Παρασκευή, 27 Δεκεμβρίου 2013

Tabula Rasa

Καθώς τελειώνει ο χρόνος
είναι σαν να ξαναρχίζει
Tabula Rasa

Οι λευκές σελίδες
δεν θα κιτρινίσουν ποτέ
Σ αυτές θα γράφεις
το έργο της ζωής σου

Ανακτορία Φ.

Κυριακή, 11 Αυγούστου 2013

Λευκές σελίδες

Το λευκό της λησμονιάς

Το λευκό της αθωότητας
Το λευκό της αιώνιας επιστροφής
Ξαναγράφοντας την ιστορία από την αρχή
Ξαναφτιάχνοντας τον κόσμο από την αρχή
Λευκά σεντόνια
Λευκές σελίδες


Πέμπτη, 1 Αυγούστου 2013

Anaktoria on the Stoop

by G. Wesley Purdy

Soft as palely loitering spring she lingers,
sitting knock-kneed, mild; as the florid season,
so she too, unmindful, accepts caresses,
   bending as slightly.
Lips unguarded, full, as if seeking, sought for,
brush expectant day, its small breathing quickened;
she is somewhere distanter: there a strangely
   crystalline rapture.
Hair goes wisps as boldly as love is taken,
falls there all about her a chestnut laughter;
rayon gardens bloom there, surprise among them,
   startled eyes question.
Who can know the mastery seizes her? What
sight, what strophe, may quicken the hand to wisdom
such as Anaktoria's knows: half-lifted,
   suddenly foreign?

About Anactoria....

Some say an army of horsemen or footmen or rowers
Is the most beautiful thing over the coal-black earth,
But I say it is that thing, whatever it is,
That one loves and desires.

All easy it is to make this clear to anyone,
For Helen, far surpassing all mortals in beauty,
Leaving behind the best of all men,
Departed, sailing for Troy —
And not at all did she remember
Parents, nor love of children,
But passion drove her.

Now my Anactoria too is gone, and
I would rather see her supple walk
And the bright sparkle of her face
Than all the chariots of Lydia
And foot-soldiers in arms.

SAPPHO's Fragment 16, Translated by Peter Saint - Andre

Πέμπτη, 25 Ιουλίου 2013

Αγγίζοντας τις σιωπές του καλοκαιριού

Θερισμένα χωράφια
ξεραμένη γη
απέραντο γαλάζιο
τριζόνια και τζιτζίκια
κορίτσια στον ήλιο

Aκούω την αγάπη
ακούω τη μοναξιά
αγγίζω τη σιωπή....

Σάββατο, 6 Ιουλίου 2013

Δεν έχω δάκρυα

Μερικές φορές
το πιο γενναίο και το πιο ευγενές
είναι να κλάψει κανείς
να θρηνήσει, να γιορτάσει τον πόνο του
‘χωρίς αστεία αιδώ, χωρίς των δειλών τα παρακάλια και παράπονα...‘
Όμως για στάσου
Ενώ θα ήθελα πολύ να έχυνα δάκρυα για σένα
Δεν πρόλαβες ποτέ να μου γίνεις απαραίτητη
Δεν  μου δόθηκες ούτε με άφησες να σου δωθώ
Κι έτσι ο μόνος φόρος τιμής που μπορώ να αποτίσω
είναι για μια αγάπη που δεν μπόρεσε να γεννηθεί
για τα δάκρυα που θα ήθελα αλλά δεν έχω πια για σένα....


Κυριακή, 16 Ιουνίου 2013

Του Νικηφόρου Βρεττάκου

 Η τιμή

Ο ουρανός και η γης με τίμησαν με τον πόνο.
Το έμαθα αργότερα, όταν κατάλαβα
πως το καλύτερο φως γίνεται απ’ το σκοτάδι’
μετά που ξεχείλισε μέσα μου η ποίηση
κι αρχίσαν ν’ ανάβουνε κεριά από χρόνο.

Ο χορός του κορυδαλλού

Κι η σιωπηλή παρουσία σου μ' έμαθε πως σιωπή δεν υπάρχει.
Άκουσα να θροΐζει η ψυχή σου όπως ένας πευκώνας το καλοκαίρι.
Τα δάχτυλά σου μ' αγγίξαν σαν ένα σμήνος πουλιών.
Κι όταν χαμογελάς ακούω μιαν άρπα.
Κι όταν σκέφτεσαι ακούω που σκέφτεσαι.
Κι όταν αγαπάς τα παιδιά που ευλόγησεν ο Ιησούς, πάλι, ακούω.
Κι ακούω το ρόδινο σύννεφο όταν ακουμπάει στο βουνό.
Κι ακούω το στάχυ όταν πίνει μια σταγόνα νερού.
Κι όταν τη νύχτα κοιτάζεις τον ουρανό
ακούω τ' αστέρι που πλέει μες στο βλέμμα σου.
Κι είναι αυτό που ακούω πολύ δυνατότερο
απ' αυτό που γράφω κι απ' αυτό που μπορώ να σου ειπώ.
Όλα είναι γραμμένα. Αρκεί να μπορεί να διαβάζει η καρδιά
τα ψηφία της κτίσεως. Οι στίχοι είναι αντίλαλοι.
Απόψε τελειώσανε όλες οι λέξεις μου.
Ακούω το ποτάμι ζητώντας να ξεκλέψω τα λόγια του.
Αφουγκράζομαι στο άπειρο το χαίρε των κόσμων
που παραπλέουν ο ένας τον άλλο – χαιρετιώνται κι αποχωρίζονται.
Αλλά η γλώσσα του σύμπαντος έχει μια μόνο λέξη.
Όλα λένε: «Αγάπη». Κι όταν γράφω «αγάπη» δεν έχω πια άλλο.
Αλλά εγώ σ' αγαπώ. Και γι' αυτό κομματιάζω
τη λέξη «αγάπη» σε χιλιάδες ρινίσματα
και ζυμώνω τα χρώματα, όχι σα να 'ναι να ειπώ ή να γράψω,
σα να 'μαι ο παντοκράτορας ενός μεγάλου περβολιού
και να θέλουν τα χέρια μου να υφάνουνε κρίνα.

