No, no, there is no going back.
Less and less you are
that possibility you were.
More and more you have become
those lives and deaths
that have belonged to you.
You have become a sort of grave
containing much that was
and is no more in time, beloved
then, now, and always.
And so you have become a sort of tree
standing over the grave.
Now more than ever you can be
generous toward each day
that comes, young, to disappear
forever, and yet remain
unaging in the mind.
Every day you have less reason
not to give yourself away.

Wendell Berry

The small man
builds cages for everyone
he
knows.
While the sage,
who has to duck his head
when the moon is low,
keeps dropping keys all night long
for the
beautiful
rowdy
prisoners.

Hafiz, 14th century Persian poet/Sufi mystic

Dance when you’re broken open.
Dance when you’ve torn the bandage off.
Dance in the middle of fighting.
Dance in your blood.
Dance when you’re perfectly free.
Struck, the dancer hears a tambourine inside her,
like a wave that crests into foam at the very top,
Begins.
Maybe you don’t hear that tambourine,
or the tree leaves clapping time.

Close the ears on your head,
that listen mostly to lies and cynical jokes.
There are other things to see, and hear.
Music. Dance.
A brilliant city inside your soul!

Rumi, 13 century Persian poet/Sufi mystic

Every child has known God,
Not the God of names,
Not the God of don’ts,
Not the God who ever does Anything weird,
But the God who knows only 4 words.
And keeps repeating them, saying:
“Come Dance with Me, come dance.”

Hafiz,
14th century Persian poet/Sufi mystic

Admit something:
Everyone you see, you say to them, “Love me.”
Of course you do not do this out loud; otherwise
someone would call the cops.
Still, though, think about this, this great pull in us to connect.
Why not become the one who lives with a full moon
in each eye that is always saying,
with that sweet moon language,
what every other eye in this world is dying to hear?

Hafiz, 14th century Sufi mystic
translated by Daniel Landinsky

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.
“Mend my life!”
each voice cried.
But you didn’t stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do -
determined to save
the only life you could save.

Mary Oliver

Tukaram

I could not lie anymore so I started to call my dog “God.”

First he looked
confused,
then he started smiling, then he even
danced.

I kept at it: now he doesn’t even
bite.

I am wondering if this
might work on
people?

Landlocked in Fur

I was meditating with my cat the other day
and all of a sudden she shouted,
“What happened?”

I knew exactly what she meant, but encouraged
her to say more -
feeling that if she got it all out on the table
she would sleep better that night.

So I responded, “Tell me more, dear,”
and she soulfully meowed,

“Well, I was mingled with the sky.
I was comets whizzing here and there.
I was suns in heat, hell - I was galaxies.
But now look - I am
landlocked in fur.”

To this I said, “I know exactly what
you mean.”

What to say about conversation
between

mystics?

Tukaram, Marathi poet, Dehu, India. Born in 1608, Tukaram mysteriously vanished without a trace in 1650.

You probably know I’m taking a break from my main blog, but plan to keep posting mystical moonshowers. It’s my little sanctuary. Time-wise it’s just right. It doesn’t require HUGE hunks of time, yet it satisfies a deep yearning and need.

I had some questions here previously on whether to stay here or move Moonlit Musings to my “blogspot,” but the consensus is to stay. I’m a WordPress Woman through and through! I was going to take down this post, but your comments are too delicious to sacrifice, so I will leave you with some moonlit musings in place of the former post.

Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack in everything
That’s how the light gets in.

Leonard Cohen

Artwork by The Sacred Feminine

There is a vitality, a life force, an energy,
a quickening that is translated through you into action,
and because there is only one of you in all of time,
this expression is unique.
And if you block it, it will never exist
through any other medium and be lost.
The world will not have it.
It is not your business to determine how good it is,
nor how valuable, nor how it compares with other expressions.
It is your business to keep it yours, clearly and directly,
to keep the channel open…

Martha Graham

This being human is a guest-house.
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you
out for some new delight.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.
Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

Rumi, Sufi Mystic (1207-1273)