NASA Images Archive
Very tired after a long day with the family, but I wanted to share this, precisely because it's so very beautiful.
Enjoy.
Very tired after a long day with the family, but I wanted to share this, precisely because it's so very beautiful.
Enjoy.
Law professor Jonathan Turley interviewed on MSNBC Friday night
I never thought I would say this, but I think it might, in fact, be time for the United States to be held internationally to a tribunal. I never thought, in my lifetime, that I would say that, that we have become like Serbia, where an international tribunal has to come to force us to apply the rule of law. I never imagined that a Congress, a Democratic-led Congress would refuse to take actions, even with the preeminent institution of the Red Cross saying, this is clearly torture and torture is a war crime. They are still refusing to take meaningful action.
So, we've come to this ignoble moment where we could be forced into a tribunal and forced to face the rule of law that we've refused to apply to ourselves.
I'm not normally one to argue for the prosecution and incarceration of anyone. However, the current administration's human rights violations are so grievous that there is no other remedy which has a prayer of restoring the rule of law other than prosecution.
Blanket pardons are likely forthcoming during the last few days of the administration, and a spineless Democratic congress seems averse to prosecuting its constitutional duty.
The only entity that will not be constrained to honor the president's pardon would be an international tribunal convened to prosecute the war crimes of the past 7 years.
Read the Greenwald post. It's a road map to a just government and an America I could support.
A simple portrait of deep metaphysical doubt.
Have you ever been ransacked by it? Were that it weren't necessary, but it seems that it is, and, without it, we mortals don't appear to have the capacity for the quality of humility, compassion, nor caring that really matters.
Witness
by Sarah McLachlanMake me a witness.
Take me out
out of darkness
out of doubt.I won't weigh you down
with good intention,
won't make fire out of clay
or other inventions.Will we burn in heaven
like we do down here?
Will the change come
while we're waiting?Everyone is waiting.
And when we're done
soul searching
as we carried the weight
and died for a cause,
is misery
made beautiful
right before our eyes
will mercy be revealed
or blind us where we stand?Will we burn in heaven
like we do down here?
Will the change come while we're waiting?
Everyone is waiting.
What surprises me about this list is how many of the books I've actually read.
A modern/postmodern fable about the role of storytelling and narrative by Spencer Holst.
The Zebra StorytellerOnce upon a time there was a Siamese cat who pretended to be a lion and spoke inappropriate Zebraic.That language is whinnied by the race of striped horses in Africa.
Here now: An innocent zebra is walking in a jungle, and approaching from another direction is the little cat; they meet.
“Hello there!” says the Siamese cat in perfectly pronounced Zebraic. “It certainly is a pleasant day, isn’t it? The sun is shining, the birds are singing, isn’t the world a lovely place to live today!”
The zebra is so astonished at hearing a Siamese cat speaking like a zebra, why, he’s just fit to be tied.
So the little cat quickly ties him up, kills him, and drags the better parts of the carcass back to his den.
The cat successfully hunted zebras many months in this manner, dining on filet mignon of zebra every night, and from the better hides he made bow neckties and wide belts after the fashion of the decadent princes of the Old Siamese court.
He began boasting to his friends he was a lion, and he gave them as proof the fact that he hunted zebras.
The delicate noses of the zebras told them there was really no lion in the neighborhood. The zebra deaths caused many to avoid the region. Superstitious, they decided the woods were haunted by the ghost of a lion.
One day the storyteller of the zebras was ambling, and through his mind ran plots for stories to amuse the other zebras, when suddenly his eyes brightened, and he said, “That’s it! I’ll tell a story about a Siamese cat who learns to speak our language! What an idea! That’ll make ’em laugh!”
Just then the Siamese cat appeared before him, and said, “Hello there! Pleasant day today, isn’t it!”
The zebra storyteller wasn’t fit to be tied at hearing a cat speaking his language, because he’d been thinking about that very thing.
He took a good look at the cat, and he didn’t know why, but there was something about his looks he didn’t like, so he kicked him with a hoof and killed him.
