Wednesday, September 29, 2010

Lectio Divina - Ninety-two

Mary Oliver. New and Selected Poems. Boston: Beacon Press, 1992, 87.

The Kookaburras

In every heart there is a coward and a procrastinator.

In every heart there is a god of flowers, just waiting

to come out of its cloud and lift its wings.

The kookaburras, kingfishers, pressed against the edge of

their cage, they asked me to open the door.

Years later I wake in the night and remember how I said to them,

no, and walked away.

They had the brown eyes of soft-hearted dogs.

They didn’t want to do anything so extraordinary, only to fly

home to their river.

By now I suppose the great darkness has covered them.

As for myself, I am not yet a god of even the palest flowers.

Nothing else has changed either.

Someone tosses their white bones to the dung-heap.

The sun shines on the latch of their cage.

I lie in the dark, my heart pounding.

Saturday, September 18, 2010

Lectio Divina - Ninety-one

Chogyam Trungpa, The Essential Chogyam Trungpa. Boston: Shambhala, 1999, 119-120.

An open wound . . . is always there. That open wound is usually very inconvenient and problematic. We don't like it. We would like to be tough. We would like to fight, to come out strong, so we do not have to defend any aspect of ourselves . . . It is just an open wound, a very simple open wound. That is very nice -- at least we are accessible somewhere. We are not completely covered with a suit of armor all the time . . . That sore spot is known as embryonic compassion, potential compassion. At least we have some kind of gap, some discrepancy in our state of being that allows basic sanity to shine through . . . we have some kind of opening.