereign, let this all be baptized in your breath, as you breathe in and then breathe out all the Love you can muster.

You are a sun, can you visualize that magnificent star up close? That is you, burning, producing such heat and such light – do you not feel your gut loosening and expanding even as you breathe in and out of your Heart (like I told you)? You may be an idiot all day long the rest of the week but right here and right now, you are Being Divine: Who loves ya? Who's with ya? Who'dja invite over to breathe with ya? Spirit is here and real – God's own breath is inside your breath.

Having let all the Love into you and, going out from you, circulate and expand, now continue on by refining still finer and drawing likewise into yourself all the Joy you can bring in, and circulate that through and on out, just as you've been doing. Feel it? It is yours, it is you – yeah, you're worthy of it, you're worthy of it – it's not about you anyway, and yet it is entirely you giving yourself to its Doing – there's nothing theoretical here. Either you're with it or you're not.

Let this continue for a few breaths, then refine, refine, draw in finer still, all the Peace you can let in to your limitless capacity – you sun of God you! – you are the very space itself, embodied as you, just breathing! Don't blow it by thinking – you're there, now stay there! As this Peace which passeth understanding is real with you, going out from you, see how all this Love, all this Joy, all this Peace is contained as one breath of Compassion which you allow to expand out with every outgoing breath – it's as though you're no longer even there doing it, just it is there doing you.

Head and Heart are not apart – you direct this toward yourself and toward everything and everyone in the room, and on out through that window into your neighborhood, hovering just long enough to feel it take, and radiating and broadcasting out to the area, the district, the city, the country, the world, the earth, people you know and don't know, people you love and those you don't even like (no ifs ands or buts), people you've hurt or who've done you wrong, Nature: the forests, mountains, the waters of the Earth, the animals and critters, let it go out to wherever it is needed, whether to disaster areas, war zones, slums or crime-concentrated areas – or just to any nameless faceless individuals out there who may desperately need the witnessing touch of your Love and your Joy and your Peace, your Lovingkindness, your Compassion, breathing onto them and into them. Now.

Not my words should dictate how far out this goes or how far in – what you feel, feel it, go with it, trust, trust, trust.

And what now? Just breathe and breathe and be with it – feel feel feel: you are All-One but not alone.

(Just to give yourself a kick in the seat to get going on it, here are two unmistakably suitable reads:)

http://samuelinayatchisti.blogspot.de/2012/01/candle-for-farthing.html

http://samuelinayatchisti.blogspot.de/2011/12/suit-or-truth-about-santa.html

Gazing in the Glance

Having gazed at the Sun unwavering,
braving the intensity and losing yourself
in its magnitude for longer stretches,

Something occurs which tastes of fearlessness,
most unassuming yet great in heat,
reminiscent of Moses, or of the Son of Man.

You burn through every personality encountered,
to the manifest Unmanifest,
catching a hint of Soul.

Rumi's catalyst was the Sun of Tabriz,
in the Glance which they shared
a Legacy was born.

Without an I, seeing occurs of itself,
where ego becomes a servant, Am is master:
this doesn't happen overnight or from reading a book.

But a most passionate desire for union helps,
as one-pointed as a breath between two lovers,
concentrating, refining, opening to grace.

The stature is majestic, the gait royal,
though you own much or nothing, no one owns you.
And while you walk the Earth, it turns in your orbit.

Is It True The Sun Is Indifferent

Is it true what some say, the Sun doesn't care?
Does it withdraw when you reject it,
or is it somehow sensitive to being liked,
or believed-in, or even addressed?
Are you left in the cold, the dark, bereft,
on its account – or your sins? ...Hello?

Or doesn't the Sun rather give unwaveringly,
indifferent to fatuous flattery or flatulence and dissing,
indifferent to belief or doubt, worship or rejection,
indifferent to all, warming the Earth
and keeping us turning? Warming and giving light,
without which we couldn't stand on two feet,
spread our arms to thank it or flip it the bird.

The Sun gives of its presence because it is present,
indeed indifferent – but that, toward our indifference;
it tells us, “I'm just one of many, some far larger –
insignificant, sure - but for you I'm here, burning.
I didn't set this all in motion, does it matter: but
I'm here and burning: take it.“

So it is with love.
Like the sun we are where we are for a purpose,
there are those who truly need us to be right there.
It is not for us to underestimate our value,
but to become indifferent toward nagging doubts.
Two kinds of wrong thinking are known to us:
thinking much of yourself and your importance –
and thinking too little, judging, dissing.