That is the function of the storyteller.
Thanks to Margaret for placing this fable in my path.
This is my meager stab at a follow-up to my post last week about difficult art and difficult music.
My daughter Kira and I were hanging out last night, doing what has become our post Christmas feast ritual: working and playing on our laptops. At one point she laughed out loud, which is her way of motioning for me to come over and read what she'd found. She shared this cartoon from the very smart web-comic Cat and Girl.
Notice the text on the scooter's rear in the last panel. When I read this, I realized that Dorothy (the author of Cat and Girl) had given me a crucial piece to the difficult art problem I'm wrestling with. Though she's careful not to explicitly state it, the artist could be accused of suggesting that Pynchon's work is interactive. It's certainly the case that my experience of reading Thomas Pynchon's work is one of interactivity, not unlike what I've experienced at the best concerts I've attended. Just as music can lead the audience and the musicians into a space in which they're negotiating and, in a sense, co-creating their experience of the performance, there's a sense in which writing can do the same thing, despite the fact that the writer may have written the words days, weeks, months, or even years earlier.
Now understand that I don't mean to say that the writer experiences this interactivity directly, in real time, as the reader reads their writing. Not at all (though I don't discount the possibility of it). I do believe, however, that certain writers are able to create texts that encourage readers to interact with the texts in ways in which the allow the reader to co-create their experience of the text, Under such a theory of reading, the writer is no longer strictly "responsible" for the reader's experience (as some very naive theories of reader response theory would posit), but the reader takes on a larger responsibility for the experience and becomes aware of the interactivity and that the writer's words are manifesting in the reader's experience. I also believe (and here's the part that ties back to last week's post) that those texts which perform this textual interactivity most reliably tend to play with signification in ways that defer--rather than gratify--our attempts at ascribing meaning to them. They resonate with plural meanings and in doing so move the reader into a space in which resonance with the reader's lived experience in the present moment is possible, though not guaranteed.
As I've noted elsewhere, Pynchon's novels, especially V and Gravity's Rainbow, have been an extremely important books for me, and this is so precisely because they were able to enact this interactivity and that I was able to experience them (in some sense) as texts that were manifesting in my world as I was reading them.
Understand, that I don't think this type of reading is likely to occur with every reader who comes along. On the contrary, my first reading of Gravity's Rainbow was a fairly typical, even pedestrian, experience. I enjoyed it--enough that I ended up rereading it less than a year after first completing it--but it didn't jolt me into the interactive space I'm describing.
I'm going to end this post with an assertion that attempts to answer some of the questions I posed in my first post on this topic: Texts that frustrate our attempts at making meaning can jar us into states of mind that, under certain conditions, bring the texts to life for the reader. I also assert that some writers consciously fashion their texts to achieve this, though not to the exclusion of other, more traditional ends.
I'm aware that this is a very risky and infinitely problematic assertion to make and that it posits an non-rationalist framework and aesthetic. So be it.
To what end this experience? If I'm right about this, why do these writers bother?
I shared this with a friend the other day, and, as I was writing her about it, I realized that I'd never heard a finer anti-war song. It's the perfect anti-war song for this cultural moment.
I saw Tracy Grammer perform in Corvallis back in 2005 when this song had been just released. This is not difficult music. Transparent and extremely well written. Tracy Grammer's voice has a purity that I've rarely experienced in a recording let alone live. The sound quality of this Youtube video leaves a bit to be desired, but you can get a sense of how great her voice is.
