There is nothing further left for me in data-heavy climate tracts. I have to turn away now. I don’t want to know—at least not in the cognitive sense of knowing–because I already know.
Here by the water the only constant is the wind, the waves behave as if they couldn’t be bothered to
Gratitude, I am your listening post,perched on the shoulders of mountains,in the grasses, in your granite faces,reclining in the long
Reading Andrew Harvey’s 1994 book, The Way of Passion, about Rumi’s relationship with his teacher Shams i-Tabriz is a riveting and enlightening dive into the poetry Rumi produced from that time.
If you’re familiar with The Work That Reconnects, you know Joanna Macy’s model for dealing with the reality of our
Whatever else it might mean, emergence implies the most intimate character of life, a constant unfolding of arising and disappearing,
My lineage is the vast space of Longchenpa, the precision of Jigme Lingpa, the tickster Patrul Rinpoche and heart of
A portal appears. I am bathed in light, warm, soft, welcoming, forgiving, familiar. It fills me with a reminder of
Normal consciousness of form, time, body, the world of interaction, is all cracked. That is, there are cracks in these