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Posts Tagged ‘meditation’

There are still one or two spaces left for a retreat this weekend in La Sal, Utah

The Grand Embrace

The Grand Embrace: Writing and relaxing into not knowingness
sliding fee of $170 – $220 for room and board and a suggested teacher donation of $150 – $400 

La Sal, Utah
 

We live in a culture that wants to know—we chart and graph and test and outline. We codify and classify and name. But what do we really know? What is all this messiness and mystery that breeds underneath our longing for orderliness and certainty? What would happen if we could really rest in uncertainty? How deep might that relaxation go? How much more open might our lives be if we made friends with letting go?

Join retreat leaders Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer and dharma teacher Susie Harrington. We’ll read poems that don’t bring answers, poems that lead us deeper into paradox. We’ll sit in the midst of the not-knowing, sit with our joys, our challenges, the what is here of each moment.  We’ll write our own explorations of what if and what else and see what even a small bit of wonder might do … if you’re willing to risk a little, meditation and writing can open doors where before you didn’t even realize a door existed. Spiritual doors. Healing doors. Doors where there used to be walls.

No previous writing experience required. No previous meditation experience required. This poetry and meditation weekend is for anyone who is curious about weaving spiritual awakening and the creative poetic impulse.

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How soon I forget

the reason I walked into this room.

It is not hard

to walk back to where I was

moments before

and usually I remember.

Sometimes I forget

the reason I am here,

and I do not know where

to go back to, wherever

we came from,

to retrieve the purpose,

though sometimes

when I sit very still

it arrives, not as an answer,

not as a word, more

as a sense that I am being breathed

and that I have not

travelled so far,

that whatever I have come here for

is right here.

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Well, it’s obvious who’s been meditating more,

me or my cat. I can’t remember the last time

I sat on this cushion. Organic cotton. Unbleached.

But the cat, well, apparently she is nearing nirvana.

Based on thick layer of gray and black hair,

she’s clearly sat here for hours, perhaps contemplating

nothing as I have often strived to do. Striving for nothing.

The paradox is not lost on me. The cushion, however,

has been essentially lost. Not once have I thought of it

in months, did not consider it at all as it quietly

waited there with its company of dust bunnies.

It seems content enough. I vacuum it off, but I do not sit,

oh no, there is much too much to do, like clean

the meditation cushion, top and bottom. Who

could possibly sit on a day such as this, the house

full of clutter and a cat box to empty, the yard

full of weeds, the day full of marvels

and swervings and oh, just look at that blue.

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Reality TV

In this episode, we are sitting in a warm,
sunlit room with our eyes closed. The camera
pans around to show us motionless. We sit.
We don’t say anything. The only sound
is the hum of the refrigerator and the occasional
grumbling stomach. The cameraman gets bored
and starts to zoom in and out on a white ribbon,
a stray gray hair, a pimple on someone’s cheek.
Somewhere a producer is shouting, “Quick, go
to a commercial! Who’s idea was this? A bunch
of meditators?” He spills his coffee on his tie.
After a man tries to sell swabs that whiten teeth
and a wrinkle-less woman promises a spotless
germfree toilet, the show resumes and we
are still sitting here, eyes closed. All around America,
hands are fumbling for the remotes. But somewhere,
a woman with two young fighting children
and a leaking roof and thin walls in her cold apartment
is standing in front of her small screen, riveted in
disbelief, wondering just how she might
manage to find herself someday on a show like that.

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Not running, not humming, not
flying a kite, not rowing,
not kissing, not kneading soft dough,
not sipping mint tea, not shoveling sand,
not raking, not lifting, not opening doors,
not thinking of you except when I do
to say to myself to stop thinking of you,
not writing a grant, not washing
the floor, and meanwhile the silence
is silent beneath all my nattering
chatter and for an instant between
the not folding, not driving,
not typing, not weeding
the infinite nothing of silence
not changing, not able to be told.

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I ask for a map
god gives me a
mirror, a window

*

old glass jar
of plastic buttons
finding real pearls

*

walking and walking
and walking and walking to
get to sit still

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Stillness, I say I want you.
Pond with no wrinkle. Hanging

leaf with no breeze. Mind with
no wheel of thought.

I say please teach me and then
rail against you. Squirm and reach

and whirl. In the quiet field,
I make of myself a wind.

In the silent blue room, I sing.
I climb the balcony with a tambourine

instead of sitting in the garden below.
Stillness, how I rub against you.

The heat builds the longer I sit.
I am sand paper against you. I am

bell. I am red. I am mint. Stillness,
the teachers say you are here

beneath the veils of do and must.
I listen and think I know what they mean.

I turn you into a thought. Stillness,
you leak through this carrying on.

Stillness, I wrestle myself till I sweat.
I shout your name, Stillness, as if

you were deaf. Stillness,
where are you? And where are you not?

The dawn and the night move with you.
I keep bumping against, what?

Oh Stillness, I’m laughing. There you
were in the question, but I went on

with my wondering, my want.

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Still,
still,
and then new leaves
are ruffled by
the morning breeze
and shimmied, trembled,
shaken till they’re
still.

Silent,
silent
till the birds
all trilling through
the trees are heard—
they sing their spirals,
coo and call until they’re
hush shhh.

Quiet,
quiet,
till the bloom
of anger does
what angers do—
riles, outcries
and tells us lies
until we live
it through

and then it’s quiet here
and silent, still,
till something rises
as it will
from nothing—
and how always
we return always
to nothing.

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Silence knows the only
words worth speaking—
keeps them to itself.

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sitting beneath the
nothing moon the only thing
stirring is my mind

*

in the produce aisle
slant of sun hits the bananas
and it’s gold, gold, gold

*

easy to give
away old clothes, old cups
not so these old thoughts

*

out of the dirt rise
oh! hundreds of small brown birds
our hearts: dirt and bird

*

Li Po drowned trying
to embrace the moon—I laugh
but still I reach

*

what’s crooked, what’s straight—
silence translates them
the same

*

new tea cup
and the same black tea tastes
not at all the same

*

not only when I am
quiet does the quiet move
through me

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