Νικηφόρος Βρεττάκος

Τετάρτη, 5 Ιουνίου 2013

Negative emotions? Rethink it...

For further reading, click

There isn’t any such thing as a negative emotion. There are negative things that we do with our emotions, but our emotions themselves are neither negative nor positive. They simply are.

Consider anger. When we are angry, we might express it as hostility—emitting unmistakable negativity, bristly and mean-spirited, tight and heartless. Yes, we are angry, but we are filtering—and forcing— it through a darkly twisted lens, so that it is expressed not as clean anger (that is, anger free of aggression, blaming, and shaming) but as hostility.

Does this mean that anger itself is therefore a negative emotion? No. It means we have handled our anger negatively, putting a mean-spirited spin on it. Our choice. Hostility is not a negative emotion but rather a negative framing and expression of anger.

Anger itself can be a positive force: getting angry that you have just lost your job may give you the energy and sheer drive to pursue more fitting work. Likewise, getting angry about the abuse you are suffering in a relationship will help fuel you to form healthy boundaries, providing much of the motivation and strength needed to either improve the relationship or leave it.

Those of us caught up in spiritual bypassing tend to slap the labels of “positive” and “negative” onto emotions as if such qualities were absolute givens. But the more we investigate the reality of our lives, the clearer it becomes that ascribing qualities like “negative” and “positive” to emotions is inevitably a context-bound undertaking.

Adapted from Spiritual Bypassing: When Spirituality Disconnects Us from What Really Matters, by Robert Augustus Masters, published by North Atlantic Books, copyright © 2010 by Robert Augustus Masters. Reprinted by permission of the publisher.

Source: tricycle.com

Κυριακή, 2 Ιουνίου 2013

Pati Smith's poem "Reflecting Robert" by Maria Popova

“Blessedness is within us all.”
“The mere addition of meter does not in itself entitle a work to the name of poem, for nothing can permanently please which does not contain in itself the reason why it is so and not otherwise,”Coleridge asserted“Poetry is the first and last of all knowledge — it is as immortal as the heart of man,” Wordsworth famously proclaimed. Nowhere is this dual definition more ablaze with life than in The Coral Sea (public library) by the eclectically brilliant Patti Smith — a breathtaking collection of prose poems exorcising Smith’s profound grief for her lifelong spirit-mate, beloved photographerRobert Mapplethorpe (1946 — 1989). She describes the collection as “a season in grief” and writes:
All that I knew of him encrypted within a small suite of prose poems. They speak of his love for art, his patron Sam Wagstaff, and his aring for me. But most importantly his resolute will to live, that could not be contained, not even in death.
Her short foreword stirs the soul intensely:
The first time I saw Robert he was sleeping. I stood over him, this boy of twenty, who sensing my presence opened his eyes and smiled. With few words he became my friend, my compeer, my beloved adventure.
When he became ill I wept and could not stop weeping. He scolded me for that, not with words but with a simple look of reproach, and I ceased.
When I saw him last we sat in silence and he rested his head on my shoulder. I watched the light changing over his hands, over his work, and over the whole of our lives. Later, returning to his bed, we said goodbye. But as I was leaving something stopped me and I went back to his room. He was sleeping. I stood over him, a dying man, who sensing my presence opened his yes and smiled.
When he passed away I could not weep so I wrote. Then I took the pages and set them away. Here are those pages, my farewell to my friend, my adventure, my unfettered joy.
At the recent opening of exhibition of the same title at Cincinnati’s Contemporary Arts Center — which also gave us Smith’s delightful lettuce soup recipe for starving artists — I recorded Smith’s moving reading of some poems from the book and photographed the handwritten originals of the poems, below, on display at the CAC.
Blessedness is within us all
It lies upon the long scaffold
Patrols the vaporous hall
In our pursuits, though still, we venture forth
Hoping to grasp a handful of cloud and return
Unscathed, cloud in hand. We encounter
Space, fist, violin, or this — an immaculate face
Of a boy, somewhat wild, smiling in the sun.
He raises his hand, as if in carefree salute
Shading eyes that contain the thread of God.
Soon they will gather power, disenchantment
They will reflect enlightenment, agony
They will reveal the process of love
They will, in an hour alone, shed tears.
His mouth a circlet, a baptismal font
Opening wide as the lips of a damsel
Sounding the dizzying extremes.
The relativity of vein, the hip of unrest
For the sake of wing there is shoulder.
For symmetry there is blade.
He kneels, humiliates, he pierces her side.
Offering spleen to the wolves of the forest.
He races across the tiles, the human board.
Virility, coquetry all a game — well played.
Immersed in luminous disgrace, he lifts
As a slave, a nymph, a fabulous hood
As a rose, a thief of life, he will parade
Nude crowned with leaves, immortal.
He will sing of the body, his truth
He will increase the shining neck
Pluck airs toward our delight
Of the waning
The blossoming
The violent charade
But who will sing of him?
Who will sing of his blessedness?
The blameless eye, the radiant grin
For he, his own messenger, is gone
He has leapt through the orphic glass
To wander eternally
In search of perfection
His blue ankles tattooed with stars.

Patti Smith

Click here, if you want to listen to Patti reading live her poem.

