Certainty

The words of this poem really resonated with me this morning. For the past six weeks I have been living in uncertainty regrading an issue that still has not been resolved. It has not been easy for me to live with the not knowing and endless questions of " what if ....?"

I have come to the point where i have realised the insanity of worrying about something that may or may not happen; the insanity of fearful thoughts that prevent me from enjoying this holy instant to the full.

No, it is time to stop waiting for the storm to pass and time to learn to dance in the rain !

It is true that since everything is always changing can we ever be certain of anything ?

I shall meditate on " Certainty confines " .

There is freedom in chaos.

We often think of change as change for the worse, but is it so ?
Things can change in an instant.
Things can change for the better, and better that we ever dared imagine.


Finally, I remind myself " THIS IS NOT THE TRUTH "

CERTAINTY

Certainty undermines one's power, and turns happiness
into a long shot. Certainty confines.

Dears, there is nothing in your life that will
not change - especially your ideas of God.

Look what the insanity of righteous knowledge can do:
crusade and maim thousands
in wanting to convert that which
is already gold
into gold.

Certainty can become an illness
that creates hate and
greed.

God once said to Tuka,

"Even I am ever changing -
I am ever beyond
Myself,

what I may have once put my seal upon,
may no longer be
the greatest
Truth."

~ Tukaram ~

(Love Poems From God: Twelve Sacred Voices from the East and West, versions by Daniel Ladinsky)

Web version: www.panhala. net/Archive/ Certainty. html

Meditation , the monkey mind and Buddha's dogs

This wonderful poem is a Panhala posting ( see details below) and reflects my own experiences of retreats and meditation. Beautifully honest too.

Buddha's Dogs

I'm at a day-long meditation retreat, eight hours of watching
my mind with my mind,
and I already fell asleep twice and nearly fell out of my chair,
and it's not even noon yet.

In the morning session, I learned to count my thoughts, ten in
on minute, and the longest
was to leave and go to San Anselmo and shop, then find an outdoor cafe and order a glass

of Sancerre, smoked trout with roasted potatoes and baby
carrots and a bowl of gazpacho.
But I stayed and learned to name my thoughts, so far they are:
wanting, wanting, wanting,

wanting, wanting, wanting, wanting, wanting, judgment,
sadness. Don't identify with your
thoughts, the teacher says, you are not your personality, not your
ego-identification,

then he bangs the gong for lunch. Whoever, whatever I am is
given instruction
in the walking meditation and the eating meditation and walks
outside with the other

meditators, and we wobble across the lake like The Night of the

Living Dead.
I meditate slowly, falling over a few times because I kept my
foot in the air too long,

towards a bench, sit slowly down, and slowly eat my sandwich,
noticing the bread,
(sourdough), noticing the taste, (tuna, sourdough), noticing
the smell, (sourdough, tuna),

thanking the sourdough, the tuna, the ocean, the boat, the
fisherman, the field, the grain,
the farmer, the Saran Wrap that kept this food fresh for this
body made of food and desire

and the hope of getting through the rest of this day without
dying of boredom.
Sun then cloud then sun. I notice a maple leaf on my sandwich.
It seems awfully large.

Slowly brushing it away, I feel so sad I can hardly stand it, so I
name my thoughts; they are:
sadness about my mother, judgment about my father, wanting
the child I never had.

I notice I've been chasing the same thoughts like dogs around
the same park most of my life,
notice the leaf tumbling gold to the grass. The gong sounds,
and back in the hall.

I decide to try lying down meditation, and let myself sleep. The
Buddha in my dream is me,
surrounded by dogs wagging their tails, licking my hands.
I wake up

for the forgiveness meditation, the teacher saying,never put
anyone out of your heart,
and the heart opens and knows it won't last and will have to
open again and again,

chasing those dogs around and around in the sun then cloud
then sun.

~ Susan Browne ~

(Buddha's Dogs)

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