Even when we try, We know we will never map the distance..

We hope we can fight.... And show worthwhile resistance..

Against all the shadows, Tear them, part them... For the promised sunrise..

But for our part, At least mine....

Even if a glowing sunset will just kiss my parched face... I might not have too many words to say... :|

But a gleam of satisfaction burning... on not failing and retuning

Back into the shadows.. Lighting up in my eyes;

In the face of providence’s devise... I stand, not vanquished

Not all will get the promised dawn... Some succour in a beautiful sunset too

With some destinies come attached.. The wills of the Gods spun in their bloom

Hardly any regrets.......

Let me melt in my sunset.....

Consciousness Is All There Is

What is consciousness?
Consciousness is the One without the second. It is the source of everything. The ‘who, what, where, when’ are all conceptual images in consciousness. They are all as real as any mirage or dream.

The totality of manifestation, and everything therein, is consciousness, the Unicity. All there is, is consciousness, unaware of itself in its noumenal subjectivity, but perceived by itself as phenomenal manifestation in its objective expression. If this is understood in depth, there is nothing more to be understood because such understanding must comport the realisation that there is no individual entity as insubstantial shadow, whereas what we really and truly are, is consciousness itself, the formless Brahmn.

All that exists is universal consciousness. The universe as such is not the universal consciousness, but consciousness is the universe just as the bracelet is made of gold but the gold is not made of the bracelet. Whether the manifested universe exists or not, consciousness is there as the subjective Absolute...

The appearance of the universe exists in infinite consciousness, just as the notion of distance or emptiness exists in space... Consciousness creates the illusion of the world appearance and the ego-sense, and perceives the illusion of diversity in what is truly pure Unicity...

How can the universe exist in infinite consciousness that is supposed to be transcendental?
Truly there is nothing other than consciousness, and therefore consciousness cannot but be immanent in everything that appears to exist. And yet no phenomenal manifestation can have any kind of relationship with consciousness because a relationship can exist only between two different entities. It is in this sense that consciousness is transcendental to the manifested universe.

What appears within consciousness as its own reflection — the manifestation of the universe — is not separate or different from consciousness. While the shadow, by itself, has no existence and is therefore unreal, the shadow is not different from the substance when seen together. When there is no mind in operation, when there is no conceptualising, it is clearly known, felt and experienced, that phenomenality is only the objective expression of the subjective noumenon...

God is that formless subjectivity, pure potential, the infinite, universal consciousness, Brahmn, which alone exists even after the cosmic dissolution. It is only within this pure, infinite consciousness, the potential plenum, that phenomenal manifestation arose as a mere reflection of that potentiality, as a mere objective expression of that pure subjectivity. The phenomenal objectivisation of this pure subjectivity appears and functions in our outer world of consciousness in the waking state, precisely like sentient and insentient objects seem to exist and function in the inner world of consciousness in the dream state. Nothing really happens.

The final truth is that there is neither creation nor destruction, neither birth nor death, neither destiny nor free will, neither any path nor any achievement... So there is no reason to be aware of anything. So consciousness-at-rest is not aware of itself. It becomes aware of itself only when this sudden feeling, ‘I Am’, arises. I Am is the impersonal sense of being aware. And that is when consciousness-at-rest becomes consciousness-in-movement, when potential energy becomes actual energy. They are not two. Nothing separate comes out of the potential energy.

Travel Light To Enjoy The Journey Of Life

I often wonder: Is it possible to love without attachment? We do have so much love to give, but is it the right kind of love? We tend to feel a kind of ownership over all that we love though we don’t own anything or anyone.

It is easier to utter the words ‘I love you’ than to actually mean it. Love is perceived in many different ways. Moma always said that: “Love, but never be possessive of what you love. Once you are possessive, you might claim ‘this is mine’ when in actuality nothing or no one is yours.”

We are all here on a spiritual journey. Along the way we find several co-travellers who become part of our lives but they too have their own destination. There is a hierarchy of love. Right on top are parents, spouse, children, siblings, other family and friends. Love stops here and further down the ladder it becomes ‘like’. They say, love all as if your own. They talk of universal love. This is not easy to follow but maybe we could try. For starters, we could do little things that make people smile. A kind word or tone would not take away from you but give a lot to the other person.

