Morning Trip (130)

“The problem is that most people feel cozy enough in samsura. They do not really have the genuine aspiration to go beyond samsura; they just want samsura to be a little better. It is quite interesting that “samsura” became the name of a perfume. And it is like that. It seduces us into thinking that it is okay: samsura is not so bad; it smells nice! The underlying motivation to go beyond samsura is very rare, even for people who go to Dharma centers. There are many people who learn to meditate and so forth, but with the underlying motive that they hope to make themselves feel better. And if it ends up making them feel worse, instead of realizing that this may be a good sign, they think there is something wrong with Dharma. We are always looking for a way to make ourselves comfortable in the prison house. We might think that if we get the cell wall painted a pretty shade of pale green, and put in a few pictures, it won’t be a prison anymore.”

–Jetsunma Tenzin Palmo, Into the Heart of Life

One Shoot Sunday and A Child–Purple Profundity: Poetry by Elisabeth Connelley

Good Morning! It’s One Shoot Sunday again! The following is quoted to attribute the photographer and the site that supports and encourages The Poetry Challenge of One Shoot Sunday.

‘Tis good to have choices… Fellow artist and One Shoot Sunday alumnus, James Rainsford understands that and has even suggested an excellent picture prompt challenge. So take your pick. Go on, James offers us five photos.

~Dustus

For more examples of James’ art see:
The Sanctum of Sanity
Poems from James’ new collection

A Child
I sit amongst the trees
the breeze
to take
my soul, I rest in unkempt grasses
cushioned among hills of moss
which grows, where
the sun cannot penetrate
the great ceiling of leaves.
The clover stretches endlessly
to one
lying minute
miniscule
yet a part of such a place.
The leaves quiver,
as boughs are waved
hoping to
catch a
glimpse of tiny angel’s eyes,
they peek shyly ’round the limbs
of one so aged and strong
gnarled trunks
holding
secrets known, before
such rancor
did we
the human race display
upon the dirty streets
and smells
rough chemicals
and poisons we disperse
shall please those of a soul
so fell
the mighty aged trunks
and leaning one by one…
Yet wait,
a tiny twinkle far away,
There,
a child, no more than three
flies dancing with the trees
Just in that moment
when,
the sun’s sharp rays come piercing down
through shadows in the wood
Childish laughter
Pelting,
out man’s noise
His arms outspread
and turning ’round
trees spin above his head
A child will free us all
one day
They shall dispel man’s dread.

–by Elisabeth Connelley