- The Last Ruble: Part II - The Assassins by Joe D. Wells
- Caleb Rivers
- Game of Thrones: Season 1, Episode 6
- About the Film
The Last Ruble: Part II - The Assassins by Joe D. Wells
My deeds are the ground on which I stand. Sit down wherever you are And listen to the wind singing in your veins. Feel the love, the longing, the fear in your bones. Open your heart to who you are, right now, Not who you would like to be, Not the saint you are striving to become, But the being right here before you, inside you, around you.
All of you is holy. You are already more and less Than whatever you can know. Breathe out, Touch in, Let go. Bond with love Parental marital filial people spiritual Love thy neighbor as thyself No greater love hath man Than he give up his life for another. Bond with nature With its broad range of animal plant and mineral life With its sun moon stars land sea and air And all the creatures thereon and therein With its solitude music challenge reverence. Bond with an upbeat lifestyle Engage in spiritual intellectual social recreational pursuits That guarantee health strength and daily bread Woo the positive spurn the negative.
Bond with existence An existence that you deem worthy of your worship Daily lift up some thought word and deed To Him to Her to It.
I am not I. The one who remains silent when I talk, The one who forgives, sweet, when I hate, The one who takes a walk when I am indoors, The one who will remain standing when I die. There is only one mistake you are making: you take the inner for the outer and outer for the inner. What is in you, you take to be outside you and what is outside, you take to be in you.
The mind and feelings are external, but you take them to be intimate. You believe the world to be objective, while it is entirely a projection of your psyche. That is the basic confusion. If you would grow to your best self Be patient, not demanding Accepting, not condemning Nurturing, not withholding Self-marveling, not belittling Gently guiding, not pushing and punishing For you are more sensitive than you know Mankind is as tough as war yet delicate as flowers We can endure agonies but we open fully only to warmth and light And our need to grow Is as fragile as a fragrance dispersed by storms of will To return only when those storm are still So, accept, respect, and attend your sensitivity A flower cannot be opened with a hammer.
When the soul lies down in that grass, the world is too full to talk about. Although the wind blows terribly here, the moonlight also leaks between the roof planks of this ruined house. How did the rose Ever open its heart And give to this world All its beauty? It felt the encouragement of light Against its being, Otherwise, We all remain Too frightened. I said to the wanting-creature inside me: What is this river you want to cross?
There are no travelers on the river-road, and no road. Do you see anyone moving about on that bank, or nesting? There is no river at all, and no boat, and no boatman. There is no tow rope either, and no one to pull it. There is no ground, no sky, no time, no bank, no ford! And there is no body, and no mind! Do you believe there is some place that will make the soul less thirsty?
In that great absence you will find nothing. Be strong then, and enter into your own body; there you have a solid place for your feet. Think about it carefully! Don't go off somewhere else! Kabir says this: just throw away all thoughts of imaginary things, and stand firm in that which you are. Now we will count to twelve and we will all keep still. For once on the face of the earth, let's not speak in any language, let's stop for a second, and not move our arms so much.
It would be an exotic moment without rush, without engines; we would all be together in a sudden strangeness. If we were not so single-minded about keeping our lives moving, and for once could do nothing, perhaps a huge silence might interrupt this sadness of never understanding ourselves and of threatening ourselves with death.
Perhaps the earth can teach us as when everything seems dead in winter and later proves to be alive. Now I'll count up to twelve and you keep quiet and I will go. Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous?
Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It is not just in some of us, it is in everyone.
And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others. After rain after many days without rain, it stays cool, private and cleansed, under the trees, and the dampness there, married now to gravity, falls branch to branch, leaf to leaf, down to the ground where it will disappear - but not, of course, vanish except to our eyes. The roots of the oaks will have their share, and the white threads of the grasses, and the cushion of moss; a few drops, round as pearls, will enter the mole's tunnel; and soon so many small stones, buried for a thousand years, will feel themselves being touched.
We shall not cease from exploration And the end of all our exploring Will be to arrive where we started And know the place for the first time. Through the unknown, remembered gate When the last of earth left to discover Is that which was the beginning; At the source of the longest river The voice of the hidden waterfall And the children in the apple-tree Not known, because not looked for But heard, half heard, in the stillness Between the two waves of the sea.
