Listen: this world is the lunatic’s sphere,
Don’t always agree it’s real!
Even with my feet upon it
And the postman knowing my door
My address is somewhere else.
If you want to become whole, let yourself be partial.
If you want to become straight, let yourself be crooked.If you want to become full, let yourself be empty.
If you want to be reborn, let yourself die.
If you want to be given everything, give everything up.
The Master, by residing in the Tao, sets an example for all beings.
Therefore we ought not to say ‘the tree (became) green’ or ‘the tree (is) now green’ (both of which imply a change in the tree’s ‘essence’), but rather ‘the tree greens’. By using the infinitive form of ‘to green’, we make a dynamic attribution of the predicate, an incorporeality distinct from both the tree and green-ness which captures nonetheless the dynamism of the event’s actualisation. The event is not a disruption of some continuous state, but rather the state is constituted by events ‘underlying’ it that, when actualised, mark every moment of the state as a transformation.
The Deleuze Dictionary
The rising hills, the slopes,
lie before us.
the steep climb
of everything, going up,
up, as we all
In the next century
or the one beyond that,
are valleys, pastures,
we can meet there in peace
if we make it.
To climb these coming crests
one word to you, to
you and your children:
learn the flowers
It is I who must begin.
Once I begin, once I try --
here and now,
right where I am,
not excusing myself
by saying things
would be easier elsewhere,
without grand speeches and
but all the more persistently
-- to live in harmony
with the "voice of Being," as I
understand it within myself
-- as soon as I begin that,
I suddenly discover,
to my surprise, that
I am neither the only one,
nor the first,
nor the most important one
to have set out
upon that road.
Whether all is really lost
or not depends entirely on
whether or not I am lost.
as a board,
as an untouched glass
--not a single
from the past:
we touch the moment
with our fingers,
we cut it
it brings nothing from yesterday that can't be redeemed,
nothing from the lost past.
Sometimes the way to milk and honey is through the body.
Sometimes the way in is a song.
But there are three ways in the world: dangerous, wounding, and beauty.
To enter stone, be water.
To rise through hard earth, be plant
desiring sunlight, believing in water.To enter fire, be dry.
To enter life, be food.
Observe your own body. It breathes.
You breathe when you are asleep, when you are no longer conscious of your own ideas of self-identity.
Who, then, is breathing?
The collection of information that you mistakenly think is you is not the protagonist in this drama called the breath. In fact, you are not breathing; breath is naturally happening to you.
You can purposely end your own life, but you cannot purposely keep your own life going. The expression, 'my life' is actually an oxymoron, a result of ignorance and mistaken assumption.
You don't possess life; life expresses itself through you.
Your body is a flower that life let bloom, a phenomenon created by life.
There is nothing to do. Just be.
Do nothing. Be.
No climbing mountains and sitting in caves.
I do not even say: ‘be yourself’, since you do not know yourself.
Having seen that you are neither the ‘outer’ world of perceivables, nor the ‘inner’ world of thinkables,
that you are neither body nor mind,
–Sri Nisargadatta Maharaj
I prefer zeroes on the loose
to those lined up behind a cipher.
I prefer the time of insects to the time of stars.
I prefer to knock on wood.
I prefer not to ask how much longer and when.
I prefer keeping in mind even the possibility
that existence has its own reason for being.
The appearance of water in a mirage persists after the fact that it is a mirage has dawned on us. So it is with the world.
Though knowing it to be unreal, it continues to manifest - but we do not try to satisfy our thirst with the water of the mirage.
As soon as one knows that it is a mirage, one gives it up as useless and does not run after it to get water.
No man is so guileless asthe serpent. The lonely whiterabbit on the roof is a startwitching its ears at the rain.The llama intricatelyfolding its hind legs to be seatednot disdains but mildlydisregards human approval.
What joy when the insouciantarmadillo glances at us and doesn'tquicken his trottingacross the track and into the palm brush.What is this joy? That no animalfalters, but knows what it must do?That the snake has no blemish,that the rabbit inspects his strange surroundingsin white star-silence? The llamarests in dignity, the armadillohas some intention to pursue in the palm-forest.
Those who were sacred have remained so,holiness does not dissolve, it is a presenceof bronze, only the sight that saw itfaltered and turned from it.An old joy returns in holy presence.
–Denise LevertovPoems: 1960-1967
The sun and stars that float in the open air... the appleshaped earth and we upon it... surely the drift of them is something grand;I do not know what it is except that it is grand, and that it is happiness,And that the enclosing purport of us here is not a speculation, or bon-mot or reconnoissance,And that it is not something which by luck may turn out well for us, and without luck must be a failure for us,And not something which may yet be retracted in a certain contingency.