They say : “If you want peace and if you want happiness you must live in love. Only through love will you find inner peace. Only through love will you find true happiness. Love flourishes through giving and forgiving. Develop your love! Immerse yourself in love!

“...Love is the basis of everything. It is the single most important quality that has to be developed. All your thoughts must become immersed in this quality of love... then truth will naturally establish itself in your heart.”

People who serve are Godlike; their service should be appreciated, whether they belong to your peer group or not. We need to learn to love without attachment. We love those who we feel are ours. What about the rest? Why is an amazing emotion like love saved only for those few people who we perceive as ours? For instance, how might one learn to love the person who has wronged us? I guess i would say OK, don’t love, but at least try not to hate. That is an improvement.

Again, received wisdom from my moma said things can never bring you happiness. Once you’ve bought something, its value diminishes. At first i used to think that was not true, but in time i learnt that it is one of the few truths in life. I constantly try and make an effort to not get attached to ‘things’ now because at the end of the day they are things. This doesn’t mean don’t shop, don’t want... it means realise that actual happiness cannot be attained from anything external.

Enjoy all the things you have and be grateful for it, as that too is the grace of God but do not expect it to give you anything. I find my peace every evening as i sit by myself and watch the sun set. That is when i feel real joy. The sun sets with such ease and that is how we should be.

I would get attached to songs and smells! Some smells can take you back in time and songs too can transport you to old memories. It is nice to remember but if we dwell on the past we are missing out on the present; we tend to miss out on new smells and songs as we’re so preoccupied with the old. We have to let go, because holding on to something does not give us ownership rights. So much baggage! To enjoy the journey, travel light. In other words, practise loving detachment.

It Is Difficult To Stay In The Middle

The most difficult thing, the almost impossible thing for the mind, is to remain in the middle, to remain balanced. And to move from one thing to its opposite is the easiest. To move from one polarity to another is the nature of the mind.

If you are balanced, mind disappears. Mind is like a disease: when you are imbalanced it is there, when you are balanced, it is not there. That is why it is easy for a person who overeats to go on a fast. It looks illogical, because we think that a person who is obsessed with food cannot go on a fast.

But you are wrong. Only a person who is obsessed with food can fast, because fasting is the same obsession in the opposite direction. You are not really changing yourself. You are still obsessed with food. Before you were overeating; now you are hungry — but the mind remains focused on food from the opposite extreme.

A man who has been overindulging in sex can become a celibate very easily. There is no problem. But it is difficult for the mind to come to the right diet, difficult for the mind to stay in the middle. It is just like a clock’s pendulum. The pendulum goes to the right, then it moves to the left, then again to the right, and again to the left; the clock’s working depends on this movement.

If the pendulum stays in the middle, the clock stops. And when the pendulum moves to the right, you think it is only going to the right, but at the same time it is gathering momentum to go to the left. The more it moves to the right, the more energy it gathers to move to the left, and vice versa.

Thinking means momentum. The mind starts arranging for the opposite. When you love a person you are gathering momentum to hate him. That’s why only friends can become enemies. You cannot suddenly become an enemy unless you have first become a friend Only lovers can quarrel and fight, because unless you love how can you hate? Unless you have moved far to the extreme left, how can you move to the right?

Modern research says that so-called love is a relationship of intimate enmity. Your wife is your intimate enemy, your husband is your intimate enemy — both intimate and inimical They appear opposites illogical, because we wonder how one who is intimate can be the enemy; one who is a friend, how can he also be the foe?

Logic is superficial life goes deeper, and in life all opposites are joined together, they exist together. Remember this because then meditation becomes balancing.

Buddha taught eight disci plines, and with each discipline he used the word right. He said Right effort, because it is very easy to move from action to inaction, from waking to sleep but to remain in the middle is difficult.

When Buddha used the word right he was saying: Don’t move to the opposite, just stay in the middle. Right food — he never said to fast. Don’t indulge in too much eating and don’t indulge in fasting. He said: Right food Right food means standing in the middle.