Παρασκευή, 31 Μαΐου 2013

Ένα ποίημα της Κατερίνας Γώγου

Εσένα που αγάπησα.
Κοίτα άμα πιεις κι όπως πάντα μεθύσεις
Μην πεις ποτέ πως μ’ αγάπησες
Δεν θ’ άφηνες να γίνω πλατανόφυλλο
Σε ξεροπόταμους να πλέω...

~Κατερίνα Γώγου

Τετάρτη, 29 Μαΐου 2013

Speaking Ill of the Dead: How the Moderns Pinned Anal Sex on the Greeks by Andrew Calimach

(Enlish Text Follows)

Ο ανεξάρτητος μελετητής Andrew Calimach δημοσίευσε μία μελέτη του σχετικά με το πρωκτικό σεξ και τους Αρχαίους Έλληνες το οποίο θα αναταράξει τα νερά για το τι θεωρούνταν ως τώρα ομοφυλοφιλικές πρακτικές ανάμεσα στους Αρχαίους Έλληνες άρρενες.

Independent Scholar Andrew Calimach has published a critique of the historiography of Greek homosexuality in the Magnus Hirschfeld Archive for Sexology:

In it he suggests that the notion that Athenian or Spartan gentlemen systematically penetrated their boyfriends is logically and psychologically untenable. Likewise it is historically untenable, as the evidence (from Aesop to Plutarch and points in between) indicates that this behavior, while common, was not normative but transgressive, much as wife beating (or husband beating) is today.

The article then looks at ("unpacks" seems to be the word in vogue) the modern assumption that this activity is the obligatory principal identifier of male+male sexuality, and the consequences of this culture of penetration on masculine social space in general and on adolescents in particular.

 The article in its entirety has been placed in the public domain by meansof a Creative Commons license.

Andrew Calimach
Independent scholar
Author: — Lovers' Legends: The Gay Greek Myths; Haiduk Press, New York, 2002
— Lovers' Legends Unbound; Haiduk Press, New York, 2004
— The Exquisite Corpse of Ganymede: An Ancient Gender Studies Discourse
in THYMOS: Journal of Boyhood Studies I.2 (Autumn 2007) and
at http://www2.hu-berlin.de/sexology/BIB/Ganymede.htm
— Legendele iubirii: Miturile necenzurate ale Greciei; Paralela 45, Bucharest, 2008
— Speaking Ill of the Dead: How the Moderns Pinned Anal Sex on the Greeks


Παρασκευή, 24 Μαΐου 2013

Cavafy, To Sensual Pleasure

My life’s joy and incense: recollection of those hours
when I found and captured sensual pleasure as I wanted it.
My life’s joy and incense: that I refused
all indulgence in routine love affairs.

DAYS OF 1903
I never found them again—all lost so quickly...
the poetic eyes, the pale face...
in the darkening street...

I never found them again—mine entirely by chance,
and so easily given up,
then longed for so painfully.
The poetic eyes, the pale face,
those lips—I never found them again.
Translated by Edmund Keeley/Philip Sherrard
(C.P. Cavafy, Collected Poems. Translated by Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard. Edited by George Savidis. Revised Edition. Princeton University Press, 1992) 

Έτσι γαμεί η λεωφόρος, έτσι αγαπούν οι ποιητές...

Σκοτώστε με έξω απ το προποτζίδικο
Καθώς θα βγαίνω με το χέρι μου στη τσέπη
Πριν γίνω πλούσιος με πλούτο αεριτζίδικο
Πριν κρεμαστώ στο Χ το ξύλινο ενός ντέρμπι

Της φτώχειας θα πληρώσω το μερίδιο
Θα πω της εβδομάδας το αντίο
Θα γράψει ένας φίλος επικήδειο
Θα με τυλίξουνε σε μια σημαία δελτίο

Πνεύμα αδέσποτο πετάει πάνω απ τα γήπεδα
Ο μπλε καπνός που βγαίνει απ τα πρακτορεία
Μιας κυλιόμενης κερκίδας τα επίπεδα
Θα ανεβαίνει σαν αιώνια τιμωρία

Ποτέ από τη λεωφόρο
Πάντοτε απ την ατραπό
Περνά ο δρόμος
Που οδηγεί στο σ αγαπώ

Στο δρόμο για το φέγγον όρος
Εθελουσίως ασκητές
Έτσι γαμεί η Λεωφόρος
Έτσι αγαπάνε οι ποιητές

Στο δρόμο για το φέγγον όρος
Εθελουσίως ασκητές
Έτσι γαμεί η Λεωφόρος

Έτσι αγαπάνε οι ποιητές
Έτσι αγαπάνε οι ποιητές.

Στίχοι: Δ. Σαββόπουλος, Ο. Περίδης

Dancing Fairy

Image by Julie Fain

Στο γιόμισμα της Σελήνης
Το νεραϊδοκόριτσο εξαφανίζεται
Παρέα με τις συντρόφισσές του
Χορεύει στ’ αλώνι του Φεγγαριού
Αγαπάει γιά μισεί τους ανθρώπους;
Απάντηση δεν θα πάρουμε ποτέ

Harnessing Difficult Situations

"Η άσκησή σου θα πρέπει να δυναμώνει από τις δύσκολες καταστάσεις που συναντάς, όπως η φωτιά δεν σβήνει από το δυνατό άνεμο, αλλά λαμποκοπά ακόμα περισσότερο."

Ντίλγκο Κυέντσε Ρίνποτσε, Διδασκαλίες πάνω στη Φύση του Νου και της Άσκησης


"Your practice should be strengthened by the difficult situations you encounter, just as a bonfire in a strong wind is not blownout, but blazes ever brighter."