Quick now, here, now, always-- A condition of complete simplicity Costing not less than everything And all shall be well and All manner of things shall be well When the tongues of flame are in-folded Into the crowned knot of fire And the fire and the rose are one. Stand still. The trees ahead and bushes beside you Are not lost. Wherever you are is called Here, And you must treat it as a powerful stranger, Must ask permission to know it and be known.
The forest breathes. It answers, I have made this place around you, If you leave it you may come back again, saying Here. No two trees are the same to Raven. No two branches are the same to Wren.
- The Last Ruble by Joe D Wells - Podcast.
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If what a tree or a bush does is lost on you, You are surely lost. The forest knows Where you are. You must let it find you. There are moments when I feel more clearly than ever that I am in the company of my own person. This comforts and reassures me, this heartens me, just as my tridimensional body is heartened by my own authentic shadow. There are moments when I really feel more clearly than ever that I am in the company of my own person. I stop at a street corner to turn left and I wonder what would happen if my own person walked to the right.
Now is the time to know That all that you do is sacred. Now, why not consider A lasting truce with yourself and God? Now is the time to understand That all your ideas of right and wrong Were just a child's training wheels To be laid aside When you can finally live with veracity And love. Now is the time for the world to know That every thought and action is sacred.
Game of Thrones: Season 1, Episode 6
That this is the time For you to compute the impossibility That there is anything But Grace. Now is the season to know That everything you do Is Sacred. I have a feeling that my boat Has struck, down there in the depths, Against a great thing. And nothing happens! Or has everything Happened, And are we standing now, quietly, in the new life? I'm afraid that sometimes you'll play lonely games too. Games you can't win, cause you'll play against you.
And when you're alone. There' a very good chance You'll meet some things that scare you right out of your pants. There are some, down the road between hither and yon, That can scare you so much you won't want to go on. But on you will go, though the weather be foul, On you will go, though the Hakken-Kraks howl. Onward up many a frightening creek, Though your arms may get sore And your sneakers may leak.
On and on you will hike. And I know you'll hike far And face up to your problems Whatever they are. You'll get mixed up, of course, As you already know. You'll get mixed up with many strange birds as you go. So be sure where you step. Step with care and great tact And remember that life's a Great Balancing Act. Just never forget to be dexterous and deft. And never mix up your right foot with your left.
When despair for the world grows in me and I wake in the night at the least sound in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be I go and lie down where the wood drake rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds. I come into the peace of wild things who do not tax their lives with forethought of grief. I come into the presence of still water. And I feel above me the day-blind stars waiting with their light. For the time I rest in the grace of the world, and am free. Tear down this house. A hundred thousand new houses can be built from the transparent yellow carnelian.
And anyway, sooner or later this house will fall on its own. The jewel treasure will be. Yet only a few feet underneath are two veins, pure red and bright gold carnelian. The pith instruction is, Stay Learning to stay with ourselves in meditation is like training a dog. If we train a dog by beating it, we'll end up with an obedient but very inflexible and rather terrified dog.
The dog may obey when we say "Stay! By contrast, training with kindness results in someone who is flexible and confident, who doesn't become upset when situations are unpredictable and insecure. So whenever we wander off, we gently encourage ourselves to "stay" and settle down. Are we experiencing restlessness? Discursive mind? Are fear and loathing out of control? Aching knees and throbbing back? What's for lunch?
What am I doing here? I can't stand this another minute! That is how to cultivate steadfastness. Do not say that I will depart tomorrow because even today I still arrive Look deeply: I arrive in every second to be a bud on a spring branch to be a tiny bird, with wings still so fragile learning to sing in my new nest to be a caterpillar in the heart of flower to be a jewel hiding itself in stone I still arrive, in order to laugh and to cry, in order to fear and to hope, the rhythm of my heart is the birth and death of all that are alive.
I am the mayfly metamorphosing on the surface of the river, and I am the bird which, when spring comes, arrives in time to eat the mayfly.
