Monday Morning Wake-Up Call

If you are a poet, you will see clearly that there is a cloud floating in this sheet of paper. Without a cloud, there will be no rain; without rain, the trees cannot grow: and without trees, we cannot make paper. The cloud is essential for the paper to exist. If the cloud is not here, the sheet of paper cannot be here either…

If we look into this sheet of paper even more deeply, we can see the sunshine in it. If the sunshine is not there, the forest cannot grow. In fact nothing can grow. Even we cannot grow without sunshine. And so, we know that the sunshine is also in this sheet of paper…

And if we continue to look we can see the logger who cut the tree and brought it to the mill to be transformed into paper.

And we see the wheat. We know that the logger cannot exist without his daily bread, and therefore the wheat that became his bread is also in this sheet of paper. And the logger’s father and mother are in it too. When we look in this way we see that without all of these things, this sheet of paper cannot exist.

Looking even more deeply, we can see ourselves in this sheet of paper too. This is not difficult to see, because when we look at a sheet of paper, it is par of our perception. Your mind is in here and mine is also. So we can say that everything is in here with this sheet of paper. We cannot point out one thing that is not here — time, space, the earth, the rain, the minerals in the soil, the sunshine, the cloud, the river, the heat. Everything co-exists with this sheet of paper…This sheet of paper is, because everything else is.

—  Thich Nhat Hanh, from “Peace Is Every Step: The Path of Mindfulness in Everyday Life”

 


Photo: Anka Zhuravleva with Head in the Clouds

Listen . . . Listen . . .

hair-red-close-up

Tune to the frequency of the wood and
you’ll hear the deer, breathing; a muscle, tensing;
the sigh of a field mouse under an owl.
Now listen to yourself —
that friction — the push-and-drag,
the double pulse, the drum.
You can hear it, clearly.
You can hear the sound of your body, breaking down.
If you’re very quiet, you might pick up loss:
or rather the thin noise that losing makes — perdition.
If you’re absolutely silent and still,
you can hear nothing but the sound of nothing:
this voice and its wasting, the soul’s tinsel.
Listen . . .
Listen . . .

~ Robin Robertson, Tinsel from Sailing the Forest: Selected Poems  (Farrar, Straus and Giroux. 2014 )


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