Dilgo Kynetse Rinpoche, Teachings on the Nature of Mind and Practice
Empowered by tricycle.com

Παρασκευή, 17 Μαΐου 2013

Overcoming Self-Aggression / Ξεπερνώντας την επιθετικότητα προς τον εαυτό μας

(English Text Follows)
click to Amazon.com

Ο πατέρας μου Τσόγκυαμ Τρούνγκπα που έφερε την Αρχή της Σαμπάλα στο σύγχρονο κόσμο πίστευε πάρα πολύ στην ανθρωπότητα. Τόσο στην Ανατολή όσο και στη Δύση συνέθεσε τη γνώση που είχε αποκομίσει αναζητώντας να κατανοήσει όχι μόνο αυτά που δίδαξε ο Βούδας, αλλά και τις διδασκαλίες του Πλάτωνα, του Αριστοτέλη, του Ιησού αλλά και του Ιουδαϊσμού και του Ισλάμ, καθώς και όσα δίδαξαν οι μεγάλοι νόες της Κίνας - ο Λάο Τζου και ο Κομφούκιος. Σεβόταν ιδιαίτερα τον μεγάλο ηγέτη της Ινδίας Βασιλιά Ασόκα, καθώς και τον Ντογκέν της παράδοσης Ζεν αλλά και τον Σοτόκου Τάισι της Ιαπωνίας. Όσο διαφορετικές κι αν είναι αυτές οι παραδόσεις, η καθεμιά από αυτές θα μπορούσε να συρρικνωθεί σε μέγεθος, αλλά όχι σε ένταση, εμπεριέχοντας δύο απλές ιδέες: ότι η ανθρωπότητα είναι καλή και ότι καλή επίσης είναι η φύση της κοινωνίας.

Φανταστείτε τι θα μπορούσε να συμβεί, αν όλοι αρχίζαμε να αισθανόμαστε ότι είμαστε καλοί και ότι οι κοινωνία είναι καλή – και να έχουμε εμπιστοσύνη στον εαυτό μας με αυτόν τον τρόπο. Όταν διδάσκω στη Δύση, οι άνθρωποι μιλάνε για μίσος και επιθετικότητα προς τον εαυτό τους. Αυτό προέρχεται από την αίσθηση που έχουμε ότι δεν αξίζουμε. Φαίνεται να υπάρχει πολύ κακία στον κόσμο και πολλοί από εμάς βιώνουμε έναν μεγάλο σκεπτικισμό όσον αφορά την ανθρώπινη φύση. Επιπλέον, μπορεί να έχουμε διδαχτεί στο σπίτι, στο σχολείο ή στην εκκλησία ότι απλά μονάχα το ότι έχουμε γεννηθεί μάς κάνει εκ φύσεως να φταίμε ή να είμαστε ατελείς. Χωρίς την αίσθηση ότι αξίζουμε, η ανθρώπινη κοινωνία και επικοινωνία μετατρέπεται με φυσικό τρόπο σε όχημα χειραγώγησης και παραπλάνησης, και κάθε μας δράση στοχεύει στο να μάς θωρακίσει ή στο να ξεγελάσουμε τους άλλους. Μέσω αυτής της λανθασμένης αίσθησης δύναμης, η ζωή γίνεται ένα διαρκές ξετύλιγμα αμφιβολιών, το οποίο επιβεβαιώνει τις ατέλειες που προσλαμβάνουμε και επιτείνει το συναίσθημα της αποξένωσης. Ο πατέρας μου το αποκαλούσε αυτό ‘δύοντα ήλιο’. Αυτός ο όρος περιγράφει την εποχή που η αίσθηση αξιοπρέπειας και στόχου για την ανθρωπότητα ελαττώνεται, όπως το φως του ήλιου στο τέλος της ημέρας. Αυτό που δύει είναι η ικανότητά μας να αναγνωρίσουμε την καλοσύνη μας.

Εάν η ανθρωπότητα είναι να επιβιώσει – κι όχι μόνο αυτό, αλλά και να προκόψει – πρέπει να είμαστε αρκετά γενναίοι στο να βρούμε τη σοφία μας και να της επιτρέψουμε να λάμψει. Την ανακαλύτπουμε αρχίζοντας να εξετάζουμε τις πεποιθήσεις μας. Μπορεί ποτέ μέχρι τώρα να μην κάναμε μία θεώρηση της ανθρώπινης φύσης, αλλά για να μπορέσουμε να πάμε μπροστά ως παγκόσμια κοινότητα, είναι ζωτικής σημασίας να το κάνουμε τώρα. Είναι αληθινά στη φύση μας να είμαστε φοβισμένοι και επιθετικοί ή θα μπορούσαμε στην πραγματικότητα να είμαστε ευγενικοί και ατρόμητοι στην καρδιά ; Κάτω από το άγχος και την ανησυχία, υπάρχει δυνατότητα να βρούμε γαλήνη; Εάν αυτός ο αναστοχασμός τείνει προς το δεύτερο, τότε μπορούμε να αντλήσουμε δύναμη από αυτόν τολμώντας να αλλάξουμε το πεπρωμένο μας. Με αυτόν τον τρόπο η Αρχή της Σαμπάλα γίνεται μια μεταμορφωτική κοινωνική διαδικασία μέσω της οποίας η σύγχυσή μας ως προς την ανθρώπινη φύση μετατρέπεται σε εμπιστοσύνη ως προς την αξία του ανθρώπου.

Ζούμε σε έναν κόσμο όπου μια παγκόσμια αρχή σε πολλούς τομείς κρίνεται ολοφάνερα απαραίτητη. Για να είμαστε μπροστάρηδες, χρειάζεται να κατανοήσουμε ότι ο σκοπός που βρισκόμαστε εδώ είναι να εκδηλώσουμε αληθινή ειρήνη. Δεν είναι σύγχυση αυτό που χρειαζόμαστε, αλλά σοφία. Και το πιο σοφό πράγμα που μπορούμε να κάνουμε είναι να πραγματώσουμε και να καλλιεργήσουμε τη φύση μας. Ας κάνουμε την πρωταρχική πινελιά αναμειγνύοντας κουράγιο και σοφία.
Μετάφραση Α.Φ.