About the Film
I am the frog swimming happily in the clear water of the pond, and I am also the grass-snake who, approaching in silence, feeds itself on the frog. I am the child in Uganda, all skin and bones, my legs as thin as bamboo sticks, and I am the arms merchant selling deadly weapons to Uganda.
I am the 12 year old girl, refugee on a small boat, who throws herself into the ocean after being raped by a sea pirate, and I am the pirate, my heart not yet capable of seeing and loving I am a member of the politburo, with plenty of power in my hands, and I am the man who has to pay his "debt of blood" to my people, dying slowly in a forced labour camp. My joy is like spring, so warm it makes flowers bloom in all walks of life. My pain is like a river of tears, so full it fills up the four oceans. Please call me by my true names, so I can hear all my cries and my laughs at once, so I can see that my joy and pain are one.
Please call me by my true names, so I can wake up, and so the door of my heart can be left open, the door of compassion. The bud stands for all things, even for those things that don't flower, for everything flowers, from within, of self-blessing; though sometimes it is necessary to reteach a thing its loveliness, to put a hand on its brow of the flower and retell it in words and in touch it is lovely until it flowers again from within, of self-blessing; as Saint Francis put his hand on the creased forehead of the sow, and told her in words and in touch blessings of earth on the sow, and the sow began remembering all down her thick length, from the earthen snout all the way through the fodder and slops to the spiritual curl of the tail, from the hard spininess spiked out from the spine down through the great broken heart to the blue milken dreaminess spurting and shuddering from the fourteen teats into the fourteen mouths sucking and blowing beneath them: the long, perfect loveliness of sow.
In Singapore, in the airport, A darkness was ripped from my eyes. A woman knelt there, washing something in the white bowl.
Disgust argued in my stomach and I felt, in my pocket, for my ticket. A poem should always have birds in it. Kingfishers, say, with their bold eyes and gaudy wings. Rivers are pleasant, and of course trees. A person wants to stand in a happy place, in a poem. When the woman turned I could not answer her face.
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- The Last Ruble: Part II - The Assassins?
Her beauty and her embarrassment struggled together, and neither could win. She smiled and I smiled. What kind of nonsense is this? Everybody needs a job. Yes, a person wants to stand in a happy place, in a poem. But first we must watch her as she stares down at her labor, which is dull enough. She is washing the tops of the airport ashtrays, as big as hubcaps, with a blue rag. Her small hands turn the metal, scrubbing and rinsing.
She does not work slowly, nor quickly, like a river. Her dark hair is like the wing of a bird. And I want to rise up from the crust and the slop and fly down to the river. But maybe it will. If the world were only pain and logic, who would want it? Neither do I mean anything miraculous, but only the light that can shine out of a life. I mean the way she unfolded and refolded the blue cloth, The way her smile was only for my sake; I mean the way this poem is filled with trees, and birds. I thought the earth remembered me, she took me back so tenderly, arranging her dark skirts, her pockets full of lichens and seeds.
I slept as never before, a stone on the river bed, nothing between me and the white fire of the stars but my thoughts, and they floated light as moths among the branches of the perfect trees. All night I heard the small kingdoms breathing around me, the insects, and the birds who do their work in the darkness. All night I rose and fell, as if in water, grappling with a luminous doom. By morning I had vanished at least a dozen times into something better.
When your eyes are tired the world is tired also. When your vision has gone no part of the world can find you. Time to go into the dark where the night has eyes to recognize its own. There you can be sure you are not beyond love. The dark will be your womb tonight. The night will give you a horizon further than you can see.
You must learn one thing. The world was made to be free in. Give up all the other worlds except the one to which you belong. Sometimes it takes darkness and the sweet confinement of your aloneness to learn anything or anyone that does not bring you alive is too small for you. As the story goes, there was once a farmer and his only son in the days just before the Civil War.
Having only one horse, the farmer and son worked long hard days, sun up to sun down, just to get by, with nothing left to spare. One day as the father and son plowed the fields, their horse got spooked and ran off. The son was devastated; "What bad luck, now what will we do? Then one day their horse comes running back over the hill with 6 other horses.
