Who am I?I am not my nameFor my name was bestowed on me by othersWho am I?I am not my bodyFor my body is of the earth and to the earth returnsWho am I?I am not my reflectionThat is just a fleeting mirror image of my vessel.Who am I?I am not my thoughtsFor my thoughts are changing as the seasonsWho am I?I am not my actionsFor actions can be disguises to fool others.Who am I?I am not my emotionsMy emotions swing like a weathercock in the wind.
Just for Now, Without asking how, let yourself sink into stillness.Just for now, lay down the weight You so patiently bear upon your shoulders.Feel the earth receive you, And the infinite expanse of the sky grow even wider, as your awareness reaches up to meet it.Just for now, Allow a wave of breath to enliven your experience. Breathe out whatever blocks you from the truth.Just for now, Be boundless, free, with awakened energy tingling in your hands and feet.Drink in the possibility Of being who and what you really are - So fully alive that the world looks different, Newly born and vibrant, just for now.
Kindness in words creates confidence. Kindness in thinking creates profoundness. Kindness in giving creates love.
No man is an island,Entire of itself,Every man is a piece of the continent,A part of the main.If a clod be washed away by the sea,Europe is the less.As well as if a promontory were.As well as if a manor of thy friend’sOr of thine own were:Any man’s death diminishes me,Because I am involved in mankind,And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; It tolls for thee.
There is only one mistake you are making:you take the inner for the outer and outer for the inner.What is in you, you take to be outside youand what is outside, you take to be in you.The mind and feelings are external,but you take them to be intimate.You believe the world to be objective,while it is entirely a projection of your psyche.That is the basic confusion . . .
This being human is a guest house. Every morning a new arrival.A joy, a depression, a meanness, some momentary awareness comes as an unexpected visitor.Welcome and entertain them all! Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows, who violently sweep your house empty of its furniture, still, treat each guest honorably. He may be clearing you out for some new delight.The dark thought, the shame, the malice, meet them at the door laughing, and invite them in.Be grateful for whoever comes, because each has been sent as a guide from beyond.
We are very good at preparing to live, but not very good at living. We know how to sacrifice ten years for a diploma, and we are willing to work very hard to get a job, a car, a house, and so on. But we have difficulty remembering that we are alive in the present moment, the only moment there is for us to be alive.
If you would grow to your best selfBe patient, not demandingAccepting, not condemningNurturing, not withholdingSelf-marveling, not belittlingGently guiding, not pushing and punishingFor you are more sensitive than you knowMankind is as tough as war yet delicate as flowersWe can endure agonies but we open fully only to warmth and light and our need to grow is as fragile as a fragrance dispersed by storms of willTo return only when those storms are stillSo, accept, respect, attend your sensitivityA flower cannot be opened with a hammer.
It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing.It doesn’t interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dream, for the adventure of being alive.It doesn’t interest me what planets are squaring your moon. I want to know if you have touched the centre of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life’s betrayals or have become shrivelled and closed from fear of further pain.I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it, or fade it, or fix it.I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own; if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, be realistic, remember the limitations of being human.It doesn’t interest me if the story you are telling me is true. I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself. If you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul. If you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy.I want to know if you can see Beauty even when it is not pretty every day. And if you can source your own life from its presence.I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand at the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, ‘Yes.’It doesn’t interest me to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone and do what needs to be done to feed the children.It doesn’t interest me who you know or how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand in the centre of the fire with me and not shrink back.It doesn’t interest me where or what or with whom you have studied. I want to know what sustains you from the inside when all else falls away.I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.
You do not have to be good. You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting. You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves. Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine. Meanwhile the world goes on. Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain are moving across the landscapes, over the prairies and the deep trees, the mountains and the rivers. Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air, are heading home again. Whoever you are, no matter how lonely, the world offers itself to your imagination, calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting-over and over announcing your place in the family of things.
See if you can catch the voice in your head, perhaps in the very moment it complains about something, and recognise it for what it is: the voice of the ego, no more than a thought. Whenever you notice that voice, you will also realise that you are not the voice, but the one who is aware of it. In fact, you are the awareness that is aware of the voice.
Before you know what kindness really isyou must lose things,feel the future dissolve in a momentlike salt in a weakened broth.What you held in your hand,what you counted and carefully saved,all this must go so you knowhow desolate the landscape can bebetween the regions of kindness.How you ride and ridethinking the bus will never stop,the passengers eating maize and chickenwill stare out the window forever.Before you learn the tender gravity of kindnessyou must travel where the Indian in a white poncholies dead by the side of the road.You must see how this could be you,how he too was someonewho journeyed through the night with plansand the simple breath that kept him alive.Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside, you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing. You must wake up with sorrow.You must speak to it till your voicecatches the thread of all sorrowsand you see the size of the cloth.Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,only kindness that ties your shoesand sends you out into the day to gaze at bread,only kindness that raises its headfrom the crowd of the world to sayIt is I you have been looking for,and then goes with you everywherelike a shadow or a friend.
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