Απόσπασμα από το νέο βιβλίο του Σάκυονκ Μίπαμ Ρίνποτσε ‘Η Αρχή της Σαμπάλα’ ( εκδ. Harmony, Μάιος 2013). 

click to Amazon.com

My father, Chögyam Trungpa, who brought the Shambhala principle to the modern world, was a great believer in humanity. In both the East and the West, he was always synthesizing the knowledge that he had gained, seeking to understand and compare not only what the Buddha had taught, but also the teachings of Plato, Aristotle, Jesus and those of Judaism and Islam, as well as the great minds of China -- Lao Tzu and Confucius. He particularly respected India's great ruler, King Ashoka, as well as Dogen of the Zen tradition and Shotoku Taishi of Japan. As diverse as these traditions are, each of them could be reduced in size but concentrated in intensity, to encapsulate two simple ideas: humanity is good, and that good is the nature of society.
Imagine what could happen if we all began to feel that we are good, and that society is good -- and to have confidence in ourselves that way. When I am teaching in the West, people talk about self-loathing and self-aggression. That is coming from a sense of unworthiness. There seems to be a lot of evil in the world, and many of us experience great skepticism about human nature. In addition, we may have been taught at home, school or church that simply by having been born, we are inherently faulty or incomplete. Without a feeling of worthiness, human society and communication naturally become vehicles of manipulation and deception, and we use every activity to shore ourselves up or to outdo someone else. Through this false sense of power, life becomes a perpetual unfolding of doubt, which only confirms the inadequacies we perceive and elicits a feeling of alienation. My father called it "the setting sun." This term describes a time when humanity's sense of dignity and purpose is diminishing, like sunlight at the end of the day. What is setting is our ability to recognize our goodness.
If humanity is to survive -- and not only that, to flourish -- we must be brave enough to find our wisdom and let it shine. We uncover it by beginning to examine our assumptions. We may never before have considered human nature, but in order to move forward as a global community, it is vital that we do it now. Is it really our nature to be fearful and aggressive, or could it be that we are actually gentle and fearless at heart? Underneath the stress and anxiety, is it possible there is peace? If our self-reflection turns up an inkling of that, we can draw power from it, daring to shift our destiny. In this way, the Shambhala principle is a socially transformative process through which confusion about human nature becomes confidence in human worthiness.
We are living in a world where global leadership in many fields is clearly necessary. To be in the vanguard, we need to understand that the purpose of being here is to engender true peace. It is not confusion that we need, but wisdom. The wisest thing to do is to realize and cultivate our nature. Let us make that primordial stroke, mixing courage with wisdom.
The above is an excerpt from Sakyong Mipham Rinpoche's new book, 'The Shambhala Principle' (Harmony, May 2013).

Tribute to Artemis

(English text follows)
Σύμφωνα με το κείμενο που ακολουθεί από την D.J. Conway, η επιθετικότητα των ελληνικών πατριαρχικών κοινωνιών της αρχαιότητας ήταν ένας από τους λόγους που εξαφανίστηκε και εξολοθρεύτηκε το γένος των Αμαζόνων. Δεν ασπάζομαι την παραπάνω θεωρία, αν και σύγκρουση ανάμεσα στις Αμαζόνες και τους Αθηναίους καταγράφεται και στο μύθο του Θησέα. Σχετική πληροφορία μας δίνει και ο Πλάτωνας σε κάποιο του έργο, στον Τίμαιο νομίζω, εκεί όπου υπάρχει και αναφορά στο μύθο της Ατλαντίδας, αν δεν με απατά η μνήμη μου.
Σε καλώ Άρτεμη
Ευλογημένη Κυρά των Θηρίων και των Δασών
Αφιερώνω τον ευατό μου σε σένα
Είθε η ατραπός μου να σε τιμήσει
Είθε το πνεύμα μου να το γιορτάσεις
Είθε η ζωτική μου δύναμη να σε μεγενθύνει

Αυτά προσχεύομαι
να εκπληρωθούν αυτή τη μέρα
Θεά Μητέρα βοήθησέ με
να διακρίνω τι είναι σωστό

Hail Artemis
Blessed Lady of the Beasts and Forests
I dedicate my self to you
May my path honor thee
May my spirit celebrate thee
May my life force magnify thee

These things I pray
Be fulfilled this day
Goddess Mother help me
to know what is right

Song: The Dawning by Hagalaz Runedance

The Amazons were proud, capable women who firmly worshipped the Goddess. They bowed to no man for any reason. If history has recorded them as war-like and man-haters, consider that men of strictly patriarchal cultures persecuted and killed them for their beliefs, then wrote the histories. The Amazons refused to submit to the loss of their freedom and rights, therefore they were considered to be dangerous and unnatural. Their extinction was brought about by the Greeks and other patriarchal societies because of the Amazon's fierce defense of the matriarchy and the rights of women.

Τρίτη, 14 Μαΐου 2013

Alice B. Toklas: The Fateful Meeting with Gertrude Stein and How Their Great Love Began

“She had remarkable eyes, very large and lively, the kind that seem to send off sparks, that sometimes look glowing with an inner fire.”

