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Daily Archives: February 18, 2014

Chuang Tzu And The Butterfly

Li Po wrote poems that asked questions. A common theme was drinking alcohol, but, when I read his poetry, I wonder if it was alcohol or his intoxication with the world he lived in? What is real and not real sometimes blurs boundaries and we ask questions about what is real and not real. Who is the leader and who is not appears in Li Po’s poetry.

Herman Hesse blurred the lines between Leo as a leader and Leo as a servant in Journey to the East. Who serves who? What does it mean to lead and serve? There is a Taoist quality in those questions.

Chuang Tzu in dream became a butterfly,
And the butterfly became Chuang Tzu at waking.
Which was the real—the butterfly or the man ?
Who can tell the end of the endless changes of things?
The water that flows into the depth of the distant sea
Returns anon to the shallows of a transparent stream.
The man, raising melons outside the green gate of the city,
Was once the Prince of the East Hill.
So must rank and riches vanish.
You know it, still you toil and toil,—what for?

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Trust a Little Bit

This is a great message or messages. One thing that gets us through the day is the faith that others have in us that we will achieve and that becomes our faith in our self. Faith, whether it be one’s own faith, the faith others have in them, or a combination, is the platform and […]

Be with those Who Help your Being

Rumi, the Sufi poet, wrote this poem several centuries ago, but it resonates today strongly. In the fast-paced world, it seems easier to calculate and do, rather than mediate, pray, and be. The latter takes time, patience, and caring. Once the calculation is done, quite often the business is done. When we enter into the space where we listen deeply to our self and others, there is no business to do. It is just being in relationship, first with the person who is me and with the other who has listened with care.

Be with those who help your being.
Don’t sit with indifferent people, whose breath
comes cold out of their mouths.
Not these visible forms, your work is deeper.

A chunk of dirt thrown in the air breaks to pieces.
If you don’t try to fly,
and so break yourself apart,
you will be broken open by death,
when it’s too late for all you could become.

Leaves get yellow. The tree puts out fresh roots
and makes them green.
Why are you so content with a love that turns you yellow?

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