How To Fight Evil

Meditation from the book Less Than One, by Joseph Brodsky: "The surest defense against evil is extreme individualism, originality of thinking, whimsicality -- even if you will, eccentricity . . . Evil is a sucker for solidarity. It always goes for big numbers, for confident granite, for ideological purity, for drilled armies and balance sheets."

Pronoic Intentions by Rob Brezney

At the heart of the pronoiac way of life is an apparent conundrum: You can have anything you want if you'll just ask for it in an unselfish way. The trick to making this work is to locate where your deepest ambition coincides with the greatest gift you have to give. Figure out exactly how the universe, by providing you with abundance, can improve the lot of everyone whose life you touch. Seek the fulfillment of your fondest desires in such a way that you become a fount of blessings.

If I ever produce a self-help manual called The Reverse Psychology of Getting Everything You Want, it will discuss the following paradoxes:

a. People are more willing to accommodate your longings if you’re not greedy or grasping.

b. A good way to achieve your desires is to cultivate the feeling that you’ve already achieved them.

c. Whatever you’re longing for has been changed by your pursuit of it. It’s not the same as it was when you felt the first pangs of desire. In order to make it yours, then, you will have to modify your ideas about it.

d. Be careful what you wish for because if your wish does materialize it will require you to change in ways you didn’t foresee.

"Finding Her Here" by Jayne Relaford Brown

I am becoming the woman I've wanted
grey at the temples, soft-bodied, delighted
cracked up by life,
with a laugh that's known bitter
but past it, got better,
who knows that whatever comes, she can outlast it.
I am becoming a deep weathered basket.

I am becoming the woman I've longed for,
the motherly lover with arms strong and tender,
the growing up daughter who blushes surprises.
I am becoming full moons and sunrises.

I am becoming this woman I've wanted
who knows she'll encompass
who knows she's sufficient
knows where she's going
and travels with passion,
who remembers she's precious
but knows she's not scarce
who knows she is plenty . . .
plenty to share.

"To That Younger Brother" by Rainer Maria Rilke

Now pray,
as I who came back from the same confusion
learned to pray.

I returned to paint upon the altars
those old holy forms,
but they shone differently,
fierce in their beauty.

So now my prayer is this:

You, my own deep soul,
trust me.
I will not betray you.
My blood is alive with many voices
telling me I am made of longing.

What mystery breaks over me now?
In its shadow I come into life.
For the first time, I am alone with you --

You,
my power to feel.

From "Sunday Morning" by Wallace Stevens

1

Complacencies of the peignoir, and late
Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair,
And the green freedom of a cockatoo
Upon a rug mingle to dissipate
The holy hush of ancient sacrifice.
She dreams a little, and she feels the dark
Encroachment of that old catastrophe,
As a calm darkens among water-lights.
The pungent oranges and bright, green wings
Seem things in some procession of the dead,
Winding across wide water, without sound.
The day is like wide water, without sound,
Stilled for the passing of her dreaming feet
Over the seas, to silent Palestine,
Dominion of the blood and sepulchre.

2

Why should she give her bounty to the dead?
What is divinity if it can come
Only in silent shadows and in dreams?
Shall she not find in comforts of the sun,
In pungent fruit and bright green wings, or else
In any balm or beauty of the earth,
Things to be cherished like the thought of heaven?
Divinity must live within herself:
Passions of rain, or moods in falling snow;
Grievings in loneliness, or unsubdued
Elations when the forest blooms; gusty
Emotions on wet roads on autumn nights;
All pleasures and all pains, remembering
The bough of summer and the winter branch.
These are the measure destined for her soul.

From "Bobby Jean" by Bruce Springsteen

Now we went walking in the rain, talking about the pain from the world we hid
Now there ain't nobody nowhere nohow gonna ever understand me the way you did
Maybe you'll be out there on that road somewhere
In some bus or train traveling along
In some motel room there'll be a radio playing
And you'll hear me sing this song
Well, if you do you'll know I'm thinking of you and all the miles in between
And I'm just calling one last time, not to change your mind
But just to say I miss you, baby
good luck, goodbye, Bobby Jean

A Spring Not of Our Own Invention

What cheers me, though, is the thought that spring isn’t a human season, not like the seasons we create for ourselves. It comes without caring what you make of it. It may find you unprepared, ill at ease, in a state of erosion. It makes no difference. It will stir your blood anyway, once the freezing rain goes away at last.

From "Officially Spring"by Verlyn Klinkenborg

Eddie Vedder - "Guaranteed" from Into the Wild

On bended knee is no way to be free
Lifting up an empty cup, I ask silently
All my destinations will accept the one that's me
So I can breathe...

Circles they grow and they swallow people whole
Half their lives they say goodnight to wives they'll never know
A mind full of questions, and a teacher in my soul
And so it goes...

Don't come closer or I'll have to go
Holding me like gravity are places that pull
If ever there was someone to keep me at home
It would be you...

Everyone I come across, in cages they bought
They think of me and my wandering, but I'm never what they thought
I've got my indignation, but I'm pure in all my thoughts
I'm alive...