Alice B. Toklas, born on April 30, 1877, is remembered for two things: being Gertrude Stein’s great love and writing her unusual, revered memoir-disguised-as-cookbook chronicling their life together. On September 8, 1907, her first day as an American expat in Paris, Toklas met Stein. The two fell instantly in love and remained together for the next 39 years, until Stein’s death. Stein often referred to Toklas as her “wifey” and addressed her as “baby precious.” Writing late into the night, the author liked to leave notes next to the pillow for Alice to find in the morning, signed “Y.D,” short for “Your Darling.” In an ideal, civilized world of human rights and equality, theirs would have been a marriage — and it would have been one of the happiest and most exemplary in literary history.
In her memoir, What Is Remembered (public library), Alice relays the fateful encounter, conveying with admirably few words the immense, intense mesmerism of their relationship:

It was Gertrude Stein who held my complete attention, as she did for all the many years I knew her. I knew her until her death, and all these empty ones since then. She was a golden brown presence, burned by the Tuscan sun and with a golden glint in her warm brown hair. She was dressed in a warm brown corduroy suit. She wore a large round coral brooch and when she talked, very little, or laughed, a good deal, I thought her voice came from this brooch. It was unlike anyone else’s voice — deep, full, velvety, like a great contralto’s, like two voices.

Δευτέρα, 13 Μαΐου 2013

Chris Lemig’s The Narrow Way: A Memoir of Coming Out, Getting Clean and Finding Buddha

Even at twelve, Chris Lemig knew he was gay — he just didn’t want to believe it. Spurred on by intolerance, ignorance, and fear, he took his first steps into the closet, and so began twenty-three years of drinking, drugs, and attempted suicides. Finally, after being victimized in a hate crime, Chris knew it was time to make a change. He came out, and in part thanks to his study and practice of Tibetan Buddhism, got — and has stayed — clean.