Hey Ho
by Dave Carter and Tracy Grammer
performed by Tracy Grammertv’s on, the favorite son is
watchin how the west was won
daddy, please, a plastic gun
get brother one for twice the funlittle camo helmet-heads
makin brave and playin dead
missiles made of gingerbread
dollars on the dimechorus
hey ho, so it goes, the point of sale, the puppet show
the merchant kings of war and woe have turned their hands to labor
sound out the trumpet noise, the cannons bark and jump for joy
someone’s dread and darlin boy has fallen on his saberanother world across the sea
home for little busy bees
sweatin in some factory
hurry, please, more of theseaction dolls with laser sights
robot planes that shoot at night
faster, kid, and get it right
they’re rollin down the linehey ho...
these days the spin machine
is always on the silver screen
secret plots and submarines
foreign fiends and magazineswave the flag, watch the news
tell us we can count on you
mom and dad are marchin too
children, step in timehey ho...
bring your kids and coddled pets
bouncin babes in bassinets
we’ll play a game with tanks and jets
better yet – bayonets!marchin bands and color guards
funerals in your own backyard
don’t forget your credit card –
johnny, hold the linehey ho...
Namaste
Text from the Wilhelm edition, Baynes translation.
13. T'ung Jen / Fellowship with Men
----------
---------- above Ch'ien The Creative, Heaven
----------
----------
---- ---- below Li The Clinging, Flame
----------
The Judgment
Fellowship with Men in the open.
Success.
It furthers one to cross the great water.
The perseverance of the superior man furthers.
The Image
Heaven together with fire:
The image of Fellowship with Men.
Thus the superior man organizes the clans
And makes distinctions between things.
The Lines
() Nine in the fifth place means:
Men bound in fellowship first weep and lament,
But afterward they laugh.
After great struggles they succeed in meeting.
30. Li / The Clinging, Fire
----------
---- ---- above Li The Clinging, Flame
----------
----------
---- ---- below Li The Clinging, Flame
----------
The Judgment
The Clinging. Perseverance furthers.
It brings success.
Care of the cow brings good fortune.
The Image
That which is bright rises twice:
The image of Fire.
Thus the great man, by perpetuating this brightness,
Illumines the four quarters of the world.
A difficult chapter to excerpt, so I've reproduced it in its entirety here.
JoyLive in joy,
In love,
Even among those who hate.Live in joy,
In health,
Even among the afflicted.Live in joy,
In peace,
even among the troubled.Live in joy,
Without possessions,
Like the shining ones.The winner sows hatred
Because the loser suffers.
Let go of winning and losing
And find joy.There is no fire like passion,
No crime like hatred,
No sorrow like separation,
No sickness like hunger,
And no joy like the joy of freedom.Health, contentment, and trust
Are your greatest possessions,
And freedom your greatest joy.Look within.
Be still.
Free from fear and attachment,
Know the sweet joy of the way.How joyful to look upon the awakened
And to keep company with the wise.How long the road to the man
Who travels with a fool.
But whoever follows those who follow the way
Discovers his family, and is filled with joy.Follow then the shining ones,
The wise, the awakened, the loving,
For they know how to work and forbear.Follow them
As the moon follows the path of the stars.
It's time to renew an old pleasure: The Daily Bliss
From Shantideva:
If someone beats you with a stick
it is the stick not the assailant that hurts
you, so why get angry with
the attacker? The attacker is just
a puppet of hate anyway,
so get angry only with hate.
For Kathleen, who, like all true friends, inspires and incites renewal.
Jerry Falwell died yesterday, so today, of course, is marked by political and religious obituaries. For those who want to valorize the entry of conservative Christians into the political mainstream, Falwell is a hero. For those who lament the degree to which his highly influential movement has polarized political discourse, Falwell is something akin to the anti-Christ.
In Salon this morning, Alan Wolfe purports "To the extent that history will remember [Falwell], it will be as a politician, not as a preacher." I'd like to argue that a purely political reading of this man's influence really misses the significance of his influence and the insidiousness of his message.
As anyone who has read more than a post or two of this blog will know, I don't underestimate the danger inherent in Falwell's ideology. There's a sense in which current US domestic and international policy is the logical extension of this extremist's positions. G.W. Bush is nothing if not an intellectual (!) heir to Falwell. Bush's belief in a fundamentalist, conservative Christian god and in an apocalyptic narrative for explaining the world, in a Manichean and naive belief in a clear-cut good and a self-evident evil, in an American exceptionalism that justifies our running roughshod over the world in a twenty-first century version of a nineteen-century trope, Manifest Destiny, is how we've arrived at such a sorry impasse as this. Falwell's responsibility in creating such a government is huge. I don't want to underestimate the degree to which he has helped wrack and wreck our political landscape.