Wind in my hair, I feel part of everywhere
Underneath my being is a road that disappeared
Late at night I hear the trees, they're singing with the dead
Overhead...

Leave it to me as I find a way to be
Consider me a satellite, forever orbiting
I knew all the rules, but the rules did not know me
Guaranteed

"Riveted" by Robyn Sarah from A Day's Grace

It is possible that things will not get better
than they are now, or have been known to be.
It is possible that we are past the middle now.
It is possible that we have crossed the great water
without knowing it, and stand now on the other side.
Yes: I think that we have crossed it. Now
we are being given tickets, and they are not
tickets to the show we had been thinking of,
but to a different show, clearly inferior.

Check again: it is our own name on the envelope.
The tickets are to that other show.

It is possible that we will walk out of the darkened hall
without waiting for the last act: people do.
Some people do. But it is probable
that we will stay seated in our narrow seats
all through the tedious dénouement
to the unsurprising end — riveted, as it were;
spellbound by our own imperfect lives
because they are lives,
and because they are ours.

Here is what I would tell you about love:

Living your life as a gift to those who love you is one way to go. It will get you up in the morning. Desire will do this too, but most desire is temporary and specific. Duty works, works well, but it is work, and it will wear you after a while. Only if you make your life a gift will you find a reason to live that won't fall away with time.

You first must love yourself to do this. This is the beginning and end of it all. You must realize that you are a love letter to the universe. You must present yourself to be read and consent to it, open yourself line after line. You must give yourself away, extravagently, and with no regard for return, even though there will be return, there is always return. But you must be empty to receive it fully. Otherwise parts of it will overflow and lap down the sides.

Love yourself enough to give yourself away to a universe that loves you so ridiculously that it has created itself just to receive you in so many ways, in so many arms, in so many hearts.

From Ursula Goodenough’s “The Sacred Depths of Nature.”

Used as the introductory reading for Rev. Jane Page's sermon "The New Atheism" delivered on Sunday, January 27, 2008.

"As a cell biologist…I experience the same kind of awe and reverence when I contemplate the structure of an enzyme or the flowing of a signal-transduction cascade as when I watch the moon rise or stand in front of a Mayan temple. Same rush, same rapture.

But all of us, and scientists are no exception, are vulnerable to the existential shudder that leaves us wishing that the foundations of life were something other than just so much biochemistry and biophysics. The shudder, for me at least, is different from the encounters with nihilism that have beset my contemplation of the universe. There I can steep myself in cosmic Mystery. But the workings of life are not mysterious at all. They are obvious, explainable, and thermodynamically inevitable. And relentlessly mechanical. And bluntly deterministic. My body is some 10 trillion cells. Period. My thoughts are a lot of electricity flowing along a lot of membrane. My emotions are the result of neurotransmitters squirting on my brain cells. I look in the mirror and see the mortality and I find myself fearful, yearning for less knowledge, yearning to believe that I have a soul that will go to heaven and soar with the angels.

William James said, “At bottom, the whole concern of religion is with the manner of our acceptance of the universe.”

The manner of our acceptance. It can be disappointed and resentful; it can be passive and acquiescent; or it can be the active response we call assent. When my awe at how life works gives way to self-pity because it doesn’t work the way I would like, I call on assent -– the age-old religious response to self-pity -- as in “Why Lord? Why This? Why ME?” and then, “Thy Will Be Done.”

As a religious naturalist I say “What Is, Is” with the same bowing of the head, the same bending of the knee. Which then allows me to say “Blessed Be to What Is” with thanksgiving. To give assent is to understand, incorporate, and then let go. With the letting go comes that deep sigh we call relief, and relief allows the joy-of-being-alive-at-all to come tumbling forth again.

Assent is a dignified word. Once it is freely given, one can move fluidly within it."

"Anthem" by Leonard Cohen

The birds they sang
at the break of day
Start again
I heard them say
Don't dwell on what
has passed away
or what is yet to be.

Ah, the wars they will
be fought again
The holy dove,
she will be caught again
bought and sold
and bought again.
The dove is never free.

Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in.

We asked for signs
the signs were sent:
the birth betrayed
the marriage spent
Yeah the widowhood
of every government --
signs for all to see.

I can't run no more
with that lawless crowd
while the killers in high places
say their prayers out loud.
But they've summoned, they've summoned up
a thundercloud
and they're going to hear from me.

You can add up the parts
but you won't have the sum
You can strike up the march,
there is no drum
Every heart, every heart
to love will come
but like a refugee.

Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack, a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in.

The Part in the Middle that Doesn't Move

From NYT article on Charles Bock, author of Beautiful Children:

“Charles spent 11 years trying to manifest a single vision on the page, with almost no support,” Mason said. “He’s totally committed to writing — it’s his whole life. His passions have sometimes led him to extremes, but where most people tend as they age to grow set in their ways, he’s become more flexible. He’s still extremely opinionated, but he also has the desire to be a decent human being. I think he’s learned to balance his capacity for great passion with a capacity for empathy, and that’s what you see in the book.”

