Today, the birthday of poet,Czelow Milosz

A Song on the End of the World

BY CZESLAW MILOSZ

On the day the world ends

A bee circles a clover,

A fisherman mends a glimmering net.

Happy porpoises jump in the sea,

By the rainspout young sparrows are playing

And the snake is gold-skinned as it should always be.

On the day the world ends

Women walk through the fields under their umbrellas,

A drunkard grows sleepy at the edge of a lawn,

Vegetable peddlers shout in the street

And a yellow-sailed boat comes nearer the island,

The voice of a violin lasts in the air

And leads into a starry night.

And those who expected lightning and thunder

Are disappointed.

And those who expected signs and archangels’ trumps

Do not believe it is happening now.

As long as the sun and the moon are above,

As long as the bumblebee visits a rose,

As long as rosy infants are born

No one believes it is happening now.

Only a white-haired old man, who would be a prophet

Yet is not a prophet, for he’s much too busy,

Repeats while he binds his tomatoes:

There will be no other end of the world,

There will be no other end of the world.

Warsaw, 1944

Milosz said, "If I were asked to say where my poetry comes from I would say that its roots are in my childhood in Christmas carols, in the liturgy of Marian and vesper offices, and in the Bible.''

And he wrote: "To believe you are magnificent. And gradually to discover that you are not magnificent. Enough labor for one human life."

Getting my Soul Free

Woodstock lyrics

I came upon a child of god
He was walking along the road
And I asked him, where are you going
And this he told me
Im going on down to yasgurs farm
Im going to join in a rock n roll band
Im going to camp out on the land
Im going to try an get my soul free
We are stardust
We are golden
And weve got to get ourselves
Back to the garden

Then can I walk beside you
I have come here to lose the smog
And I feel to be a cog in something turning
Well maybe it is just the time of year
Or maybe its the time of man
I dont know who l am
But you know life is for learning
We are stardust
We are golden
And weve got to get ourselves
Back to the garden

By the time we got to woodstock
We were half a million strong
And everywhere there was song and celebration
And I dreamed I saw the bombers
Riding shotgun in the sky
And they were turning into butterflies
Above our nation
We are stardust
Billion year old carbon
We are golden
Caught in the devils bargain
And weve got to get ourselves
Back to the garden

This was one of my favorite songs as a young teen. I was a dreamer then as well as now. I thought often about getting"back to the garden",about stardust,being a golden of sorts. Intrinsically, I have not changed all that much as I often dream upon this song, even now....

Remembering the first sound on my birthday

It was my birthday recently, I was born on a very hot day on a very hot summer afternoon to a very young mom who tried her very best to raise me ,to love me and be there when a child most needs the care of a mom. I have been lucky. My mom would literally give me her eyeballs and remain blind, if she thought I needed them,We however are mom and daughter, we are not made of the same cloth ,although I was crafted in her cloth. She is firey and very direct, sometimes extremely loquacious. She is often surprised at my more elusive sometimes subterranean paths that she can not comprehend, try as she does. I at times am annoyed, over-stimulated by her, need space from her which I know hurts her. On my birthday we saw a movie together which tells the story of the complex enduring ties between mothers and daughters that transcend the present moment in time and permeate through many generations . There was a line in the movie that a blind adolescent girl says to her new found friend, a pregnant woman who never had the chance to experience a relationship with any mother, really, and now she is about to become a mother, herself. The young girl puts her hand on the woman's belly and tries to remember the days she lived inside her mother's womb. She asks the woman, do you remember those days when the only sound we could hear was the heart -beat of our mother's heart. I sat in the dark dampness of the movie theater room, almost as dark and wet as the space in a birthing womb, as tears rolled down my cheek trying to recall that first, that only sound of my own mother's heart, the sound that preceded any other sound. I imagine I did not have the knowledge that any other sound could exist. And now ,these past few days as I listen to music, I close my eyes and still remember that very first sound that is with me always and always will be. I sometimes feel there is nothing more evocative than listening very carefully and intently for the heart beat of another in my presence. Perhaps that is why we are all so drawn to music as it reminds of the very first sound that we could ever hear.Sometimes it takes getting older year by year to remember the things we should not forget....

The famous of one's heart

Famous

BY NAOMI SHIHAB NYE

The river is famous to the fish.

