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`n Tydige wekroep

No more procastination

Lees ek hierdie pragtige stukkie skrywe van Venessa Hurst raak.

Die wekroep vir eenders denkende, progressiewe siele om wakker te word en saam te staan teen die aanslae wat dreig om ons medemenslikheid (en ons Aarde) te vernietig, word al sterker.

Soos sy sê: “Let’s be authentically awake and courageously compassionate as we tend an inclusive garden where all are welcome.”

Venessa Hurst:

Today is the day. No more procrastination. No more excuses. No more stuck in who I am so that I forget who you are. Today is the day to be my authentic self so you can shine your authenticity. Today is my day…and yours.

We have been collectively shaken awake. No longer living in a world where everything is okay, we cannot longer afford to be wrapped in the comfortable blanket of our illusions. Wide awake, we notice that while we thought we were wrapped in a comforting blanket; in fact, we have been embedded in the cracks of a shattered window of illusions. Not only is everything not okay, we are pushed from complacency and propelled into the uncertain.

No longer content to walk this field of life, our authentic self-demands we be change agents. In fact, our hands itch to turn over the soil in the ground of our being and plant seeds of a new, better way. We ask our self, “What are the little things — what seeds can I plant today that will bear fruit in the tomorrows?” And, then, carefully picking through the seeds, we cast aside those that are illusion-bearing. With each seed set aside, we agree to stop living with illusions and honestly walk our soul talk.

Choosing seeds take courage. We have no real idea what relationships might fall away when we stop being what we are not what the ground of our being calls us to be. It takes more than a little courage and a lot of curious daring to take the next step as we plant those seeds of authentic presence. And, it takes daily doses of self-compassion to nurture the seedlings into full growth.

Seeds planted, we do not stop tending to the garden of our spirit. We weed and water as we remove the illusions and bring life to who we truly are. Although we are not quite sure exactly what we are growing, we trust that with curious daring and courage we will see our transformation from seed to authentically flourishing garden.

During growth, we breathe deeply of the fecundity in our spirit. The roots grow deeply to stabilize who we authentically know our self to be. Awash in the growing abundance, it becomes easier to let go the harsh words and actions of our self and others. We see our self and others clearly and respond with clarity.

With clarity comes choice. We decide what to allow, the authentic or the illusion, into the garden of our spirit. We decide whether to welcome the purity of intent or the pollution of illusion. We choose. And, in choosing, we let go of our preconceived notions and perceptions of how our life needs to look. We let go of people, situations, and circumstances that no longer have a place in our garden.

Weeding is perhaps the most difficult part of gardening for authenticity. Each weed pulled creates suffering. It is often difficult to let go of illusions that are comfortable even when they are not life giving. When we let go of illusions, each plucked weed becomes compost — the stuff born of suffering nourishes our ground and provides the sustenance of transformation.

We have been collectively shaken awake. We are aware of the blight in the gardens of our individual souls and in the garden of our collective spirit. Do. Not. Go. Back. To. Sleep. Apprentices, Journey(wo)men, and Master Gardeners alike have many rows to till and seeds to plant. Let’s get started in letting go of the illusions and nurturing what is real.

Let’s be authentically awake and courageously compassionate as we tend an inclusive garden where all are welcome.

Vanessa

Prentjies teen die muur

Prentjies met die paletmes gemaak.

Meisie voor die venster

framed-woman

Blompot

framed-first-palet

Karoo Donkiekar

framed-donkey

Die Vuurvoël

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Men staring at middle fingers (their own, and very intently).

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The practice of men staring at their middle fingers must not be confused with men staring at goats. On the surface the two practices seem to be very similar especially in that they are both very intense and very private affairs, (you find the practitioners isolating themselves away from other people in dark rooms or sheds or sitting alone on a boulder in the bush). But the ultimate goal of the starrer at goats and the starrer at middle fingers is as different as fingers from goats.

Naturally, the staring at someone else’s middle finger (especially in cases of road rage) is again something quite different and not to be confused with the intense staring of the serious practitioner of the staring-intensely-at-own-middlefinger league of men(although you might catch the odd middle finger starrer staring at his own middle finger in the midst of a bad traffic-jam).

