Wisdom, Washing and a Poem

Hey, don't worry, don't be afraid, ever, because this is just a ride.

Bill Hicks

It's a hanging out the washing day today for me, yippee.

(This is not my house!  I collect pics of washing lines as I have a thing about them).

This dropped into my Inbox today. I thought I would share with you.


Thought of the Week

To end suffering—not only by relieving its symptoms but by eradicating its root cause—is precisely the aim of the Buddha’s teaching. We must first realize that the true cause of suffering is not outside, but inside. That is why true spiritual practice consists of working on one’s own mind. The mind is very powerful. It can create happiness or suffering, heaven or hell. If, with the help of the Dharma, you manage to eliminate your inner poisons, nothing from outside will ever affect your happiness, but as long as those poisons remain in your mind, you will not find the happiness you seek anywhere in the world.

Nyoshul Khen Rinpoche, oral instruction given in Paro, Bhutan in 1987, translated by the author.
 (1932-1999)

I shall end with a poem written by an American poet I have discovered recently. I am afraid I have mislaid the title.  I might name it Spring, just for now.  I have tried to contact the author to ask her permission to post it here but I cannot get through........ I hope you don't mind Stacy.


Spring.


He said
Spring always reminded him
Of silk dresses,
rims of their sewn edges
Hugging the breeze
Like petals mending
Their strong, poetic skeletons
In the aftermath of winter.

We’d spy
The first flight of a butterfly
On a porch swing
In the country.
Tin trailer and a horizon
Of black-shingle roof
To shed us from the sun.

Two ice teas between us,
We’d talk of books,
The stiff voice of Yeats,
The sheets where Sexton slept,
And like a traveler mid-stop,
He’d bring his melodies to me.

I’d ride the baritone waves
Of his old love songs,
His tan skin and hand joints,
all open-throat and thrashing keys.
And when his fingers paused mid-play,
I’d pray he still had
Something left to say to me.


Stacy Lynn