But for me, the real harm of a Falwell (or for conservative Christianity for that matter) is that he has sent a message to those drawn to religion that they need not challenge themselves to love or accept anything that is foreign to them, that the dominant ideology, their inherited world view, is appropriate, and that spirituality is not a challenge to change. It's ironic because the New Testament spends so much time rejecting dominant ideologies (think of Jesus' numerous run ins with the Pharisees, who articulated a pure, and very traditional, reading of Hebrew law). Falwell's message of hatred toward gays, of steadfast loyalty to a surface reading of traditions and of the transparency of scripture sends a message that is fundamentally dangerous: the spiritual life is one of complacency and of finger pointing.
My fear is that there is/will be a generation of thoughtful individuals who will reject spirituality precisely because the most visible religion they see is so patently, so simple-mindedly, so blithely wrong headed that a binary opposition to it is the obvious and, apparently, logical choice.
Christianity suffers by its association with such shallowness. Authentic spirituality calls us to change, demands that we love, challenges us to question our traditions. As such, Falwell's legacy is counter-spiritual and has, I fear, shunted American spiritual discourse for a generation.
There's a fascinating read in Salon about Turbine's decision to remove marriage altogether from the newly released Lord of the Rings Online because they couldn't tackle the issue of gay relationships.
Turbine claims that the decision has a lot to do with the desire for authenticity, i.e., staying true to the source material. However, as any Melville scholar can attest, claiming that Tolkien doesn't explicitly allow gay characters in the trilogy doesn't get them off the hook. I've read the books (and, of course, seen the movies), and there are--at a minimum--elements of the homosocial in both. Could anyone over the age of consent not at least consider the possibilty that Sam and Frodo's compelling, tender, and heroic love for one another is homoerotic?
I found it interesting to discover that gay marriages have been in computer games since Fallout 2 in 1998.
Kudos to game designers like Timothy Cain with Interplay who insist on letting players decide what kinds of relationships they build online. In-game marriages are a commonplace. The article quotes noted gaming researcher Nick Yee, who points out that 23% of EverQuest players role-played falling in love in the game. Notwithstanding Turbine's desire to remain true to the source material, MMORPGs are rife with sexual role playing (and homophobic players). A game without restrictions that defaults to letting players decide for themselves seems like the best policy.
I went to a wonderful conference presentation on the poetry of activism this week. During it, I was reacquainted with the poems of Joy Harjo, which I hadn't read for awhile. Harjo's poetry is deep, blissful, and full of caring, yet it is never superficial or afraid to enter the domains of personal or collective suffering or joy.
Without further commentary, then, I'll share one of the poems read during the workshop.
Anchorage
for Audre LordeThis city is made of stone, of blood, and fish.
There are the Chugatch Mountains to the east
and whale and seal to the west.
It hasn't always been this way, because glaciers
who are ice ghosts creat oceans, carve earth
and shape this city here, by the sound.
They swim backwards in time.Once a storm of boiling earth cracked open
the streets, threw open the town.
It's quiet now, but underneath the concrete
is the cooking earth,
and above that, air
which is another ocean, where spirits we can't see
are dancing joking getting full
on roasted caribou, and the praying
goes on, extends out.We keep on breathing, walking, but softer now,
the clouds whirling in the air above us.
What can we say that would make us understand
better than we do already?
Except to speak of her home and claim her
as our own history, and know that our dreams
don't end here, two blocks away from the ocean
where our hearts still batter away at the muddy shore.And I think of the 6th Avenue jail, of mostly Navie
and Black men, where Henry told about being shot at
eight times outside a liquor store in L.A., but when
the car sped away he was surprised he was alive,
no bullet holes, man, and eight cartridges strewn
on the sidewalk
all around him.Everyone laughed at the impossibility of it,
but also the truth. Because who would believe
the fantastic and terrible story of all of our survival
those who were never meant
to survive?