The loud voice is famous to silence,

which knew it would inherit the earth

before anybody said so.

The cat sleeping on the fence is famous to the birds

watching him from the birdhouse.

The tear is famous, briefly, to the cheek.

The idea you carry close to your bosom

is famous to your bosom.

The boot is famous to the earth,

more famous than the dress shoe,

which is famous only to floors.

The bent photograph is famous to the one who carries it

and not at all famous to the one who is pictured.

I want to be famous to shuffling men

who smile while crossing streets,

sticky children in grocery lines,

famous as the one who smiled back.

I want to be famous in the way a pulley is famous,

or a buttonhole, not because it did anything spectacular,

but because it never forgot what it could do.

I have been thinking about what this poems says to me today;

We are all famous because of what we do in our lives and what we could do with/for another. They say," beauty is in the eye of the beholder". I would add that" fame is in the heart of the beholder". Sometimes someone becomes famous perhaps only to you , in your own private heart because of a small gesture of kindness, appreciation, friendship, a look of acceptance and understanding of how you became to be the you are right now and they, the they are as well, the best kind of fame,I think....

“Famous” from Words Under the Words: Selected Poems (Portland, Oregon: Far Corner Books, 1995). Copyright © 1995 by Naomi Shihab Nye. Used by permission of the author.

Source: Words under the Words: Selected Poems (Far Corner Books, 1995)

on Prayer

POEM
Different Ways to Pray

BY NAOMI SHIHAB NYE

There was the method of kneeling,
a fine method, if you lived in a country
where stones were smooth.
The women dreamed wistfully of bleached courtyards,
hidden corners where knee fit rock.
Their prayers were weathered rib bones,
small calcium words uttered in sequence,
as if this shedding of syllables could somehow
fuse them to the sky.

There were the men who had been shepherds so long
they walked like sheep.
Under the olive trees, they raised their arms—
Hear us! We have pain on earth!
We have so much pain there is no place to store it!
But the olives bobbed peacefully
in fragrant buckets of vinegar and thyme.
At night the men ate heartily, flat bread and white cheese,
and were happy in spite of the pain,
because there was also happiness.

Some prized the pilgrimage,
wrapping themselves in new white linen
to ride buses across miles of vacant sand.
When they arrived at Mecca
they would circle the holy places,
on foot, many times,
they would bend to kiss the earth
and return, their lean faces housing mystery.

While for certain cousins and grandmothers
the pilgrimage occurred daily,
lugging water from the spring
or balancing the baskets of grapes.
These were the ones present at births,
humming quietly to perspiring mothers.
The ones stitching intricate needlework into children’s dresses,
forgetting how easily children soil clothes.

There were those who didn’t care about praying.
The young ones. The ones who had been to America.
They told the old ones, you are wasting your time.
Time?—The old ones prayed for the young ones.
They prayed for Allah to mend their brains,
for the twig, the round moon,
to speak suddenly in a commanding tone.

And occasionally there would be one
who did none of this,
the old man Fowzi, for example, Fowzi the fool,
who beat everyone at dominoes,
insisted he spoke with God as he spoke with goats,
and was famous for his laugh.

Naomi Shihab Nye, “Different Ways to Pray” from Words Under the Words: Selected Poems (Portland, Oregon: Far Corner Books, 1995). Copyright © 1995 by Naomi Shihab Nye. Reprinted with the permission of the author.

Source: Words Under the Words: Selected Poems (Far Corner Books, 1995)
I was thinking today about prayer,why we pray,how we pray.we pray, yes , to mend our brains,to kiss the earth and" because there was also happiness"......

Beauty on a Summer's Eve

He said: "We have eyes, and we're looking at stuff all the time, all day long. And I just think that whatever our eyes touch should be beautiful, tasteful, appealing, and important."words from Eric Carle, author of "the Hungry Caterpillar"

My eyes met with this beautiful animal on a lovely summer's dusk yesterday on my way home

A Theme on Summer's Benevolence to Ones's Soul

Edith Wharton (books by this author) wrote about a day trip with Henry James to Bodiam Castle, near Lamb House: "Tranquil white clouds hung above it in a windless sky, and the silence and solitude were complete as we sat looking across at the crumbling towers, and at their reflection in a moat starred with water-lilies, and danced over by great blue dragonflies. For a long time no one spoke; then James turned to me and said solemnly: 'Summer afternoon — summer afternoon; to me those have always been the two most beautiful words in the English language.'"