Chris tells his story in his brave and harrowing new book, The Narrow Way: A Memoir of Coming Out, Getting Clean, and Finding Buddha. Here, in an online exclusive, is “Rebirth,” a crucial chapter from it, shared here in its entirety.
Time passes unhindered. When we make mistakes, we cannot turn back and try again. All we can do is use the present well. — H.H. The XIV Dalai Lama
Up, up, up I climb. Up into Rocky Mountain foothills; up into the heart of my fears and limitations. The whoosh of the highway is now far in the distance as the still air becomes thin and clear. Cool rivers of sweat pour from my temples running fast down my neck and back.
Today, six months before heading off to India, I am alive!
I walk a furious pace, over the craggy landscape, through awakening sage and scrub oak, bound and determined to conquer these seven miles that have turned me back a dozen times. But five months without cigarettes or liquor now and my lungs feel like new. I breathe in deep at the two-mile mark, the start of the long loop trail, and pause.
I will not turn back this time. I will not give up. I have come too far, too fast.
Five months old now. A newborn and delighted at the rush of senses only just discovered. I think back, remembering that first day, the day of my rebirth.
I can see myself coming home from the short vacation I took just after coming out. I thought I should celebrate. But now, standing outside the airport waiting for my ride, I look long and hard at the crumpled pack of Camels in my hand. My eyes follow down, down as they fall away into the trash and I dive in after them in my mind, trembling at the thought of walking the path ahead without my dear old crutch.
But then a shout from my cousin’s husband in the pick up lane and I hop into the truck.
“Whoa, you smell like booze!” he says.
“One last bender,” I say. One last desperate grasp at the old way. One last bout with the hammer over my head. But then I imagined my new life out of the closet, stained by the same old tired songs of abuse and shuddered.
I remember the vow. Never again. I do not speak it out loud. I keep it close and secret, afraid that the power of it will evaporate like a wisp of cloud in the wind. And so we drive home where I will live with my cousin and my aunt and the hope of one last chance.
Four days later without a drink or a cigarette and the cravings come in powerful Waves that threaten to bowl me over.
“Just one drag, just one drink and it Will all go away,” say the voices of old demons still squatting in a back room in my mind.
“Stay quit, stay quit, stay quit,” says another voice, a voice that I am just learning to trust, a voice that I’m beginning to recognize as my own.
I chant the mantra to myself when the bargaining and the drafting of new promises begin and the demons withdraw.
Stay quit, stay quit, stay quit.
I am in the doctor’s office cold and half naked as the skin of my thighs sticks to black vinyl. My heart beats a furious rat-tat-tat as the nurse takes blood pressure and pulse. Did he just whistle faintly through his teeth? Is he amazed that I am still alive?
I am. In fact, I am certain that I am dying. Two weeks sober and in the clarity memories flood back from two decades of abuse. No one could have come out of that unscathed. So I toss and turn for long nights, searching for lumps and tumors in my throat. I am certain that the numbness in my fingertips, the aches in my chest, the bulging veins I never noticed before, the muscle spasms near my left shoulder blade and above my right eye are all signs of an imminent end.
”Three-twenty-four,” a bright voice says. The doctor has appeared out of nowhere to read the mysterious number from his laptop chart.
“What?” I snap out of morbid fantasies of my funeral that I watch, disembodied from above.
“Cholesterol. Your bloodwork came back. Your cholesterol. It’s three-twenty-four.”
I feel faint, woozy as I feel my blood pumping hard and fast through narrowing veins. It sounds bad.
”Is that bad?” I ask.
“It will be if you don’t do something about it.”
He is stern but kind and soon I find myself pouring my heart out to him. I tell him my story in fifty words or less. I am gay. I have just come out. I am two weeks sober. I am living with family and I’m trying to stay clean on my own.
He doesn’t blink or roll his eyes. He doesn’t shift uncomfortably in his swivel seat. He is used to this sort of honesty, like a priest taking confession. He listens with all his attention then after the calm of gathering thoughts he gives me a prescription. He tells me about Twelve Steps. He tells me about medication. He tells me about vitamins and eating better and exercise. He tells me I can do it, but not alone. I take it all in, open now to advice and wisdom that only a few months ago I would have shooed away like a moth flapping by my ear. But now I have promised myself I will try anything.
So I do. In a week I get up the courage to go to an AA meeting. There is warmth there, and love and support but there is something missing, like there is something else calling to me from just around the corner. I read through the Blue Book. I tear out big fat strips of fearless moral inventory, making amends and taking ownership. I toss them all into a crock-pot and cook up my own nourishing stew of recovery.
Body. Mind. Soul. Spirit. These I have neglected and now they call out to me in unison. They call out for attention and healing.
First I declare war on the enemies of my body. They have been hiding in the tree line, camouflaged and disguised as licensereward, and freedom. But now I flush them out like spies and traitors, hunting down and driving out all their agents and co-conspirators. Sugar, caffeine, fast food, French fries, bacon, cheese, butter and grease, I rout them all out, send them retreating to the hills. I don’t give in to their cries for mercy. Instead, I eat good food, fresh food, green food from the good earth. I listen to my body and let it tell me what it needs. It knows, it has always known.
Every morning, I reach down to touch my toes. At first, the pain is unbearable, muscles flabby and unused for years. But I take it slow. Stretch, do not strain. Sit-ups then push-ups. An easy workout. Ten minutes a day. I hate it. I love it. I do it no matter what.
In two weeks my blood is tested again. Just like that I am back to normal. No drugs, no treatment, no pharmaceutical courtship.
It’s a tiny victory, proof that I can change.
I am still scared. I am on new ground that shifts and sometimes even crumbles under my feet. I do not even know how to stand, how to walk, how to run. But I put one foot out anyway, hoping it will touch solid earth.
I read old journals, my diaries of confusion and despair, filled with drunken ramblings and cheap shots at a self that cries out for love. The repression so obvious now, a life filled with so much turmoil and fear. But here and there, clues and glimmers of hope. I want to explore Tibetan Buddhism, I wrote in big, sloppy letters across the top of one page. I remember it now, The Calling, clear and ringing out of the fog of fifteen beers, cocaine, and a cloud of smoke. I just wasn’t ready to hear it.
But I answer the call now. I stride into the little bookshop that I have passed a hundred titnes, with purpose and certainty. I march down the aisle to the three shelves marked Buddhism, breathe in the aroma of old musty books stacked haphazardly on floor and shelves. I let my fingers caress their spines, close my eyes and read the titles like Braille, absorbing their essence through my skin.
I find the one. My breath quickens. The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying. It jumps into my hands from the shelf up above. I flip to a random page and read. Yes, this is the one.
I cradle it in loving arms all the way home, down the stairs and into my room. I am giddy as I read. The words resonate in my mind like a melody forgotten or a poem I once knew by heart. With each turn of the page, each soaring Ah—ha, certainty grows. The ideas and concepts seem so familiar. I can’t explain why or claim to understand it at all, but they ring in a high, clear note that shatters years of doubt.
The book is filled with stories of Tibet and they take me to the high places there. Tears run down my cheeks as I read the words of the Rinpoches, Buddhas in the flesh, who teach compassion with every breath. Impermanence, suffering, devotion, discipline, concentration, meditation, liberation. This is what Buddhism is all about and it is so much more than I ever imagined. I close the cover and all I want is more, more, more.
So I read. I read like I’ve never read before. In five years I’ve choked down two airport horror novels. Now I read two books a week. Life after death, quantum physics, Vedanta. I read the life stories of the Buddha and the Dalai Lama. I read the story of a western Zen student who spent six months in a monastery in Japan and was changed forever. I read Robert Thurman, Shunryu Suzuki, Milarepa, Sommerset Maugham, Jack Kornfield, Alexandria David-Neel, Peter Mattheissen, Santideva, Thomas Merton, Walpola Rahula, Herman Hesse and the Dalai Lama.
I read anything that stirs my curiosity but always I come back to Tibetan Buddhism, like a compass needle pointing north or a stream rushing to meet the big river that leads to the sea.