And the signifieds butt heads with the signifiers,and we all fall down slack-jawed to marvel at words!
When across the sky sheet the impossible birds,
in a steady, illiterate movement homewards.
Now that I (hopefully) have your attention....
I was introduced to Joanna Newsom's music by David D. who gave me a CD mix with Peach, Plum, Pear on it. I enjoyed the track so much that Amy gifted me with The Milk-Eyed Mender, the album on which Peach, Plum, Pear was released, for Christmas. Without David, I doubt that this aging hippie could find any new music worth listening to, but this time David's gone above and beyond the call of duty.
I'm listening to The Milk-Eyed Mender this morning, and I'm near speechless (can't you tell?) listening to the gorgeous lyrics and unusual blend of blues, harpsichord, harp, and Appalachian vocals.
Let me underscore this. Notwithstanding Tracy Grammer and Dave Carter, Newsom's lyrics are the finest I've had the pleasure of hearing in years. The finest.
The finest.
If, like me, you're longing for a spark for your musical palate, if your tastes are firmly plant in Indie roots, if you enjoy well-crafted lyrics that endlessly offer up more than it would be fair for you to expect of them, then Newsom's just what you're looking for.
This Side of the Blueby Joanna Newsom
Svetlana sucks lemons across from me,
and I am progressing abominably.
And I do not know my own way to the sea
but the saltiest sea knows its own way to me.
The city that turns, turns protracted and slow
and I find myself toeing th' embarcadero
and I find myself knowing the things that I knew
which is all that you can know on this side of the blue
And Jaime has eyes black and shiny as boots
and they march at you, two-by-two (re - loo - re - loo);
when she looks at you, you know she's nowhere near through:
it's the kindest heart beating this side of the blue.
And the signifieds butt heads with the signifiers,
and we all fall down slack-jawed to marvel at words!
When across the sky sheet the impossible birds,
in a steady, illiterate movement homewards.
And Gabriel stands beneath forest and moon.
See them rattle & boo, see them shake, see them loom.
See him fashion a cap from a page of Camus;
see him navigate deftly this side of the blue.
And the rest of our lives will the moments accrue
when the shape of their goneness will flare up anew.
when we do what we have to do (re - loo - re -loo),
which is all you can do on this side of the blue.
In confusion, clarity is possible....
It is your own awareness right now.
It is simple, natural, and clear.
Why say "I don't understand what the mind is"?
There is nothing to think about,
just permanent clear Consciousness.
Why say "I don't see the reality of the mind"?
The mind is the thinker of these thoughts.
Why say "When I look I can't find it"?
No looking is necessary.
Why say "Whatever I try doesn't work"?
It is enough to remain simple.
Why say "How can I do nothing?"
It is good to be a non-doer.
Why say "I can't achieve this"?
The void of pure Consciousness is naturally present.
Why say "Spiritual practice doesn't reveal it"?
It is spontaneous and free from cause and effect.
Why say "The search is futile"?
Thought and liberation exist simultaneously.
Why say "All medicines are impotent"?
This awareness is the medicine.
Why say "I don't know"?--Padma Sambhava
The most powerful myths are about extremity; they force us to go beyond our experience. There are moments when we all, in one way or another, have to go to a place that we have never seen, and do what we have never done before. Myth is about the unknown; it is about that for which initially we have no words. Myth therefore looks into the heart of a great silence.... [M]yth is not a story told for its own sake. It shows us how we should behave.
--A Short History of Myth, Karen Armstrong
For the past few months, I've been reading Robert Jordan's fantasy series, The Wheel of Time. I began reading book one, Eye of the World in April. I finished book seven, A Crown of Swords, just the other evening. That's several thousand pages in a few months. I've read other, more serious and traditionally academic texts interspersed with the Jordan, but Jordan's constituted the bulk of my reading during this time.
