Sunday, November 30, 2008

more poetry

Getting organized for my trip.

The day started out with a wintry mix of snow and sleet. It's been cold and wet all day.

I'm suffused with a subtle, underlying sense of the sorrow in the universe. It is a material, tangible sorrow, played to a counterpoint of absolute joy. These two forces blend together equally in every material arising; the reconciling force of love holds them all together.

They don't arise from sentiment; no, the source of their arising lies deep within the roots of reality, in places where the simple, ordinary emotions of man cannot go. I draw the sustenance for Being from those roots, and I blossom--intentionally or unintentionally, with or without my participation--into what I am, but the fineness of the earth from which I spring lies beyond my reach or understanding.

Yes, it sounds like poetry, not the Gurdjieff work. But the Gurdjieff work, as I grow older, does not seem reducible to a set of ideas or formulas, methods of working, and so on. It is a whole experience where nothing can be divided from anything else, and the entire world sings within the blood of the individual who works.

If not poetry, then what?

It's a privilege to participate in this life, this act of perceiving. How often do I remember that? How often do I turn myself back to the deepest of appreciations, an appreciation that rises from sensation, moves through the intelligence, and finds itself embraced by a sorrow that is right and good and necessary?

May our hearts be opened, and our prayers be heard.

1 comment:

  1. Strangely these times must be calling to the poet in all of us. I don't write poetry but last week and this week I did. Your post reminds me of this one.

    Beloved, I am dying of it.
    What I cannot speak of love is more than words can say.
    When we meet and live together then I may.

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