This again from the Writer's Almanac

Yes , Summer afternoon, I add Summer dawns, dusk,twilights, mid days, all days of summer, I think if there is a G-d , it is his/her way of giving us a brief reprieve, an antidote of sorts to the complexities of our human sufferings. At the beginning of this summer , a friend passed on. It is said that time heals all wounds, I am not sure about that one always. But in any case, I would like to at least dedicate this summer to really appreciate the kindnesses of this summer, and at least attend to the abundant richness in my journeys,and try to abandon my whiny complaints of all that is beyond my control anyways. For me,at least to try to remember the simple elegance,radiance and amazement of a "summer afternoon". I thank you ,Mr. Henry James.

In honor of today, Midsummer Night's Eve

again from the Writer's Almanac

"Tonight is Midsummer Night's Eve, also called St. John's Eve. St. John is the patron saint of beekeepers. It's a time when the hives are full of honey. The full moon that occurs this month was called the Mead Moon, because honey was fermented to make mead. That's where the word "honeymoon" comes from, because it's also a time for lovers. An old Swedish proverb says, "Midsummer Night is not long but it sets many cradles rocking." Midsummer dew was said to have special healing powers. In Mexico, people decorate wells and fountains with flowers, candles, and paper garlands. They go out at midnight and bathe in the lakes and streams. Midsummer Eve is also known as Herb Evening. Legend says that this is the best night for gathering magical herbs. Supposedly, a special plant flowers only on this night, and the person who picks it can understand the language of the trees. Flowers were placed under a pillow with the hope of important dreams about future lovers"

I woke up early this morning, summer is a difficult time for sleep for me. it feels always that too much is buzzing in nature captivating my interest with the various sounds, textures,sights, seeductions of summer. It is though I want to soak it all up, not miss a moment of it, savor it, hoard it so I can have it on a backup during the cold bleaker days of winter.Of all the seasons, summer's rich vividness is my favorite.Last night as I looked upon the quiet stillness of our nearby lake ,slowly simmering in its own mist, I understood the magic of the Midsummer's night, perhaps the kind of feeling Shakespeare had when he imagined the sweet capers of Tattania, Oberon and Puck as they indulged in the merriment of summer.

Dear readers of my blog, abandon despair briefly if you can, surrender to the merriment and fancy, the delights that are ever so brief evanescent yet so full on this most lovely midsummer's eve....

The summer solstice in the forest green

from a Midsummer's Night Dream,2.1, by William Shakespeare

I know a bank where the wild thyme blows,
Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows,
Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine,
With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine:

But I might see young Cupid's fiery shaft
Quench'd in the chaste beams of the watery moon,
And the imperial votaress passed on,
In maiden meditation, fancy-free.
Yet mark'd I where the bolt of Cupid fell:
It fell upon a little western flower,
Before milk-white, now purple with love's wound,
And maidens call it love-in-idleness.
Fetch me that flower; the herb I shew'd thee once:
The juice of it on sleeping eye-lids laid
Will make or man or woman madly dote
Upon the next live creature that it sees.
Fetch me this herb; and be thou here again
Ere the leviathan can swim a league.

Today is the Summer Solstice- one of my favorite early summer treats is to be in the forest green at dusk as Tatania and Oberon, fairies of the night scheme with the fairy world to revel in the merriment and mischief of love

Stretching beyond our safe boundaries

This morning when I was practicing yoga at Yogaview, I once again was reminded of the loss of our dear friend, Katy. I was actually practicing in the same corner spot I saw her practice in about 2 weeks ago when Tim Miller one of her and my favorite teachers was in town. As I stretched into my first down dog of the morning, I was reminded of Tim gently pulling back on my heels as a coaxing to remind me that I can be and stretch vaster that I am ,that I can take on a little more challenge and explore a new space beyond my current boundaries. It may seem insignificant, but every centimeter one takes a risk beyond their current comfort zone is an opportunity for exploration, to resist stagnation, find new solutions to old patterns.Yes, I was sad, a little tearful as I paused to see her in my mind dropping back into some awe inspiring backbends. I remembered a faint smile on her face,a look of defiance, of exploring new boundaries.