When you are standing in the middle you are not gathering any momentum. And this is the beauty of it — a man who is not gathering any momentum to move anywhere, can be at ease with himself, can be at home.

Pearls

Jenny was a bright-eyed, pretty five-year-old girl.

One day when she and her mother were checking out at the grocery store, Jenny saw a plastic pearl necklace priced at $2.50. How she wanted that necklace and when she asked her mother if she would buy it for her, her mother said, "Well, it is a pretty necklace, but it costs an awful lot of money. I'll tell you what. I'll buy you the necklace, and when we get home we can make up a list of chores that you can do to pay for the necklace. And don't forget that for your birthday Grandma just might give you a whole dollar bill, too. Okay?"


Jenny agreed, and her mother bought the pearl necklace for her. Jenny worked on her chores very hard every day, and sure enough, her Grandma gave her a brand new dollar bill for her birthday. Soon Jenny had paid off the pearls.

How Jenny loved those pearls. She wore them everywhere to kindergarten, bed, and when she went out with her mother to run errands. The only time she didn't wear them was in the shower - her mother had told her that they would turn her neck green. Now Jenny had a very loving daddy. When Jenny went to bed, he would get up from his favorite chair every night and read Jenny her favorite story. One night when he finished the story, he said, "Jenny, do you love me?"

"Oh yes, Daddy, you know I love you," the little girl said.

"Well, then, give me your pearls."

"Oh! Daddy, not my pearls!" Jenny said. "But you can have Rosie, my favorite doll. Remember her? You gave her to me last year for my birthday. And you can have her tea party outfit, too. Okay?"

"Oh no, darling, that's okay." Her father brushed her cheek with a kiss. "Good night, little one."

A week later, her father once again asked Jenny after her story, "Do you love me?"

"Oh yes, Daddy, you know I love you."

"Well, then, give me your pearls."

"Oh, Daddy, not my pearls! But you can have Ribbons, my toy horse. Do you remember her? She's my favorite. Her hair is so soft, and you can play with it and braid it and everything. You can have Ribbons if you want her, Daddy," the little girl said to her father.

"No, that's okay," her father said and brushed her cheek again with a kiss. "God bless you, little one. Sweet dreams."

Several days later, when Jenny's father came in to read her a story, Jenny was sitting on her bed and her lip was trembling. "Here, Daddy," she said, and held out her hand. She opened it and her beloved pearl necklace was inside. She let it slip into her father's hand. With one hand her father held the plastic pearls and with the other he pulled out of his pocket a blue velvet box.

Inside of the box were real, genuine, beautiful pearls.

He had them all along. He was waiting for Jenny to give up the cheap stuff so he could give her the real thing. So it is with our Heavenly Father. He is waiting for us to give up the cheap things in our lives so that he can give us beautiful treasure. Isn't God good?

Are you holding onto things which God wants you to let go of?

Are you holding onto harmful or unnecessary partners, relationships, habits and activities which you have become so attached to that it seems impossible to let go?

Sometimes it is so hard to see what is in the other hand but do believe this one thing.................

God will never take away something without giving you something better in its place.

Faith And Patience

Faith and Patience, these two virtues are complementary. Each is both, the cause as well as the effect of the other; and both are the means as well as the end of the other. Between them they contain a complete code of conduct for life.

Shraddha is devotion. It is faith that helps one accept all happenings — the good and bad — with equanimity. Faith is what makes a disciple trust his guru and a child, its parent. Saburi or patience is not just the ability to overcome the urge for instant gratification. Patience is not the art of ad hoc management of mental restlessness. Patience is the intuition that inspires you to just be and wait for the will of God to unfold and work itself out. Patience helps you to live uncomplainingly, and so you are able to accept without anger what you know cannot be changed.

Patience is what enables a tree to let all its leaves fall without demur. The tree stands denuded, without a sense of shame, despondency or heartbreak. It stands as comfortably as ever. It lets the sun, the air, the rain and the season to work their magic. They denude it; they later laden it. The tree surrenders to them, not out of helplessness but out of natural design.

When the season turns, tender new leaves dress it with flowers and fruits in due course. Patience is not to stoically brave winter in the hope of spring; rather, it is to accept spring and winter alike. It is to surrender with a joyous heart to the will of God as represented by the current moment and condition.