The staring-at-goats phenomenon is based on the (hilariously wrong) assumption that the starrer will eventually and somehow be able to control the mental activities of the goat and thus get it to do whatever the starrer wants it to do, things like to dance, to play dead or walk on its hind legs. Real magical stuff to ultimately use on the enemy on the battle field, presumably to get them to think they are goats and to get them to dance to your tune, to play dead on demand or to walk on their hands to the amusement of the President in the White House.

In stark contrast with the goat starrers, the middle finger starrer is singularly intent on self-control. He will not stare at a goat, or at someone else’s middle finger for that matter. His sole concern is his own middle finger, and the ultimate goal is to lose his head in the process. Seriously.

On having no head.

It is early morning and you are driving to work. At the T-junction you stop at the robot. On the other side of the T-junction there is an open veld, a lush green marshland with a couple of weeping willows in it. The occasional early bird flutters around … and suddenly you realise you have no head. Where your head used to be, there is now only open grassland and willows and birds.

Confused and on the verge of becoming hysterical, you let go of the steering wheel and grab at your head with both hands. To your utter relief you find the hair covered ball of bone you have been calling your head for the past couple of decades, still squirrely planted in the middle of your shoulders.

For the rest of the day you touch your head from time to time just to make sure it is still there. You even casually ask a friend if he could still see your face (at the same time noting the confusion on his face while he is fleetingly considering your sanity for having to ask such a stupid question).

So what the hell happened? And what do you do? Well, you go home and Google “On having no Head” because you can vaguely remember that somewhere in your very remote, very innocent past you read something, written by someone that had something to do with losing your head (in the literal sense of the word and not as in when engaged in an red hot verbal duel to the death with your mother-in-law where you start kicking her cat, overturning her furniture and calling her an old hag, and then feeling very sorry for “having lost your head” the next day, but sadly it is water under the bridge and mother-in-law will not talk to you for the rest of your life … unless she somehow, somewhere in the future(and before she kills you in cold blood) have the peculiar experience of having no head, in which case she will immediately forgive you and you will live happily and serenely ever after .)

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Google results:

‘On Having No Head’: Douglas Harding

‘The best day of my life – my rebirthday, so to speak – was when I found I had no head.’ He writes.

‘What actually happened was absurdly simple and unspectacular: just for the moment I stopped thinking. Reason and imagination and all mental chatter died down. For once words failed me. I forgot my name, my humanness, my thingness, all that could be called me or mine. Past and future dropped away. It was as if I had been born that instant,’

‘I had lost a head and gained a world.’

‘This Way puts headlessness – alias seeing into Nothingness – at the very start of the spiritual life.’

En nou lê daar `n baie lang pad voor, en daar is nie genoeg tyd nie.

Go and read Douglas Harding … if you dare, and stare at your middle finger … if you dare. (Or you could keep up the fight with your mother-in-law. You will gain nothing and you know it, but what the hell, it is more exciting than staring at your middle finger – or at goats for that matter. Or is it?)

But before you go off to read Harding, take an intense look at your middle finger and see what happens to your head. Go on, do it now.

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Volmaan 2017-02-11 Skadelose Lewe

Soos ‘n by wat nektar versamel

nie die blom se geur of skoonheid

skaad of versteur nie,

so vaar die wyse deur hierdie wêreld.

                                                                                               Dhammapada v. 49

Kommentaar deur Bhikku Munindo:

Wat die Boeddha hier sê is dat ons wysheid nodig het om deur hierdie wêreld te vaar sonner om te skaad. ‘n By versamel voedsel sonner om die blom se skoonheid skade te berokken.

So sal ons ander nie skaad of versteur nie as ons dit wat IS helder kan sien. Maar omdat ons nie helder en raak kan sien nie, het ons ‘n wanpersepsie omtrent die wêreld van sig, klank, reuk, smaak, voel en verstandelike werking. En dan neig ons om die wêreld te blameer.