The son exclaimed, "What great luck, now we have all the horses we'll ever need! The son cried: "Oh father, I am so sorry, now you have to work the farm all by yourself. What bad luck! The farmer's son, having a broken leg, was forced to stay at home. After the leg had healed, the father had the only farm around with a son to help and seven horses to boot. They worked the farm and prospered.
Good luck, bad luck. It's too soon to tell. There are two kinds of intelligence: one acquired, as a child in school memorizes facts and concepts from books and from what the teacher says, collecting information from the traditional sciences as well as from the new sciences. With such intelligence you rise in the world. You get ranked ahead or behind others in regard to your competence in retaining information.
You stroll with this intelligence in and out of fields of knowledge, getting always more marks on your preserving tablets. There is another kind of tablet, one already completed and preserved inside you. A spring overflowing its springbox. A freshness in the center of the chest. This other intelligence does not turn yellow or stagnate. It's fluid, and it does not move from outside to inside through the conduits of plumbing-learning. This second knowing is a fountainhead from within you, moving out.
The grandson thought about it for a minute and then asked his grandfather, "Which wolf will win? Willing to experience aloneness, I discover connection everywhere; Turning to face my fear, I meet the warrior who lives within; Opening to my loss, I gain the embrace of the universe; Surrendering into emptiness, I find fullness without end. Each condition I flee from pursues me, Each condition I welcome transforms me And becomes itself transformed Into its radiant jewel-like essence. I bow to the one who has made it so, Who has crafted this Master Game; To play it is purest delight - To honor its form, true devotion.
The range of what we think and do is limited by what we fail to notice. And because we fail to notice there is little we can do to change until we notice how failing to notice shapes our thoughts and deeds. It was many years ago that the villagers of Downstream recall spotting the first body in the river.
Some old timers remember how spartan were the facilities and procedures for managing that sort of thing. Sometimes they say, it took hours to pull 10 people from the river, and even then only a few would survive. Though the number of victims in the river has increased greatly in recent years, the good folk of Downstream have responded admirably to the challenge. Their rescue system is clearly second to none: most people discovered in the swirling waters are reached within 20 minutes-many less than Only a small number drown each day before help arrives - a big improvement from the way it use to be.
Talk to the people of Downstream and they'll speak with pride about the new hospital by the edge of the waters, the flotilla of rescue boats ready for service at a moment's notice, the comprehensive plans for coordinating all the manpower involved, and the large numbers of highly trained and dedicated swimmers always ready to risk their lives to save victims from the raging currents.
So it cost a lot, say to the Downstreamers, but what else can descent people do except to provide whatever is necessary when human lives are at stake. Oh, a few people in Downstream have raised the question now and again, but most folks show little interest in what's happening Upstream.
That's the way things are sometimes. It takes a long time. It lasts for always. Wage peace with your breath. Breathe in firemen and rubble, breathe out whole buildings and flocks of red wing blackbirds. Breathe in terrorists and breathe out sleeping children and freshly mown fields. Breathe in confusion and breathe out maple trees.
Breathe in the fallen and breathe out lifelong friendships intact. Wage peace with your listening: hearing sirens, pray loud. Remember your tools: flower seeds, clothes pins, clean rivers. Make soup. Play music, memorize the words for thank you in three languages. Learn to knit, and make a hat. Think of chaos as dancing raspberries, imagine grief as the outbreath of beauty or the gesture of fish. Swim for the other side. Wage peace. Never has the world seemed so fresh and precious: Have a cup of tea and rejoice.
Act as if armistice has already arrived. Celebrate today. There's a thread you follow. It goes among things that change. But it doesn't change. People wonder about what you are pursuing. You have to explain about the thread. But it is hard for others to see.
While you hold it you can't get lost. Tragedies happen; people get hurt or die; and you suffer and get old. Nothing you do can stop time's unfolding. You don't ever let go of the thread. We have not come here to take prisoners But to surrender ever more deeply To freedom and joy. We have not come into this exquisite world to hold ourselves hostage from love.