On that day, I felt Tim gently nudge me out of my old patterns, my attachments, letting go of familiar anticipations. I remembered Katy as she let herself gracefully and triumphantly fall into gravity. Katy led a triumphant life , her ebullient joy was contagious. I wish I could have gently stroked her heels and reassured she could stretch some more, that we would all be there to catch her, but those are only fanciful wishes. There is no solution for this one. I felt Katy's energy as I dropped back into my backbends today, somehow her spirit present selflessly to encourage me. Katy, I hope you dwell in peace and we can send you some comforting energy to keep you well cared for and well loved on the journeys we can not know.

In Fondest Memory of my Friend,Katy

"TO OUR READERS. The New Yorker this week devotes its entire editorial space to an article on the almost complete obliteration of a city by one atomic bomb, and what happened to the people of that city [...]"

John Hersey's Hiroshima begins:

"At exactly fifteen minutes past eight in the morning on August 6, 1945, Japanese time, at the moment when the atomic bomb flashed above Hiroshima, Miss Toshiko Sasaki, a clerk in the personnel department of the East Asia Tin Works, had just sat down at her place in the plant office and was turning her head to speak to the girl at the next desk."

This was in my inbox today from the Writer's Almanac. Today is a memorial service as well for a dear friend, a yogini named Katy who has passed and left her physical, linear time and space with us on earth . I have spent much of the past few weeks contemplating the realm of random vs intentional experiences in my life, Thus I have not blogged much lately. I feel as if I am in some submerged diving expedition and amidst the very confusing place my mind has entered recently, a death of a friend. A friend who is a mother like me, like me a yogini, like me an explorer of sorts, like me, someone who prefers giving rather than taking.So , i ask more about the randomness of human suffering, the very fine line between what seems to us intentional, yet is so random and in any moment in time ,there seems like there is a singular solution when the possibilities may be infinite. What moves one beyond the entrapments of finding only one solution when there can and are so many possibilities that exist.

I return now to finish this entry after being at the memorial service of my dear friend,Katy who has passed. Many beautiful words and sentiments were shared about the very full and vibrant life of a valiant woman who experienced great suffering but also vast joyfulness which she open heartedly and generously shared.

The afermath musings today for me after losing my friend come after tears, anger, regret , acceptance and forgiveness. I come to these simple conclusions:

Life is so very brief,

Time passes so very quickly,

Suffering is random,ubiquitous and senseless,

We have much daily work to do in reaching out to the living,

Take no person, no kind word , kind action for granted,

A kind word to a friend in need can and does save a life,

Take no gift of kindness , however random or specific for granted,

Appreciate the abundant wonder and beauty that is always within us and around us, if we only choose to see ,

Never feign love or affection as we can not live ,breath or grow without it,it is what sustains, connects us and makes us human....

Namaste

On the threshold

I have been giving more thought to the agnostic issue of late.What I have to say today has been said many many times before by some of us humans.It is a feeling that transcends time,crosses the boundaries of religion,gender,race.In addition to being a mother,a daughter,a friend to some,an agnostic yogini with spiritual affinity,I am a doctor as well.I have seen many kinds of perilous anguish and suffering , I have seen those who languish,sat at their bed sides in their last moments.I have heard great stories of bravery,courage,hopefulness ,defeat and surrender.I continue to experience my own versions of hope,joy , sufferings.I watch those that are nearest and dearest to me in their own helplessness mire in pain.In the pediatric part of my medical training,I cared for the innocent and untested in life who put up earnest struggles for survival ,sometimes winning against all odds and sometimes perishing never really having a chance to live.In my work as a psychiatrist I hear daily of the churning of the soul and mind.I often helplessly witness the imprisonments of the mind that cause stagnation,thwart growth and lead to an unlived life.There does not seem to be any rhyme or reason to any of it.It is never about reward or punishment for anything.It ,that is suffering seems so random, serendipitous,and ubiquitous.I am reaching a precipice of sorts between believing and not believing.A week ago ,I openly revealed my agnostic tendencies.This week,the revelation seems to have grown .I have thought of myself as a theist until recently.Perhaps a more honest answer to myself is that I am possibly dare I say, a spiritual atheist,that I believe only in that which man is capable of being , doing ,feeling and I can only believe in the randomness of it all. I delude myself with my beliefs.I do not know anymore.It is preposterous for me to think of a God that intentionally would stand by and passively watch the suffering that I see daily to the most vulnerable , innocent and those who have not lived long enough to even make mistakes.My mistake is in thinking that I was a believer......



