Journal

Hasten slowly and you will soon arrive.
The mind is like a trader - it never measures totally. In its measures it gives the impression that it has measured fully but in fact he has deducted his own share. It puts a drop of poison in the cup of nectar. He hides things in its fist. Do not trust that which does not open its closed fist.
Nothing can work me damage except myself; the harm that I sustain, I carry about with me, and never am a real sufferer but by my own fault.
The water in a vessel is sparkling; the water in the sea is dark. The small truth has words that are clear; the great truth has great silence.
The aloneness of which I am speaking is pure, incorruptible; it is free from all tradition, of all dogmas and opinion, of everything that another has said. When the mind is in this state of aloneness, it is quiet, essentially still, not asking for anything, and such a mind is capable of knowing what is true.
When the heart is hard and parched up, come upon me with a shower of mercy. When grace is lost from life, come with a burst of song.
I woke from the dreamings of Chaos and, spreading my wings, soared like some bird of the night over the face of the Wonder, and the face of the Wonder gazed back - it's awareness awakened. And at last I came to rest in the midst of the darkness. There in a single night I built Me a city. The footings were laid in the substance of shadows, and its walls were the fabric of dreams. I called My City the Center, and all the rest was outside.
A calm, benignant beauty shines over all this picture, and goes directly to the heart. It seems almost to call you by name. Art has not yet come to it's maturity, if it do not put itself abreast with the most potent influences of the world, if it do not stand in connection with the conscience, if it do not make the poor and uncultivated feel that it addresses them with a voice of lofty cheer. There is higher work for art than the Arts. Art should exhilarate, and throw down the walls of circumstance on every side, awakening in the beholder the same sense of universal relation and power evinced in the artist, and it's highest effect to make new artists. A man should find in it an outlet for his whole energy.
What is that luminous rain I see All around you in the future?
At the last you vanished, gone to the Unseen. Strange the path you took out of this world. Strange how your beating wings demolished the cage, and you flew away to the world of the soul.
So, I bought a ticket for my eye Upon that White Sky Bird That never touches ground, And I bribed an ancient deep-sea fish to buy my ear and drown.
As the wandering seabird which crossing the ocean lights on some rock or islet to rest for a moment it's wings, and to look back on the wilderness of waves behind, and onward to the wilderness of waters before, so stand we perched on this rock or shoal of time, arrived out of the immensity of the Past and bound and roadready to plunge into immensity again.
Something that doesn't exist makes a phantom appear in the darkness of a well, and the phantom itself becomes strong enough to throw actual lions into the hole.
The conditions of a solitary bird are five: The first, that it flies to the highest point; the second, that it does not suffer for company, not even of its own kind; the third, that it aims its beak to the skies; the fourth, that it does not have a definite color; the fifth, that it sings very softly.
Write a thousand luminous secrets Upon the wall of existence So that even a blind man will know where we are, And join us in this love!
The gale that wrecked you on the sand, it helped my rowers to row The storm is my best galley hand, and drives me where I go.
Sweeter the green sod for my bones The black earth for my head The wind, than thy cold altered tones Whence all of love had fled.
Let us express our astonishment, before we are swallowed up in the yeast of the abyss. I will lift up my hands and say Kosmos.
In I go off to mend, out I come healthy again
cura cura cura mi cuerpo cura mi alma
I spread my wings when a sad bee stings, and fly across the sea. I touch the edge with beggar`s feet, aspiring to just reach. A hidden treasure lost in me. My empty shell, like an empty well, fills my heart today. Ages pass but still I last, like withered leaves in rain. Children play on seashores grey, some cast their nets and wait. A hidden treasure lost in you. My empty shell, like an empty well, fills my heart today. Hooray!
When I am liberated by silence, when I am no longer involved in the measurement of life, but in the living of it, I can discover a form of prayer in which there is effectively, no distraction. My whole life becomes a prayer. My whole silence is full of prayer. The world of silence in which I am immersed contributes to my prayer.
at the edge of the mountain, a cloud hangs. and there my heart, my heart, my heart, hangs with it. at the edge of the mountain, a cloud trembles. and there my heart, my heart, my heart, trembles with it.
dream deliver us to dream, and there is no end to illusion. life is a train of moods like a string of beads, and, as we pass through them, they prove to be many colored lenses which paint the world their own hue, and each shows only what lies in its focus.
O daylight break, so particles may resound, so the atmosphere and the heavens will turn, and so souls, headless and legless, will dance. Let me whisper into your ear where this all goes on.
Look for the flower to bloom in the silence that follows the storm - not till then.
...and still we must strive ceaselessly thrust upon ourselves with unshakable hope; trying to feel with our hearts and trying to embrace with our thoughts what can neither be touched nor caressed by our hands.
At the last you vanished, gone to the Unseen. Strange the path you took out of this world. Strange how your beating wing demolished the cage, and you flew away to the world of the soul.
I saw you creep into my room with the first rays of the Sun I heard you chirping On my window-sill To welcome me home Peace, come be my friend Like good old times Please don't... Elude me any-more.
My surroundings disappear. It all becomes energy and starts to move. I become part of that, part of the movement.
These are only hints and guesses, Hints followed by guesses; and the rest is prayer, observance, discipline, thought and action.
It comes from letting the world tickle your heart, your raw and beautiful heart. You are willing to open up, without resistance or shyness, and face the world. You are willing to share your heart with others.
Eternal thanks to all the great teachers and thinkers: Emerson, Rumi, Merton, Hafiz, Shamans, Yogananda, Dickinson, Buddha, Trungpa, Wilber, Myss, E Tolle, Milarepa - for your words of infinite wisdom. Yours are the voices of eternity that echo through the lungs of Aeon Spoke.