For those of us who are academics—I run the Writing Center at Oregon State University and have a Masters Degree in English Literature—being seen with a fantasy novel, especially more than once, will sometimes engender “the look,” wherein a student or a colleague calls you to task for reading something lighter than, say, Andrew Delbanco's new Melville bio (which by the way, is on my shelf of books to read, and I will read it, but only after I finish book eleven of The Wheel of Time).
Although I usually respond to these well-intentioned quasi indictments about how far my reading has fallen with a semi-pat answer about needing to read for enjoyment (and although it's true that I do enjoy reading the Jordan series), there's another reason that I relish the Jordan series (but which I'm less sanguine sharing with my colleagues and associates at the university): reading the Rand books will occasionally induce a very powerful spiritual experience, often accompanied by important spiritual insight(s). Experiences and insights that rival some of my deeper meditations.
How is such a thing possible? In addition to being great stories, the Wheel of Time series borrows heavily from the mythic. In my experience, there are times when mythic tales resonate with a spiritual issue that I'm attending to in my practice, and when that happens, dislodging me from the mundane and entering a place where insight can occur is a natural by-product of reading.
I don't mean to suggest that everyone who reads fantasy will experience spiritual states or achieve spiritual insight. However, for those of us for whom spiritual states are a reality, the mythic elements in fantasy, their ability to defamiliarize commonplace experience can trigger states which then, in turn, trigger insight.
I bring this up as a way of beginning a conversation (hopefully not just a monologue) on the possibilities of reading beyond logos, logic, and reason, each of which can give us the how of our daily lives, but which will not provide much depth or discovery into who we are. In my experience, it's the mythic, the contemplative, and the meditative that provide the latter. Though it might be controversial for some, I want to suggest that reading can be a vehicle for the latter as well as for the former.
Out of the Forest
There is pleasure
And there is bliss
Forgo the first to possess the second.
If you are happy
At the expense of another man's happiness,
You are forever bound.
You do not what you should.
You do what you should not.
You are reckless, and desire grows.
But the master is wakeful.
He watches his body.
In all his actions he discriminates,
And he becomes pure.
He is without blame
Though once he may have murdered
His mother and father,
Two kings, a kingdom, and all its subjects.
Though the kings were holy
And their subjects among the virtuous,
Yet is he blameless.
The Dhammapada Trans. by Thomas Byrom
Some of you know how influential Thomas Pynchon's work has been for me. In many respects, reading Gravity's Rainbow several times over the course of several years is responsible for who I am today, personally, professionally, and spirtually.
Laurie Anderson's work has also been very influential. There's spiritual depth to her deceptively minimalist work. A depth that can entertain, teach, make you laugh, and provide solace in a world gone mad.
Here then is my one song podcast (3.6 MB download), and the lyrics to a song by Anderson that combines the two influences...
Gravity's Angel
(For Thomas Pynchon)
You can dance. You can make me laugh. You've got x-ray eyes.
You know how to sing. You're a diplomat. You've got it all.
Everybody loves you.
You can charm the birds out of the sky. but I, I've got one thing.
You always know just what to say. And when to go.
But I've got one thing. You can see in the dark.
But I've got one thing: I loved you better.
Last night I woke up. Saw this angel. He flew in my window.
And he said: Girl, pretty proud of yourself, huh?
And I looked around and said: Who me?
And he said: The higher you fly, the faster you fall. He said:
Send it up. Watch it rise. See it fall. Gravity's rainbow.
Send it up. Watch it rise. See it fall. Gravity's angel.
Why these mountains? Why this sky? This long road. This ugly train.
Well he was an ugly guy. With an ugly face.
An also ran in the human race.
And even God got sad just looking at him. And at his funeral
all his friends stood around looking sad. But they were really
thinking of all the ham and cheese sandwiches in the next room.
And everybody used to hang around him. And I know why.
They said: There but for the grace of the angels go I.
Why these mountains? Why this sky?
Send it up. Watch it rise. See it fall. Gravity's rainbow.
Send it up. Watch it rise. See it fall. Gravity's angel.