Run my dear, From anything That may not strengthen Your precious budding wings, Run like hell, my dear, From anyone likely to put a sharp knife Into the sacred, tender vision Of your beautiful heart. We have a duty to befriend Those aspects of obedience of our house And shout to our reason "Oh please, oh please come out and play.
Those who will not slip beneath the still surface on the well of grief turning downward through its black water to the place we cannot breathe will never know the source from which we drink the secret water, cold and clear, nor find in the darkness glimmering the small round coins thrown by those who wished for something else. We who are your closest friends feel the time has come to tell you that every Thursday we have been meeting as a group to devise ways to keep you in perpetual uncertainty frustration discontent and torture by neither loving you as much as you want nor cutting you adrift.
Generally speaking, we regard discomfort in any form as bad news. But for practitioners or spiritual warriors, people who have a certain hunger to know what is true, feelings like disappointment, embarrassment, irritation, resentment, anger, jealousy, and fear, instead of being bad news, are actually very clear moments that teach us where it is that we are holding back. They teach us to perk up and lean in when we feel we'd rather collapse and back away. They're like messengers that show us, with terrifying clarity, exactly where we're stuck.
This very moment s the perfect teacher, and lucky for us, it's with us wherever we are. Most of us do not take these situations as teachings. We automatically hate them. We run like crazy. We are use to all kinds of escaping - all addictions stem from this moment when we meet our edge and we just can't stand it.
There are so many ways that have been dreamed up to entertain us away from the moment. Who turns this into that? Sound into noise? Aroma into odor? Taste into pleasure or disgust? Who turns yes into no? Grace into unkindness? Who turns the present into the past?
Who turns the now into the not-now? As-it-is into as-it-should-be? Silence into boredom? Stillness into restlessness? The ordinary into the menial? Who turns pain into suffering? Change into loss? Grief into woe? Woe into the story of your life? Who turns stuff into sentiment? Desire into craving? Acceptance into aversion? Peace into war? Us into them? Who turns life into labor? Time into toil? Enough into not-enough? Who turns why into why not? Who turns delusion into enlightenment? Who thinks?
Who feels? Who senses? Who turns? All practice is the practice of making a turn in a different Direction. The colors of the Dark One have penetrated Mira's body; all the other colors washed out. Making love with the Dark One and eating little, those are my pearls and my carnelians. Meditation beads and the forehead streak, these are my scarves and my rings. That's enough feminine wiles for me. My teacher taught me this. Approve me or disapprove me: I praise the Mountain Energy night and day. I take the path that ecstatic human beings have taken for centuries.
I don't steal money, I don't hit anyone. What will you charge me with? I have felt the swaying of the elephant's shoulders; and now you want me to climb on a jackass? Try to be serious. And I wept. And I said to myself: 'What have you done with the garden that was entrusted to you? Additional Navigation. Mindfulness Resources. Mead Important by Helen M. Seuss On Commitment by William H. By Steven Hickman. The Guest House This being human is a guest house. Every morning a new arrival. By Rumi, Translation by Coleman Barks. Love After Love The time will come when, with elation you will greet yourself arriving at your own door, in your own mirror and each will smile at the other's welcome, and say, sit here.
By Derek Walcott. Kindness Before you know what kindness really is you must lose things, feel the future dissolve in a moment like salt in a weakened broth. By Naomi Shihab Nye. The Summer Day Who made the world? Wild Geese You do not have to be good. By Mary Oliver from Dream Work. The Journey One day you finally knew what you had to do, and began, though the voices around you kept shouting their bad advice- though the whole house began to tremble and you felt the old tug at your ankles.
By Mary Oliver. The Swan Did you too see it, drifting, all night, on the black river? The Hippo The hippo floats in swamp serene, some emerged, but most unseen. Seeing all and only blinking, Who knows what this beast is thinking. Gliding, and of judgment clear, Letting go and being here. Seeing all, both guilt and glory, Only noting. But that's MY story. I sit here hippo-like and breathe, While inside I storm and seethe. Would that I were half equanimous As that placid hippopotamus. I would perhaps have more actual troubles but I'd have fewer imaginary ones. One after another, instead of living so many years ahead of each day.
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