to yours:
May the dawn’s light fill your home with joy

May each day’s greeting speak of loving-kindness
May each tear be soothed with compassion
May the night blanket your home with equanimity
Throughout the year
to yours:
May the dawn’s light fill your home with joy

May each day’s greeting speak of loving-kindness
May each tear be soothed with compassion
May the night blanket your home with equanimity
Throughout the year
saturday morning with Kahlil Gibran
“Then a woman said, Speak to us of Joy and Sorrow.

… Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.
And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was often times filled with your tears.
… The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.
…Some of you say, “Joy is greater than sorrow,” and others say, “Nay, sorrow is the greater.”
But I say unto you, they are inseparable.
… Verily you are suspended like scales between your sorrow and your joy.
Only when you are empty are you at stand still and balanced.” …*
*cited: Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet, 1973. pp 29-30
Leica V-Lux 5, f/4 … 1/60 s … 32.65 mm … 125 ISO
The storm at the window
has escalated its roaring,
the sounds of children
muffled in the dim,
tells us night is far from gone ~ Unknown

I have found myself slipping and sliding along a fragile thread of feelings, anger at one end and at the opposite…oddly enough…moments of joy. Within anger, the sensations of this unpleasant state of being, finds itself standing at a crevice throwing curses into the wind. Curses that rise from the politicans’ and medias’ detached words of intimate stories of war and victims of war, hunger, homeless, negation of human rights, grief and loss. The reported justification of words and actions my head cannot get around.
Standing there looking into this great void of leadership, compassion, and truth tellers brings forth a powerlessness that forms an expanding curse that repeats again and again — resisting a call to return to the flow of the in-breath and out-breath, blocking an invitation to return to the present. It screams, louder and louder, despite the knowing that no one hears,
“As the night settles within your home, may the nightmares begin with a silence, a silence that only the dead know, that invites eyes – pair of eyes … eyes empty of life and filled with despair, fear, betrayal, anger, confusion intermixed with increasing variations of the voices, the human beings (mothers, fathers, children, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces, nephews) filling your inescapable nights with the depths of their grief and loss. And may it come to be that these nightmares sit upon the graves of all that come after you.”
Mindful of the flow of the in-breath and out-breath…the duration of the breath’s movement…like the movement of ocean waves…absorbing and releasing. Mother Earth, our true healer, absorbing these physically unpleasant feelings I’ve identified as anger and releasing me from anger’s tension and pain. Tears…tears…silent tears that emerge from my soul…my own acquaintance with grief, powerlessness, despair, confusion, loss of trust.
Yes, loss of trust. Yearning for those days of innocence…of ignorance of the shadow within humans…of faith in those of position of trust. Crumbling, fragmented trust…as I hear the unspoken dispassionate words, “Let the market rule.”
Returning to the breath…to the present…to the belief that my empowerment comes from the choice to seek solitude, to connect with family/friends, to welcome the morning sun, to appreciate the beauty of the seasons in their transition, to find expression through the arts, to silence this horrid reality as I escape inhumanity, to have deep gratification for all first responders who witness human anguish, to smile with the joy that arises when I hear from family and friends, to express gratitude to the many unknown subers whose translations open the door to escape through foreign dramas, to open myself to the wisdom of Thich Nhat Hanh as I find refuge within the teachings of the dharma and the sharing and listening to the hearts within sangha.
Joy…the positive sensations of joy.
Anger…joy. One unpleasant, one pleasant, connected together by a thread of life. I do hope that my shadow…the hidden aspect of me finds comfort with the flow of my in-breath and out-breath and is embraced by the warmth of human compassion, loving-kindness, and inclusiveness.
May this curse find solace and fade…fade…fade.
May the thread connecting, suffering and joy, two diverse sensations never be severed.
May I continue to find peace and joy within the movements of the in-breath and out-breath.
May the trust I place within compassion and loving-kindness guide me through these uncertain times.
May you know peace and joy.
May you be embraced by the warmth of trust and peace
May you find inclusiveness within these times of solitude.
“The morning chill came through an open window. The morning had begun its transformation from black to variations of dark blues to lighter hues outlining night’s black shadows. It had just passed…the morning ritual. The magical moment of silence in which all of the world – right before the sun’s rays lightens the sky – seems to hush in stillness.

Then in the distance one songbird followed by another as if a congregation’s ‘Amen.’
My mother came to visit. I may have called her as I, with a cup of steaming tea, looked up at the antique framed cross stitch hanging on the dining room wall.
It was during one of those rare visits to her home in which she shared a beautiful piece of counted cross stitch. I saw the delight in her face as she told me it was a gift…a gift of gratitude to someone unknown to me…a stranger. Aged jealously rose unbidden and formed a barrier between mother and daughter.
Within that moment, forgotten…a white tablecloth, each corner embroidered…a crocheted lap blanket…a crocheted dolly sewed onto a pillow cover…applique images within a child’s alphabet book.
And then. ‘Would you like me to make you one?’
‘Yes! Oh yes! Please let me frame it.’
Within an antique framed cross stitch…a magical moment. An exchange of love and validation
Excerpt from, bc kofford, “My Mother Came to Visit”
The child claps his hands
playing alone, happily
under a festive tree
~Issa*
Visit The Daily Post @ WordPress to view additional images submitted for this week’s photo challenge: joy
*cited in:
The Spring of My Life
trans: Sam Hamill
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