Poetry remakes and prolongs language; every poetic language begins by being a secret language, that is, the creation of a personal universe, of a completely closed world. The purest poetic act seems to re-create language from an inner experience that … reveals the essence of things. — Mircea Eliade, Shamanism: Archaic Techniques of Ecstasy. (Princeton… Continue reading Mircea Eliade
The dying sun will glow on you without burning, as it has done today. The wind will be soft and mellow and your hilltop will tremble. As you reach the end of your dance you will look at the sun, for you will never see it again in waking or in dreaming, and then your… Continue reading Carlos Castaneda
‘Let me light my lamp,’ say the star, ‘and never debate if it will help to remove the darkness.’ Before the end of my journey may I reach within myself the one which is the all, leaving the outer shell to float away with the drifting multitude upon the current of chance and change. —… Continue reading Rabindranath Tagore
“When someone is seeking,” said Siddartha, “It happens quite easily that he only sees the thing that he is seeking; that he is unable to find anything, unable to absorb anything, because he is only thinking of the thing he is seeking, because he has a goal, because he is obsessed with his goal. Seeking… Continue reading Hermann Hesse
We’re so engaged in doing things to achieve purposes of outer value that we forget that the inner value, the rapture that is associated with being alive, is what it’s all about. – Joseph Campbell, The Power of Myth. (Anchor June 1, 1991) Originally published 1988.
The Oak Tree Loves Patience The oak tree loves patience, the mountain is still looking, as it has for centuries, for a word to say about the gradual way it slides itself back to the world below to begin again, in another life, to be fertile. When the… Continue reading Mary Oliver
After the rain, I went back into the field of sunflowers. It was cool, and I was anything but drowsy. I walked slowly, and listened to the crazy roots, in the drenched earth, laughing and growing. — Mary Oliver, from “Sometimes,” Red Bird (Beacon Press 2008)