Romance needs some help this Spring in the northern hemisphere. Reflections upon romantic infatuation (1) -today- via a dialogue in haikus (bad idea from the getgo), and (2) -tomorrow- via philosophical musings verging on the esoteric (perhaps worse)…
Advisory messages heard at the edge of an early spring’s rushing mountian stream, swollen and forceful with surging transformed snowmelt… Tell of what you’ve seen and know, living waters!
The earnest scholar scours his inner landscape for the elusive source of his discontent…
_______RS
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Westernized Neo-Buddhism is eager at every opportunity to point out that Self is maya, an apparition, while the doctrine of no-self, anatta, is an early gleaned fruit on the path. I think this is both wrong and an incomplete interpretation. In truth, the conception of Self is evolving, and must do so more, especially now. This is the openly secret message behind the radical Gospel indication of I AM, most clearly evidenced in John. There are stages of I-ness which unfurl to the aspirant, qualities shed and cultivations added. A faucet spills liquid ceaselessly in a theater of consciousness. First we are the water; then with considerable effort we may become the faucet; perhaps later still the force of will which regulates the whole meshugina. But this is still only a beginning… Happy Easter!
Feelings around a pastiche of past and future romances part real, part imagination, part beyond truth or falsity.
Behind almost all human effort: an immeasurable primordial urge for union. But how to understand this urge? You can know things, as in successfully exhibiting the capacity to perceive their truth. Yet, a good dose of more life experiences may still comprise your destiny so as to cement the wisdom.
A young boy experiences the tug-of-war between the heady excitement and level-headed clarity which comes with the quest for knowledge. NOTE: I decided to re-post this story from a couple of years back as I’ve been thinking about it lately, and added an ‘Addendum’.
A family of five wild turkeys dwelt in this valley last spring, three newborn chicks, one albino. Watched them grow, seen often through the summer. Then their homelands were invaded by an aggressor troop eighteen strong. Occasional brief territorial squabbles, tribal instincts leading to an uneasy union. Then autumn, more sparseness, but so very resourceful. Leaves winding away, their tree roosts sometimes exposed. Then the snows came, early and unceasing. Till finally, one week, only a last intrepid one was still in evidence.