From Year of the Dog

How do I explain the things I've said and done? How do I explain the person I've become?

I believe life is magical. It is so precious. And there are so many kinds of life in this life, so many things to love. The love for a husband or a wife, a boyfriend or a girlfriend. The love for children. The love for yourself. And even material things. This is my love. It is mine. And it fills me, and it defines me . . . and it compels me on.

"Even Then" by m. Claire

This kind of love
it is an organic
thing.

I don't mean
pressing the small, pale
button of a seed
into the accepting earth
as if it is then some guarantee;
as if the young, slender body of a
thing should hold up
more than it's
own head, no

this kind of love -
its footfall is quiet.
Like a camel's in the desert,
or the thick, white, silence of snow.

And it waits -
in the deep of the eyes,
until that moment it is finally seen.

And this kind of love,
it means standing tall in the bare wind,
even as the clouds disband
even as the warm sun finally claims you

yes,

even then.

True November

By VERLYN KLINKENBORG
Published: November 25, 2007 in NY Times
Find it here

A couple of days ago we had what the forecasts call a “wintry mix,” which always sounds to me like something you’d set out in bowls at a cocktail party this time of year. It was, in fact, rain, snow and sleet mixed with sand and salt and the sludge that gets thrown from the treads of tires. One minute snow was falling in clumps, and the next it was raining. The sky was the color of duct tape, and it let about that much light through. What a “wintry mix” does is make you want to stay home — or perhaps go into the world foraging for provisions simply for the pleasure of getting home again.

This is true November weather, in which I learn to admire the stoicism of the animals all over again. Stoicism is the wrong word, if only because it implies an awareness of being stoic. They stand over their hay in the wintry mix, and they seem to take it as it comes. I imagine them thinking, “No flies!,” as a way of enjoying this grim weather.

It’s the difference that makes a day like that so interesting. Till now, this has been a bright oaken autumn. The most vivid colors came and went, leaving behind the oaks, which hold their leaves far longer. The last few weeks have been dusted with a dry, wooden light, and the oaks have shown just how various and pungent their colors can be. It was as if the oaks had all stepped forward to remind us of a spectrum of color that goes unimagined in most years.

But everything changes on a wintry day. The woods seem to withdraw, even though the snow on the ground creates the illusion that you can see deeper into them. The brightness vanishes, and that gives all the subtler colors — the variations of gray on the bark of a maple tree — a heightened presence. As voluminous as the woods seem in summer, when they are full of shadow, now is when they seem most corporeal, most alive. I don’t mean the fact that you can trace a squirrel’s route along the maple high line or watch the woodpeckers in a hickory lining up for the suet.

I mean that the trees seem to be making a gesture of a kind they never do when the leaves are green, as though they could only really be themselves when the light is low and the air is damp and the year is drawing in.

"I like for you to be still" by Pablo Neruda

I like for you to be still: it is as though you were absent,
and you hear me from far away and my voice does not touch you.
It seems as though your eyes had flown away
and it seems that a kiss had sealed your mouth.

As all things are filled with my soul
you emerge from the things, filled with my soul.
You are like my soul, a butterfly of dream,
and you are like the word Melancholy.

I like for you to be still, and you seem far away.
It sounds as though you were lamenting, a butterfly cooing like a dove.
And you hear me from far away, and my voice does not reach you:
Let me come to be still in your silence.

And let me talk to you with your silence
that is bright as a lamp, simple as a ring.
You are like the night, with its stillness and constellations.
Your silence is that of a star, as remote and candid.

I like for you to be still: it is as though you were absent,
distant and full of sorrow as though you had died.
One word then, one smile, is enough.
And I am happy, happy that it΄s not true.

Patience, Like Water

Do you have the patience to wait
till your mind settles and the water is clear?
Can you remain unmoving
till the right action arises by itself?

-- Tao Te Ching

Self Invention

"Conceive, as a basis, that every life is shaped by two crucial inventions. The first is imposed from outside, at birth and during childhood..., the second is projected from within, as the life picks up momentum, by force of will and imagination. So we begin by being invented and we progress, if we can, to invent ourselves. The decisive element is nerve -- how much? Do we dare?"

-- Nik Cohen in The Rolling Stone History of Rock and Roll

~ Rumi ~ Rumi ~ Rumi ~

Find the real world, give it endlessly away
Grow rich, fling gold to all who ask
Live at the empty heart of Paradox
I’ll dance there with you, cheek to cheek.
~
The minute I heard my first love story
I started looking for you, not knowing
How blind that was.
Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere.
They’re in each other all along.
~
Out beyond the ideas of wrong-doing and rightdoing,
there is a field. I’ll meet you there. When
the soul lies down in that grass, the world is too
full to talk about. Ideas, language, even the
phrase “each other” doesn’t make any sense.
~
All day I think about it, then at night I say it.
Where did I come from, and what am I supposed to be doing?
I have no idea
my soul is from elsewhere, and I am sure of that, and I intend to end up there.