Well, we were just laying there.
And this ghost of your other lover walked in.
And stood there. Made of thin air. Full of desire.
Look. Look. Look. You forgot to take your shirt.
And there's your book. And there's your pen, sitting on the table.
Why these mountains? Why this sky? This long road? This empty room?
Why these mountains? Why this sky? This long road? This empty room?
(1984)
This morning after meditating I was reminded that too much of a focus on words won't really get you very far. The rooster is a reliable mouthpiece, but he's not much good at getting you anywhere. You ultimately have to actually do something in order to get from one place to another. Talking about moving and movement doesn't really amount to much.
Nevertheless, when used wisely and in full awareness of its limits, language can be a powerful tool for remembering who were are and for defamiliarizing the mundane. I provide this as both a rationale for what follows and to honor the insight that I received this morning:
The Thousands
Better than a thousand hollow words Is one word that brings peace.Better than a thousand hollow verses
Is one verse that brings peace.Better than a hundred hollow lines
Is one line of the law, bringing peace.It is better to conquer yourself
Than to win a thousand battles.Then the victory is yours.
It cannot be taken from you,
Not by angels or by demons,
Heaven or hell.Better than a hundred years of worship,
Better than a thousand offerings,
Better than giving up a thousand worldly ways
In order to win merit,
Better even than tending in the forest
A sacred flame for a hundred years—
Is one moment's reverence
For the man who has conquered himself.To revere such a man,
A master old in virtue and holiness
Is to have victory over life itself,
And beauty, strength and happiness.Better than a hundred years of mischief
Is one day spent in contemplationBetter than a hundred years of ignorance
Is one day spent in reflection.Better than a hundred years of idleness
Is one day spent in determination.Better to live one day
Wondering
How all things arise and pass away.Better to live one hour
Seeing
The one life beyond the way.Better to live one moment
In the moment
Of the way beyond the way.The Dhammapada Trans. by Thomas Byrom
There are few passages in English that are as melodic as those last three lines.
World Honored One! It is as if some man goes to an intimate friend's house, gets drunk, and falls asleep. Meanwhile, his friend, having to go forth on official duty, ties a priceless jewel within his garment as a present, and departs. The man, being drunk and asleep, knows nothing of it. On arising he travels onward 'til he reaches some other country, where for food and clothing he expends much labor and effort, and undergoes exceedingly great hardship, and is content even if he can obtain but little. Later, his friend happens to meet him and speaks thus: “Tut! Sir, how is it you have come to this for the sake of food and clothing? Wishing you to be in comfort and able to satisfy all your five senses, I formerly in such a year and on such a day tied a priceless jewel within your garment. Now as of old it is present there and you in ignorance are slaving and worrying to keep yourself alive. How very stupid! Go you now and exchange that jewel for what you need and do whatever you will, free from all poverty and shortage.”
--from the Lotus Sutra, translated by Bunno Kato and W.E. Soothill
Subhuti, someone who has set out in the vehicle of a Bodhisattva should produce a thought in this manner: "As many beings as there are in the universe of beings, comprehended under the term beings--either egg-born, or born from a womb, or moisture-born, or miraculously born; with or without form; with perception, without perception, or with neither perception nor non-perceptions--as far as any conceivable universe of beings is concerned: all these should by me be led to Nirvana, into that Realm of Nirvana which leaves nothing behind. And yet, although innumerable beings have thus been led to Nirvana, no being at all has been lead to Nirvana." And why? If in a Bodhisattva the perception of a "being" should take place, he could not be called a "Bodhi-being." And why? He is not to be called a Bodhi-being in whom the perception of a self or a being would take place, or the perception of a living soul or a person.
translated by Edward Conze
How long the night to the watchman,
How long the road to the weary traveler,
How long the wandering of many lives
To the fool who misses the way.
If the traveler cannot find
Master or friend to go with him,
Let him travel on alone
Rather than with a fool for company.
Dhammapada (Chapter 5) Thomas Byrom Translation