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Archive for November, 2007

If Language Were Liquid

It’s always a bonus when a song not only grabs you but the lyrics read like poetry.  Here’s an oldie from Suzanne Vega, never made the Billboard top whatever like Luka did, but worthy in its own right.  And her new album: Beauty & Crime, is one of her best in years.

If language were liquid
It would be rushing in
Instead here we are
In a silence more eloquent
Than any word could ever be

These words are too solid
They don’t move fast enough
To catch the blur in the brain
That flies by and is gone
Gone
Gone
Gone

I’d like to meet you
In a timeless, placeless place
Somewhere out of context
And beyond all consequences

Let’s go back to the building
(Words are too solid)
On Little West Twelfth
It is not far away
(They don’t move fast enough)
And the river is there
And the sun and the spaces
Are all laying low
(To catch the blur in the brain)
And we’ll sit in the silence
(That flies by and is)
That comes rushing in and is
Gone (Gone)

I won’t use words again
They don’t mean what I meant
They don’t say what I said
They’re just the crust of the meaning
With realms underneath
Never touched
Never stirred
Never even moved through

If language were liquid
It would be rushing in
Instead here we are
In a silence more eloquent
Than any word could ever be

And is gone
Gone
Gone
And is gone

Lyrics by: Suzanne Vega
Album: Solitude Standing

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Like A Prayer

 I was washing the pots and pans.

Something about putting any part of my
body in water and something changes.
I’ve noticed that in the shower
how suddenly I could be singing out in pure joy
or crying quietly letting the water wipe my tears.

I wondered what it would be like to wash the pots and pans like a prayer.
Like a prayer, like mindfully, like I was fully present with what I was doing
not like it was something to check off my list of things to get done today

And having the warm water just made it so easy, just immerse my hands
in warm water and soapy bubbles and begin to wash the contours of these
pots and pans that held my creation of cream of broccoli soup.

Wash them like a prayer.
Honor them like a prayer.

What can I do today
like a prayer
noticing
details
of so much that
goes unnoticed.

Being
Just being.

Mostly everything.

Love, Bethie

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Seth on Perfection

Perfection is not being,
for all being is in a state of becoming.
This does not mean that all being
is in a state of becoming perfect,
but in a state of becoming more itself.

Seth-Jane Roberts
The Nature of Personal Reality
(c) Robert F. Butts

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A happy life is just a string of happy
moments.  But most people don’t allow
the happy moment, because they’re so busy
trying to get a happy life.

Excerpted from Abraham-Hicks Quarterly Journal
Oct, Nov, Dec 2003 – Vol 26

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Dear Ones,

Each time that I read Rainer Maria Rilke I am touched.  Sometimes there are tears of joy, sometimes tears of knowing.  Always I feel as if we are peering through the same window of Life and he has put what my heart feels onto paper.  When I find music that I like, I will listen to it over and over but with Rilke, I read a page at a time, savoring the rest for some other day and thankful for each reading.  I read his words often aloud to myself, as if I’m doing my own personal poetry reading.  And today I have chosen:

Only as a child am I awake
and able to trust
that after every fear and every night
I will behold you again.

However often I get lost,
however far my thinking strays,
I know you will be here, right here,
time trembling around you.

To me it is as if I were at once
infant, boy, man and more.
I feel that only as it circles
is abundance found.

I thank you, deep power
that works me ever more lightly
in ways I can’t make out.
The day’s labor grows simple now,
and like a holy face
held in my dark hands.

Excerpted from Rilke’s Book of Hours: Love Poems to God
translated by Anita Barrows and Joanna Macy

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Until we get to the point
where we’ve had enough
of things that hurt
and long more than anything
for a peaceful love,
we are bound to take painful roads.
We are destined to play out our frivolous disasters
until we declare ourselves finished and done with them.
How much pain do we have to suffer
before we are sure we want no more?
As much, it seems, as we have to
until we don’t.

Marianne Williamson~A Year of Daily Wisdom

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This Existence

I am filled with you.
Skin, blood, bone, brain and soul.
There’s no room for lack of trust, or trust.
Nothing in this existence but that existence.

Excerpted from The Essential Rumi/Translated by Coleman Barks

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