I fly high on the wings of the spirit, spin and glide free in the heavens. But when I look down and see the ground far below, I become afraid again. What if I fall? My heart is still heavy, weighed down by the unresolved past that threatens to send me crashing helplessly to the hard earth.
I have so many wounds. Most of them self-inflicted. I cannot heal them all by myself. So I get help. I find a healer, someone who will listen. It is slow and unpleasant and difficult work, digging through the layers of the past. But we work through it together, this kind elder and 1. Slowly and patiently, she guides me to my own wisdom, teaches me how to love myself again.
I stand in front of the mirror day after day following her simple instructions.
“I love you,” I say to myself.
At first I feel foolish. I don’t believe it. So I look deep into my eyes and say it again. Then again. Then again. Then again. I love you, I love you, I love you! Weeks go by then months. Soon it doesn’t matter how silly this is or whose ears might be pressed to the door. I look into that mirror and deep into those eyes every morning, every night. I love you, I love you, I love you!
Then slowly, very slowly, I start to believe it.
Soon, I find myself sprinkling little acts of kindness towards myself throughout the day. A kind word or a smile as I pass my reflection in a window. A gentle caress when I feel overwhelmed. A deep breath. A massaging of tired shoulders. A wish for happiness for myself and everyone I know. And then, without even noticing that it’s happening, I begin to realize that I am my own best friend.
But this is only the beginning. There is still one last dragon to slay, snarling and gnashing its teeth right there on the path in front of me. I know I can’t go any further unless I face it. So finally, standing on solid ground and trembling only a little, I take the next step.
We round the lake at Memorial Park for the third time and the storm clouds over Pikes Peak are held at bay by the power of our conversation. We have been talking deeply for almost an hour, this after barely speaking for a year. Three hundred and sixty five days of carefully orchestrated avoidance. Bristling at the sight of one another. Walking on eggshells.
But now the walls are down. The truth has been freed from its cage and there is nothing left of me that can be hurt.
“Mom, I’m gay.” There. I have said it. It is done.
Droplets of rain begin to fall, Welcome cool in the hundred degree heat of July summer.
“Ya know,” she says. “I’ve never told anyone this.”
I smile down at her, my mother, who used to loom before me and terrify me.
“When you were born, the hospital was out of blue blankets. So ya know what they did? They brought you to me wrapped in a pink one. I should have known then.”
I exhale a little laugh through my nose and smile wider.
“Signs and portents,” I say. “Signs and portents.”
I wake up grateful. I am here; I am alive. It’s been five months since my last drink and I am out of the closet and free.
I face the batik wall hanging of the Buddha I have placed above a simple altar of candles, incense, a single flower. I fold my hands. I bring them to my crown, my throat, my heart. I drop to my knees then stretch out my body, accordion-like, on the floor until my forehead touches the ground. I reach out my arms as far as I can, lift up the fingertips in one last gesture of reverence. Then I get back up and do it again.
I am nervous. This feels awkward and strange. I wonder if anyone is awake and can hear my breathing getting faster and faster as I prostrate over and over again. What would they think if they could see me? I do a hundred and eight repetitions and when I am finished I am panting and pouring sweat.
Then I stack the pillows from my bed one on top of the other, a makeshift cushion. I recite the words of the Refuge Prayer even though I only suspect what they mean.
I take refuge until I am enlightened in the Buddha, the dharma, and the sangha.
By practicing generosity and the other far reaching attitudes: ethics, patience, joyous effort, meditative concentration, and wisdom,
May I attain Buddhahood for the benefit of all beings.
Then I sit, back straight, not proud but with great dignity. I clasp my hands in my lap, thumbs pointing upward and lightly touching. My eyes are full of sleep and I yawn.
I try to remember the instructions again, so simple yet so elusive. Don’t force anything. Don’t intend anything. Sit and watch the breath. Then the thoughts rise like high, cresting waves in a storm. But I keep trying to come back to the breath. Breathe in… one. Breathe out… one. Breathe in… thoughts, thoughts, thoughts. But it’s ok. I sit for twenty minutes, foot asleep. I sit until I can’t sit any more.
When I get up I write in my journal, I write about how happy I am. I write about how difficult it still is, how I will never be able to say with certainty that I will never fall back. I write myself love notes, and words of encouragement. I forgive myself. I am gentle with myself.
Then I go to the mountain. Today, I will finish the trail. I haven’t felt this good in years. I will make my way to the high point. Eight thousand feet. It will be cold and the wind will bite even at the end of winter. But I will still feel warm. I will look around, seeing that I am alone in the great expanse. Alone but not lonely. The mountain will rest in front of me testifying to its own weight and presence.
Then I will skip down the narrow path shouting out loud, “I am going to make it!” Almost seven miles when only days ago a flight of stairs left me winded. When I get to the trailhead I will leap up, click my heels and cheer. I will look back up the mountain and then, smiling, heart soaring and breathing heavy, I will know that it’s the little victories that are the best.
I have decided. I am going to India! There is nowhere else that I wish to go, no other goal that would be more worthwhile. I am afraid, afraid that it is too big a task, afraid that I might fail or falter or fall. But I don’t care. I refuse to let my fear rule my life for one more minute.
Now is the time to study and prepare. All the money and energy that I used to spend on getting high are now available to me. All the restless energy of addiction can now be funneled in a new direction: Forward!
I go to work at the restaurant everyday with this burning purpose and resolve. The shiny bottles of booze are no longer a temptation, just baubles and widgets. My coworkers and my boss cheer me on. They like the new me and want him to stick around.
Goals and the possibility that I might actually attain them keep me awake at night. I lie there with eyes.wide open imagining all the challenges that await me. Malaria, heat,sickness, culture shock, language and giant insects fill my mind with a delightful terror.
“Guess What?”
”What?” say the guests at the bar.
“I’m going to India… for two months!”
Blank stares and confusion. I am getting used to these. I try to answer the question “Why?”
To live for two months by my wits and with no more than I can carry on my back. Isn’t that reason enough?
But there’s more. There is the call of pilgrimage. Sarnath and Bodhgaya, Lumbini and Kushinigar, the four holy places of Buddhism call out to me. But of these I do not speak, afraid that I will break the spell.
I hang a calendar above my desk and begin to tick off the days. Six months to go. I have all the time in the world but still, there is not enough. There is so much to plan, so many thousands of little things to get done. It becomes my new obsession, my great problem and I wear it down like a boulder blocking my path with a piece of silk. I read, I study, I watch, I listen. I talk to those who have gone before me and make new friends. Can I actually do this? I laugh. Yes, I can!
Where is the man who used to rage and cry and beg for death? He is gone but not forgotten.
Rejoice in this life right now! Every moment is a gift, every breath an opportunity to be aware and to wake up. Time is slipping away!
Only a year ago a shameless, hopeless drug addict. Only a year ago drunk and blacked out. But now I look at how far I’ve come. If I pat myself on the back everyday then so be it. I know my weakness. 1 know that I could fall back into that life at any time.
So I congratulate myself to remind myself how far I have to fall, to remind myself how much I have to lose and to remind myself how important it is to love and respect myself.
I needed the discipline of sobriety, of meditation, of compassion to bring me here. But most of all I needed the discipline of self worth. Everyday I look at myself in the mirror with love and I know I am worth the effort.
Now all has been forgiven, all sins admitted and confessed. This is purification, nothing left to regret. The past has happened but now it is over and done. All this time I thought I had an eternity to live. But I don’t. None of us do. So I promise myself I won’t waste anymore time. It’s time to live today. It’s time to go on pilgrimage…
Reprinted from The Narrow Way: A Memoir of Coming Out, Getting Clean and Finding Buddha with permission of the author and Mantra Press. To learn more about the book and its author, visit Mantra Books online.

 Source: Shambhala Sun