Both are from want of self-reflection, and irresponsible.
Be where you are and honor this, fill it with your warmth,
give us your presence where you are, be that Sun – be it!
Indifferent and radiating, warming this Earth, waking joy.
As it is with love.

No Sunset

The sun of this world is blinding,

if you stare into it long enough

with mortal eyes.

The sun of inner wealth

is brighter still and blinds as well,

but you will only know it with eyes turned inward.

Staring into that with longing,

with concentrated devotion,

you will be granted sight where once you were blind.

When I look at an image of this beloved Swami

I am moved inward, seeing with my heart

that sun of love, unborn, undying, never setting.

Warm, detached, constant, radiating Self,

simple and majestic, seeing all, feeling all,

and knowing only joy.

Lighting all worlds, transcending death,

burning, burning, burning, never extinguished.

Suffers not, judges not, residing in perfection.

All the worlds are held in its rays,

all life is sustained in its glance,

every form is nourished without asking.

The sun of this world is a metaphor of that sun,

given us as a reminder to return and to remember.

And what we call night is likewise always there,

but passive, no longer dominating -

as a dark room is merely space in the absence of light,

when the lamp is lit darkness knows to leave.

The sun of conscious love, with us from the beginning,

with us through the ages, radiating heart of original Self,

accepts any who come, full of beneficence.

There I will make my home.

Dawn

(Ft. Huachuca AZ, Spring 1988)

The little crimson blossom as it shoots forth
from the tip of a leafy branch
and full-lipped roses unchaffed by the sun,
cooing in the sparkling air,
and the chorus of finch and swallow
as they herald in the dawn outside my window;

and truly the singing mountain ridge which speaks
and speaks to them and to me ceaselessly    ceaselessly,
whose robust arches and gorges, embracing lakes
branch out to draw me to their embrace.

All of this testifies that we are loved where we stand.

As I see, and as I hear,
so also do I love in return, ceaselessly.
And everywhere I turn    my beloved turns to me.

Carpe Diem

I am reeling with gladness without reason -
in me is a king rising to his feet to receive the Guest in woolen robe;
I am smiled upon from unseen lips
and I sniff the scent of incoming life.

Friend, you've flown by day at altitudes well above all clouds,
you know that the sun is constant, indifferent to climate -
and ceaselessly sourcing in its giving.

Clouds are beautiful, fluffy or dark – and they come,
and they go, joy or bummer – like your moods.
Don't be the clouds, be the sun!
And Friend, may that light ever shine within your heart,
even as you shine within mine.

Scene from a chapter of an unwritten book . . .

(probably San Francisco, year uncertain)

… We sat amicably at a pub on Wallace Ave., this lad and I, our faces and our necks lightly warmed by the mid-morning sun. His features moved me, and he was easily twelve years my junior. It wasn't his body which stirred my body; it was his face which stirred my heart. And the soberly thoughtful aspect which bespoke integrity in his soft Nordic face lent a slight melancholic pang – of what? - to my little pondering.

The beer stood half-consumed on the lacquered table. I poured from the pitcher as his eyes roamed the room, returning to the table, sifting impressions. Nothing was being spoken, we needed no conversation just then. There had been no idle talk, though we'd known each other but two days. He could be a good German "Aryan," but was Scandinavian by name; and his jaw, though squared, lacked the heaviness which often characterized the German bone-structure, to my reckoning; his eyes had that Scandinavian touch, the brows ever so light yet visible. His lips were so formed as to be full but willful, suggesting a straight-forwardness which would prompt him to say just what he thought – were he to break his reserve and speak.

My mind was fixed not so much on his features alone, but on what may have been his mother's or a sister's (got any sisters at home like you?...) - yes, I thought of that woman who brought him into the world, how much of her breath still formed him, even as he came into his manhood. I couldn't shake the thought of her; this one was but the product.

There was a shift in the attention, mutually felt. His eyes met mine. They focused on the mood in my face, and reflected caution. "No," mine replied, dismissing his concerns with an imperceptible flick of my glance. It wasn't that. No sexual motives were present between us. This he understood, and relaxed.

But my eyes did not shift. And what he couldn't have known from my looking upon him as his face returned to the sun outside and then back to my face – through which shone the sun in my heart – what he ought not to have perceived, which ought not to be said aloud, was this: that I want to father a child, a son, by the woman who bore you; I want to be that one by whom she conceived you.

And he nodded. For it was spoken.