Dear friends,
I am excited to be part of this beautiful octave. "A" shared with me this daily practice around three years ago. At that moment it was a shock, as she would wake up at 4.30 in the morning to be able to have her ‘breakfast’ before her children woke up at 6.30. A little later on in the day, but I started doing it. I would wake up a couple hours before starting my day, and tried to listen or read something that would bring my soul to the surface. Sometimes it would take 15 or 20 minutes, some other times even 1 hour, but I wouldn’t go on until I felt the presence of my inner world all around my body. A similar feeling to the one I would get at meetings.
I invite you to try it. Pick a day when you are not too busy, and program one hour for your breakfast. Don’t stop after reading the text that comes that day to the list, keep looking. We can always rely on music, paintings, prayer. The moment comes when the soul emerges and embraces the machine. It comes to the foreground. This is such a good moment to start the day. Whenever I have time to do it my day completely changes.
I want to start these nine days with Rilke. The Book of Hours (the one translated into English by Anita Barrows and Joanna Macy) has touched my inner world as no other poetry book has. This is a book Rilke finished writing when he was 27. During many years, even just a few years before his death, he felt frustrated for not being able to surpass the spiritual depth of this text from his youth.
The following poem for me epitomizes the Work. Something similar to the ‘If’ poem of Kipling, but here Rilke shows how God sees man:
God speaks to each of us as he makes us,
then walks with us silently out of the night.
then walks with us silently out of the night.
These are the words we dimly hear:
You, sent out beyond your recall,
go to the limits of your longing.
Embody me.
go to the limits of your longing.
Embody me.
Flare up like flame
and make big shadows I can move in.
and make big shadows I can move in.
Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror.
Just keep going. No feeling is final.
Don’t let yourself lose me.
Just keep going. No feeling is final.
Don’t let yourself lose me.
Nearby is the country they call life.
You will know it by its seriousness.
You will know it by its seriousness.
Give me your hand.
I feel the following poem illustrates the feeling of sweetness and union that comes with a higher state. A total merging with the creator, where one wonders what would God do without a vehicle to experience his creation.
What will you do, God, when I die?
I am your pitcher (when I shatter?)
I am your drink (when I go bitter?)
I, your garment, your craft.
Without me what reason have you?
I am your drink (when I go bitter?)
I, your garment, your craft.
Without me what reason have you?
Without me what house
where intimate words await you?
I, velvet sandal that falls from your foot.
I, cloak dropping from your shoulder.
where intimate words await you?
I, velvet sandal that falls from your foot.
I, cloak dropping from your shoulder.
Your gaze, which I welcome now
as it warms my cheek,
will search for me hour after hour
and lie at sunset, spent,
on an empty beach
among unfamiliar stones.
as it warms my cheek,
will search for me hour after hour
and lie at sunset, spent,
on an empty beach
among unfamiliar stones.
What will you do, God? It troubles me.
I hope you are not tired yet =) I want to share still one more poem, as Rilke explores in it a very deep melancholic tone that has fed my soul deeply in moments of meditation. In these lines, Rilke discusses the life of humans. What happens with the experiences lived through the mechanics? Where do they go?
No one lives his life.
Disguised since childhood,
haphazardly assembled
from voices and fears and little pleasures,
we come of age as masks.
haphazardly assembled
from voices and fears and little pleasures,
we come of age as masks.
Our true face never speaks.
Somewhere there must be storehouses
where all these lives are laid away
like suits of armor or old carriages
or clothes hanging limply on the walls.
where all these lives are laid away
like suits of armor or old carriages
or clothes hanging limply on the walls.
Maybe all paths lead there,
to the repository of unlived things.
to the repository of unlived things.
And yet, though we strain
against the deadening grip
of daily necessity,
I sense there is this mystery:
against the deadening grip
of daily necessity,
I sense there is this mystery:
All life is being lived.
Who is living it, then?
Is it the things themselves,
or something waiting inside them,
like an unplayed melody in a flute?
Is it the things themselves,
or something waiting inside them,
like an unplayed melody in a flute?
Is it the wind blowing over the waters?
Is it the branches that signal to each other?
Is it the branches that signal to each other?
Is it flowers
interweaving their fragrances,
or streets, as they wind through time?
interweaving their fragrances,
or streets, as they wind through time?
Is it the animals, warmly moving,
or the birds, that suddenly rise up?
or the birds, that suddenly rise up?
Who lives it, then? God, are you the one
who is living life?
who is living life?
All who seek you
test you.
And those who find you
bind you to image and gesture.
test you.
And those who find you
bind you to image and gesture.
I would rather sense you
as the earth senses you.
In my ripening
ripens
what you are.
as the earth senses you.
In my ripening
ripens
what you are.
I need from you no tricks
to prove you exist.
Time, I know,
is other than you.
to prove you exist.
Time, I know,
is other than you.
No miracles, please.
Just let your laws
become clearer
from generation to generation.
Just let your laws
become clearer
from generation to generation.
Thank you for your time!
See you tomorrow!
H
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