Thus sayeth the Buddha
“We are what we think. All that we are arises with our thoughts. With our thoughts, we make the world.”
—The Buddha (historically, Hindu Prince Gautama Siddharta, the founder of Buddhism, 563-483 B.C.)
“We are what we think. All that we are arises with our thoughts. With our thoughts, we make the world.”
—The Buddha (historically, Hindu Prince Gautama Siddharta, the founder of Buddhism, 563-483 B.C.)
She walks in beauty, like the night.—Lord Byron Walking the Beauty Way. –Navajo I stand in my Mother’s shoes—a few sizes too big for me. Mother is dead and gone. She has passed over. I stand in my sister’s shoes—a few sizes too big for me. Julia is dead and gone. She has passed over….
Mother died at 90 last May Day. It seems like an ocean of time and then, hardly any time at all. You can read more about my mother on the “Sightlines” portion of this site on the Sweet Little Dove page including: * Ruth Thompson Life Story * Mother’s Memorial Service And the poems: *Under…
The world offers itself to your imagination. Offers to you. You offer back. You offer up. The world opens up to you. You open in return, to the world. The world is a gift if only you are there, present and open, waiting and willing, vulnerable and strong to catch and harvest what is offered….
Sogyal Rinpoche, author of “The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying” and the head of Rigpa, an international Buddhist group urges us on to follow a compassionate logic.–JGR _____________________________________________ We may say, and even half-believe, that compassion is marvelous, but in practice our actions are deeply uncompassionate and bring us and others mostly frustration and…
Persimmon, sasafrass, and ash Reclaim the land that once was theirs. “Submarginal”, the experts say. Once, hillside plows were used to turn The fertile ground. It nurtured, and produced the crops, Sustained, with money crops, and food The pioneers. They didn’t have a guarantee of annual wage. Their maps, drawn out with pointed sticks In…
Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak, Whispers the o’er-fraught heart and bids it break. (Shakespeare, Macbeth, 5.1.50-1)