Faith is the insight that tells you that patience and surrender to the will of God is the best course your life can take. Wisdom is in understanding and valuing both faith and patience. Patience is born of faith and in due course it serves to strengthen faith.

If patience and faith are so intricately woven, why did the sage emphasise these as two virtues? Why did he not advocate either this one or that? If faith is exclusively emphasised, it can promote blind belief. On the other hand, if patience is singularly emphasised, it can lead to the shirking of responsibility and indolence.

Patience without faith can become sloth. Faith minus patience can turn banal. Either way, the result will be counterproductive. In tandem, the two virtues uplift. If both patience and faith are required, which among these comes first? Where does one begin?

Asking which came first, patience or faith, is very similar to asking which came first, the egg or the chicken? It perhaps depends on an individual’s spiritual configuration as to which path suits his psyche best: faith or patience. Whichever route one may begin with, the two paths keep twinning and finally the two converge towards a common goal.

Does patience of the tree-type not kill enterprise? Surely not! Otherwise the tree would never grow and bring forth its wonderful flowers and fruits! Yet, yes: patience and faith, as they mature and begin to lodge in one’s mind, kill such enterprise as is inspired by sheer greed for material gain, unrelated to honest need.

Greed is contra life and nature. Is there any religion anywhere in the world that has upheld greedy enterprise and glorified it? No tree competes with its neighbour to double its output just to outperform the other. The supreme enterprise in life is self-realisation. Patience and faith proactively support this enterprise.

The Last Leaf - by O'Henry

Here goes one of my favourite short stories written by O'Henry..

In a little district west of Washington Square the streets have run crazy and broken themselves into small strips called "places." These "places" make strange angles and curves. One street crosses itself a time or two. An artist once discovered a valuable possibility in this street. Suppose a collector with a bill for paints, paper and canvas should, in traversing this route, suddenly meet himself coming back, without a cent having been paid on account!

So, to quaint old Greenwich Village the art people soon came prowling, hunting for north windows and eighteenth-century gables and Dutch attics and low rents. Then they imported some pewter mugs and a chafing dish or two from Sixth Avenue, and became a "colony."

At the top of a squatty, three story brick Sue and Johnsy had their studio. "Johnsy" was familiar for Joanna. One was from Maine; the other from California. They had met at the table d'hote of an Eighth Street "Delmonico's," and found their tastes in art, chicory salad and bishop sleeves so congenial that the studio resulted.

That was in May. In November a cold, unseen stranger, whom the doctors called Pneumonia, stalked about the colony, touching one here and there with his icy fingers. Over on the east side this ravager strode boldly, smiting his victims by scores, but his feet trod slowly through the maze of the narrow and moss-grown "places."

Mr. Pneumonia was not what you would call a chivalric old gentleman. A mite of a little woman with blood thinned by California zephyrs was hardly fair game for the red-fisted, short breathed old duffer. But Johnsy he smote; and she lay scarcely moving, on her painted iron bedstead, looking through the small Dutch window-panes at the blank side of the next brick house.

One morning the busy doctor invited Sue into the hallway with a shaggy, gray eyebrow.

"She has one chance in-let us say, ten," he said, as he shook down the mercury in his clinical thermometer. "And that chance is for her to want to live. This way people have of lining-up on the side of the undertaker makes the entire pharmacopoeia look silly. Your little lady has made up her mind that she's not going to get well. Has she anything on her mind?"

"She-she wanted to paint the Bay of Naples some day," said Sue.

"Paint?-bosh! Has she anything on her mind worth thinking about twice-a man, for instance?"

"A man?" said Sue, with a jew's- harp twang in her voice. "Is a man worth-but, no, doctor; there is nothing of the kind."

"Well, it is the weakness, then," said the doctor. "I will do all that science, so far as it may filter through my efforts, can accomplish. But whenever my patient begins to count the carriages in her funeral procession I subtract 50 per cent. from the curative power of medicines. If you will get her to ask one question about the new winter styles in cloak sleeves I will promise you a one-in-five chance for her, instead of ten."