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Sunlit Poppies of Summer

Send out the sunlight! 'tis needed on earth,
... afar in scintillant mirth
... worth more than gold in its wealth-giving worth!

ashtanga yoga and practicing musical chords

Friday mysore practice is traditionally primary series.I am not a musician ,but often wish I was.When I was a child hearing other children who took piano lessons practice or as a mom hearing my daughter effortlessly practice her chords before her piano lesson or recital,a wave of wistfulness sometimes overcame me.I longed for a practice of sorts that I could always come home to ,but look at with different vision as I acquired new skills and perceptions.Granted ,I have had many learning opportunities that were similar to practicing piano chords,but nothing really felt like my own practice .I did not have a practice that I could put my imprint on,something that would mold and grow with me.
This morning as I was practicing primary series ,I had brief moment of quiet comfort,like this practice was my returning to an old friend who knew me and accepted me on my terms with all the quirkiness that is me. I also had the feeling like I was moving through a practice that I had become familiar with,a place I struggled less against myself.There are also days,I love practicing near an advanced practitioner almost like listening carefully to a more advanced piece of music,imagining how practicing my chords may one day lead me to my own creation of such graceful movement.Sometimes the mysore room feels like a symphony.Perhaps it is arrogant of me to say that this ashtanga practice has given me an instrument and chords to practice.The instrument of my breath, my body, my movements,my sensations.
As I move forward in the intermediate series,it is comforting to return to the chords of primary.I am realizing that just as in music these chords contain everything that is infinitely possible in the creation of new music,so too, the sequence,poses and method of primary give me the tools for infinite possibilities.There is wisdom,beauty and comfort to be found in such a practice....


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The Nasadiya Sukta-connecting us over time and space

from The Nasadiya Sukta in the Rigveda,A vedic creation hymn
Since I am becoming more honest with myself about the notion of being an agnostic theist, that is a believer who can not know, I thought this Vedic hymn on the subject reflected well on the commonality we share with humans that preceded us that did not live in a techno world, but in gazing at the star lit night and embracing the natural rhythms of life came to the same conclusions about the dualities in existence as me. Perhaps this is an egocentric pursuit to look for such commonality,but tonight on this fair breeze of an early summer eve my mind drifts. I think of the connection that transcends time and space that connects us over thousands of years and how very human we are with our ancient questions, not knowing ever that which is by nature unknowable and give honor to that part of our existence which leads to the motivation to seek out knowledge,passion,creativity,freedom...

Agnosticism and Yoga

Recently ,I have been asked by someone who does not practice yoga,if my practicing yoga leads me to an agnostic way of thinking or believing.I am not certain that yoga can really answer that question in a generalized fashion .I can only begin to an answer this question based on my own unique personal journey ,belief system. When all is said and done,I am mostly glad when direct questions are posed to me that rattle me some ,as the pursuit of self knowledge by definition should shake us up and question us at the core. In my case,that would be ,getting me off my high horse ,that place that I know makes me seem holier than thou because" I practice yoga" .I ask myself,"really!!!"
The Merriam Webster Dictionary defines an "agnostic"as a person who holds the view that any ultimate reality such as God is unknown and unknowable ,one who is not committed to believing in either the existence or nonexistence of God or god.
On first glance the haughty ,high horse me wants to prove that somehow yoga ,leads me to an awareness and sensitivity to all that which I can not describe in words,that somehow I have the unique privilege of knowing the unknowable ,the unsee-able ,the unexperiencable ,that which can not be known with our limited sensory apparatus.
Yoga is a practical practice .It is about moving through the dense layers of matter t of which we are made by moving,breathing,clearing space ,so to speak.Does this mean we become more spiritual by definition.I think not,we continue to remain in this form of matter, not knowing the unknowable.I delude myself in thinking that I know.Suspended belief is another matter of a more personal nature ,something that we come to on our own,ineffable by it's nature. perhaps an honest answer is that I am an agnostic who believes in mysteries, mysticism,poetry and all that which I hope we will continue to not know and remain in a state of revery about at least some of the time.....



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