Maar dis nie die wêreld se skuld nie, maar eerder ons beperkte vermoë om helder te kan sien. As ons ‘n bydrae wil maak tot die skoonheid van ons wêreld en nie die warboel wil voed nie, moet ons werk om wysheid te bekom sodat ons helder kan sien.

Vir meer besonnerhede sien:

http://www.ratanagiri.org.uk

www.forestsangha.org

www.forestsanghapublications.org

by_blom

Clarens in wolke geskilder

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Toe gaan maak ons n vinnige draai in Clarens ... in die goeie ou Vrystaat, nie Switserland nie. Daar was wolke in die lug bo die dorp met die aantog om elf minute oor twaalf, Woensdagoggend 1 Februarie 2017.016

Die dorpie het, soos meeste klein dorpies, n heel interessante geskiedenis. Die dorp is gestig in 1912, die selfde jaar wat die Titanic hom teen n ysberg vasloop en sink. Iemand bekyk n berg aan die rand van die dorp en besluit dit lyk vir hom baie na die sinkende skip en die berg word terstond “Die Titanic” gedoop. En so word die skilderagtige dorpie onwetend permanent verbind aan verganklikheid, want die naam Clarens is gekies weens die verbintenis van die omgewing met oud president Paul Kruger wat in ballingskap in Clarens in Switserland tot sy einde gekom het nadat sy Republiek hom ook teen n Ysberg vasgeloop en gesink het.

Teen 14.34 die middag dreig die wolke steeds op die horison van die Maluti berg se kant af.

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Dit was moontlik op so n dag in hierdie omgewing dat die moord op vyf ZA burgers gepleeg is en wat Paul Kruger destyds genoop het om oorlog teen die Basoetos te verklaar. Kruger en sy burgers gaan vermoor op hulle beurt n klomp Basoetos en wen die oorlog. n Monument ter ere van die 5 vermoorde burgers staan op die dorpsplein. Daar is geen monument vir die vermoorde Basoetos nie. Continue Reading »

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The last leg of the journey. A desperate race against time.

As usual, TZ is up early. Early means 4.30 in the morning. Normally he spends an hour in meditation before going for a brisk walk which is yet another exercise in mindfulness. But this morning there is an unusual urgency about him. Unlike his usual calm demeanour, he seems to be in a hurry to get going.

He hurriedly goes off to wake the moron up but finds the bed empty. He searches the rest of the apartment but there is no sign of the-seeker-after-eternal-truth. Going outside he finds us in the garden. The moron is sitting in the full lotus position under a tree with his backpack at his side … he is stark naked. Except for me, the famous Red Cap sitting on his balding scalp, he has no clothes on at all, not even shoes.

“What in the world is going on here?” asks TZ perplexed. “Why are you sitting here completely naked?”

I am so ashamed of this foolish companion of mine that I turn crimson red under the bright full moon.

“Did you not say yourself sir,” he retorts, “that if we want to go to God we must go completely naked or not go at all?”

“O Lord,” TZ moans softly. “Figuratively, I meant it figuratively as in empty, as in without any preconceived ideas, as in like an innocent child. Not without clothes! Please go and get dressed, and make sure you put on your hiking boots or else you will not make it even half way up the mountain. Hurry up, I’ll wait for you.” And as a sort of afterthought he adds, “and keep that Red Cap on your head, I think it stirs something good in you, something sensible.” Continue Reading »

Aandskemering

Sak die son weer besonder mooi oor ons dorp vannaand

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Dit is so pienk as wat dit was, maar vreemd genoeg wou my selfoon met die volgende poging nie weer die pienk vaslê nie.

Vir een of ander rede het hy besluit die son behoort mos geel onder te gaan en nie soos `n meisie in pienk getooi nie!

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Vyf dae gelede was daar belofte van reën, maar daarvan het nie veel gekom nie.

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Intussen is Munich nog steeds getooi in die mooiste wit

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En more is dit weer blou Maandag. Woensdag ry ons Clarens toe.

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My meisie wat nie wil nie.

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