Wind from unseen wings . . .
It's Tew's day and the mailbox is facing record high temperatures and rattling winds, literally and figuratively . . .
The poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow was born 217 years ago on this day in 1807, Portland, Massachusetts [now in Maine.
And it is also the birthdate of John Steinbeck. The author of Grapes of Wrath was born in 1902, Salinas, California,
Fr. Rohr's Meditation this past Sunday was a sharp pointed message. There's no need to identify with Christianity in order to “get” Rohr's messages – usually, anyway. I find that by substituting the term “universal EcoCreation” for all the “God” “Christian” “Jesus” terms works quite well. I'm also of the opinion that Fr. Rohr would find that quite acceptable to his Franciscan sensibilities and Weltanschauung.-- which is why, if you've wondered, he shows up here with some regularity as we explore The Way.
Regarding meditation and why it can be difficult, challenging, frustrating (you pick): Just begin where you are. Although you start with ego’s version of enlightenment, at a certain stage, ego is threatened by your commitment to the path. It begins to wear away, to drop out. At that point, we are approaching the cliff we need to leap from, which is suicidal to ego. – Chӧgyam Trungpa
“Either do it or don't do it, but get on with it.” – J. Krishnamurti
There is a need for a revolution in the psyche of every human being. Such a revolution cannot be brought about by any external entity, and is the natural outcome of absolute and unconditional psychological freedom, which is within everyone's reach. The only “requirement” is the “reach” – to take the journey. This immediately implies a kind of unconditionalness, to become open to opening, to receive the “lessons” available from the universal storehouse of infinite potential possibilities. Obviously this is a trust issue.
from Endymion
The rising moon has hid the stars;
Her level rays, like golden bars
… And silver white the river gleams
… Like Dian’s kiss, unasked, unsought,
Love gives itself, but is not bought . . .
No one is so accursed by fate,
No one so utterly desolate,
But some heart, though unknown,
Responds unto his own.
Responds,—as if with unseen wings,
A breath from heaven had touched its strings
And whispers, in its song,
“Where hast thou stayed so long!”
– Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (this poem is in the public domain)