After the doctor had gone Sue went into the workroom and cried a Japanese napkin to a pulp. Then she swaggered into Johnsy's room with her drawing board, whistling ragtime.

Johnsy, lay, scarcely making a ripple under the bedclothes, with her face toward the window. Sue stopped whistling, thinking she was asleep.

She arranged her board and began a pen and ink drawing to illustrate a magazine story. Young artists must pave their way to Art by drawing pictures for magazine stories that young authors write to pave their way to literature.

As Sue was sketching a pair of elegant horseshow riding trousers a monocle on the figure of the hero, an Idaho cowboy, she heard a low sound, several times repeated. She went quickly to the bedside.

Johnsy's eyes were open wide. She was looking out the window and counting-counting backward.

"Twelve," she said, and a little later "eleven"; and then "ten," and "nine"; and then "eight" and "seven," almost together.

Sue looked solicitously out the window. What was there to count? There was only a bare, dreary yard to be seen, and the blank side of the brick house twenty feet away. An old, old ivy vine, gnarled and decayed at the roots, climbed half way up the brick wall. The cold breath of autumn had stricken its leaves from the vine until its skeleton branches clung, almost bare, to the crumbling bricks.

"What is it, dear? Tell you Sudie."

"Leaves. On the ivy vine. When the last one falls I must go, too. I've known that for three days. Didn't the doctor tell you?"

"Oh, I never heard of such nonsense," complained Sue, with magnificent scorn. "What have old ivy leaves to do with your getting well? And you used to love that vine, so, you naughty girl. Don't be a goosey. Why, the doctor told me this morning that your chances for getting well real soon were-let's see exactly what he said-he said the chances were ten to one! Why that's almost as good a chance as we have in New York when we ride on the street cars or walk past a new building. Try to take some broth now, and let Sudie go back to her drawing, so she can sell the editor man with it, and buy port wine for her sick child, and pork chops for her greedy self."

"You needn't get any more wine," said Johnsy, keeping her eyes fixed on the window. "There goes another. No, I don't want any broth. That leaves just four. I want to see the last one fall before it gets dark. Then I'll go too."

"Johnsy, dear," said Sue, bending over her, "will you promise me to keep your eyes closed, and not look out the window until I am done working? I must hand those drawings in by to-morrow. I need the light, or I could draw the shade down."

"Couldn't you draw in the other room?" asked Johnsy, coldly.

"I'd rather be here by you," said Sue. "Besides, I don't want you to keep looking at those silly ivy leaves."

"Tell me as soon as you have finished," said Johnsy, closing her eyes, and lying white and still as a fallen statue, "because I want to see the last one fall. I'm tired of waiting. I'm tired of thinking. I want to turn loose my hold on everything, and go sailing down, down, just like one of those poor, tired leaves."

"Try to sleep," said Sue. "I must call Behrman up to be my model for the old hermit miner. I'll not be gone a minute. Don't try to move 'til I come back."

Old Behrman was a painter who lived on the ground floor beneath them. He was past sixty and had a Michael Angelo's Moses beard curling down from the head of a satyr along the body of an imp. Behrman was a failure in art. Forty years he had wielded the brush without getting near enough to touch the hem of his Mistress's robe. He had been always about to paint a masterpiece, but had never yet begun it. For several years he had painted nothing except now and then a daub in the line of commerce or advertising. He earned a little by serving as a model to those young artists in the colony who could not pay the price of a professional. He drank gin to excess, and still talked of his coming masterpiece. For the rest he was a fierce little old man, who scoffed terribly at the softness in any one, and who regarded himself as especial mastiff-in-waiting to protect the two young artists in the studio above.

Sue found Behrman smelling strongly of juniper berries in his dimly lighted den below. In one corner was a blank canvas on an easel that had been waiting there for twenty-five years to receive the first line of the masterpiece. She told him of Johnsy's fancy, and how she feared she would, indeed light and fragile as a leaf herself, float away, when her slight hold upon the world grew weaker.

Old Behrman, with his red eyes plainly streaming, shouted his contempt and derision for such idiotic imaginings.

