[ beauty in the ordinary, dept. ]

December 29, 2022 | | Comments 0

~ Mind complicates; reality clarifies. In aware living, one rests in quietude and solitude as spirit, like love, does all the lifting, discovering and uncovering nothing but itself, fully. There’s no knowing, no knower, nothing known – just an amplitude, a borderless brilliance that is alert, living. Aware. Enjoy the beauty of being; allow a gentle letting go of knowing, enjoying and suffering and rest in the peaceful, the wonderful, the ordinary and the simple – it’s the human and divine beingness, the suchness one is.
ps, Nisargadatta often advises in I AM THAT: “Be quiet.”
~ Whilst writing and watching winter whitening the trees outside my window, the following poetic utterance from Billy Collins delightfully presented itself in one of my notes; it reminded me of one of my Buddhist friends.. please enjoy, with tea, as usual. 🙂


“In the usual iconography of the temple or the local Wok
you would never see him doing such a thing,
tossing the dry snow over a mountain
of his bare, round shoulder,
his hair tied in a knot,
a model of concentration.

Sitting is more his speed, if that is the word
for what he does or does not do.

Even the season is wrong for him.
In all his manifestations, is it not warm or slightly humid?
Is this not implied by his serene expression,
that smile so wide it wraps itself around the waist of the universe?

But here we are, working our way down the driveway,
one shovelful at a time.
We toss the light powder into the clear air.
We feel the cold mist on our faces.
And with every heave we disappear
and become lost to each other
in these sudden clouds of our own making,
these fountain-bursts of snow.

This is so much better than a sermon in church,
I say out loud, but Buddha keeps on shoveling.

This is the true religion, the religion of snow,
and sunlight and winter geese barking in the sky,

I say, but he is too busy to hear me.
He has thrown himself into shoveling snow
as if it were the purpose of existence,
as if the sign of a perfect life were a clear driveway
you could back the car down easily
and drive off into the vanities of the world
with a broken heater fan and a song on the radio.

All morning long we work side by side,
me with my commentary
and he inside his generous pocket of silence,
until the hour is nearly noon
and the snow is piled high all around us;
then, I hear him speak.

After this, he asks,
can we go inside and play cards?
Certainly, I reply, and I will heat some milk
and bring cups of hot chocolate to the table
while you shuffle the deck.
and our boots stand dripping by the door.

Aaah, says the Buddha, lifting his eyes
and leaning for a moment on his shovel
before he drives the thin blade again
deep into the glittering white snow.”

~Billy Collins

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