"Vass!" he cried. "Is dere people in de world mit der foolishness to die because leafs dey drop off from a confounded vine? I haf not heard of such a thing. No, I will not bose as a model for you fool hermit-dunder-head. Vy do you allow dot silly pushiness to come in der brain of her? Ach, dot poor lettle Miss Yohnsy."

"She is very ill and weak," said Sue, "and the fever has left her mind morbid and full of strange fancies. Very well, Mr. Behrman, if you do not care to pose for me, you needn't. But I think you are a horrid old-old flibbertigibbet."

"You are just like a woman!" yelled Behrman. "Who said I will not bose? Go on. I come mit you. For half and hour I haf peen trying to say dot I am ready to bose. Gott! dis is not any blace in which one so gooot as Miss Yohnsy shall lie sick. Some day I vill baint a masterpiece, and ve shall all go away. Gott! yes."

Johnsy was sleeping when they went upstairs. She pulled the shade down to the window-sill, and motioned Behrman into the other room. In there they peered out the window fearfully at the ivy vine. Then they looked at each other for a moment with out speaking. A persistent, cold rain was falling, mingled with snow. Behrman, in his old blue shirt, took his seat as the hermit miner on an upturned kettle for a rock.

When Sue awoke from and hour's sleep the next morning she found Johnsy with dull, wide-open eyes staring at the drawn green shade.

"Pull it up; I want to see," she ordered, in a whisper.

Wearily Sue obeyed.

But Loa! After the beating rain and fierce gusts of wind that had endured through the livelong night, there yet stood out against the brick wall one ivy leaf. It was the last on the vine. Still dark green near its stem, but with its serrated edges tinted with the yellow of dissolution and decay, it hung bravely from a branch some twenty feet above the ground.

"It is the last one," said Johnsy. "I thought it would surely fall during the night. I heard the wind. It will fall to-day, and I shall die at the same time."

"Dear, dear!" said Sue, leaning her worn face down to the pillow, "think of me, if you won't think of yourself. What would I do?"

But Johnsy did not answer. The lonesome thing in all the world is a soul when it is making ready to go on its mysterious, far journey. The fancy seemed to posses her more strongly as one by one the ties that bound her to friendship and to earth were loosed.

The day wore away, and even though the twilight they could see the lone ivy leaf clinging to its stem against the wall. And then, with the coming of the night the north wind was again down from the low Dutch eaves.

When it was light enough Johnsy, the merciless, commanded that the shade be raised.

The ivy leaf was still there.

Johnsy lay for a long time looking at it. And then she called to Sue, who was stirring her chicken broth over the gas stove.

"I've been a bad girl, Sudie," said Johnsy. "Something has made that last leaf stay there to show me how wicked I was. It is a sin to want to die. You may bring me a little broth now, and some milk with a little port in it, and-no; bring me a hand-mirror first, and then pack some pillows about me, and I will sit up and watch you cook."

An hour later she said:

"Sudie, some day I hope to paint the Bay of Naples."

The doctor came in the afternoon, and Sue had an excuse to go into the hallway as he left.

"Even chances," said the doctor, taking Sue's thin shaking hand in his. "With good nursing you'll win. And now I must see another case I have downstairs. Behrman, his name is-some kind of artist, I believe. Pneumonia, too. He is old, weak man, and the attack is acute. There is no hope for him; but he goes to the hospital today to be made more comfortable."

The next day the doctor said to Sue: "She's out of danger. You've won. Nutrition and care now-that's all."

And that afternoon Sue came to the bed where Johnsy lay, contentedly knitting a very blue and very useless woollen shoulder scarf, and put one arm around her, pillows and all.

"I have something to tell you, white mouse," she said. "Mr. Behrman died of pneumonia today in the hospital. He was ill only two days. The janitor found him on the morning of the first day in his room downstairs helpless with pain. His shoes and clothing were wet through and icy cold. They couldn't imagine where he had been on such a dreadful night. And then they found a lantern, still lighted, and a ladder that had been dragged from its place, and some scattered brushes, and a palette with green and yellow colors mixed on it, and-look out the window, dear, at the last ivy leaf on the wall. Didn't you wonder why it never fluttered or moved when the wind blew? Ah, darling, it's Behrman's masterpiece-he painted it there the night the last leaf fell."