Re: RESPECTicals

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On Jul 10, 8:37 am, "buddhapest" <pestaroo...@xxxxxxxxx> wrote:
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On Jul 10, 7:36 am, Julian <julianlz...@xxxxxxxxx> wrote:
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On Jul 10, 5:32 am, "Julian" <Julianlz...@xxxxxxxxx> wrote:

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On Jul 10, 3:49 am, "Evelyn Ruut"
<evelyn.r...@xxxxxxxxx>
wrote:
"Hollywood Lee" <hollywood...@xxxxxxxxx> wrote in
message

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George Cherry wrote:
Over many years of practice Thomas White evolved
some
guidelines
which,
when practiced, boil down to one word: RESPECT.
The
bottom
line is
that
if we inculcate the character trait of respect into
our
cultures, we
find
that rules and guidelines aren't needed, because
when
people
are
respectful, they will do the things in the
guidelines/rules.
However,
the rules/guidelines help create the ultimate
culture
manifesting
respect. Eventually, all effective practices seem
to
come
from
fundamental human values. So, that gives us a place
to
start
with any
situation we'd like to improve.

Seven of the Ten Commitments of Group Work are
here:
Guidelines for
Solution Oriented Meetings are here:

1. No criticism, blame, or defensiveness

2. Cooperate in finding solutions

3. Build on other people's ideas

4. Allow others' ideas to trigger new thoughts in
you

5. Inject humor into the process

6. Arrive at the meeting early

7. Sit quietly for a few minutes and reflect on
the
purpose
of
the
meeting

When mutual respect exists, enthusiasm will be
great
for
whatever
process
is adopted .

This has turned out to be a dynamite brainstorming
process
based on my
personal experience, and the experience of many
others,
in
using it.

There is much about this that I would like to agree
with -
but I
wonder.
To turn your intro inside out, it may be that for
those
who
would agree
with this list, the list is unnecessary, and for
those
whom
it
is
necessary, they would never agree.

Probably true, but there are some people (I am one)
who
tend
to
like
reminders (or admonitions) in a concise form like
that.
Helps
one
remain
focused or centered.

--
Best Regards,

Evelyn

hi Ev,

jeepers we're both up too dang early or late... ;>

i think Lee had a good point - those given to a
*growly*
approach
to
social interaction would reject the list George quotes
before
even
reading to point three....so it's sort of a preaching
to
the
choir,
which, as you note, is not a waste or a bad thing.

All that being said i think i do object to the stance
of
the
author
George quotes. The quoted author seems to think that
censuring
the
range of discussion will lead to more satisfaction in
communication,
exchange of ideas, etc. we have all seen over the years
how
neither
freedom or censure are solutions to disagreement.
People
have
been
being obstreperous since there were people. People will
criticize,
blame, and/or be defensive if anyone tries to ban them
or
not -
better
to get it all out in the open and deal with
it.....Point
two
is
ok....Point three - no, sometimes an idea has to noted
as
an
oops
to
avoid a long process of trying to apply an apple to an
orange....4
is
good, 5 not so much - sometimes humor can be a dodge,
etc
etc
...point
6 arrive late and see how all the proceedings have
*seemed*
to
follow
a gradual logical progression but arrived at
nonsense...

good intention, lousy list. too many thou shalt nots
and
thou
musts.

Early Buddhism was excessively moral in tone
and pedantically trivial in both precept and practice
and one can't help feeling some sympathy with Subhadra
who, on hearing of the Buddha's death, sighed with
relief,
relaxed and serenely said...
'Now we shan't have to do this and not do that!'

well yeah, early buddhism got up a few hours early, no
wonder
it
was
grumpy
conversly some might suggest that later buddhisn was
excessively
immoral in tone (Fu?)
and subtrivial from the lotus through to the
mahaparinirvana
sutras....really - when there is so much sillyness
i think the best we can manage at first is just to be kind
to
each
other - said kindness might involve seeming meanness, but
why
bother?

Is kindness in the eye of the giver or receiver?

It is freedom from either stale notion...or accepting it
all...it's
not eyes and words
and figuring it all out and all that ***. How could any of
that
ever
be kindness?
Count the cost and then love...Great bodhisattva vow that
would
be...heeee!!!

choking on the ashes of a remedy?

no, silly! are you ? phhhbttt!!! go look at Julians paintings....
:)

sell the kids for food

Weather changes moods
Spring is here again
Reproductive glands
He's the one
Who likes all the pretty songs
And he likes to sing along
And he likes to shoot his gun
But he knows not what it means
And I say aahh

"As for the second, there has never been an origination of anything,
and when this is symbolized in terms of alphabetical letters, this
is
represented by the syllable "AH" standing for [Buddha's] Speech.
That
which has no origination, yet as a virtual reality actually appears,
with the capacity for causal activity, is represented by the
syllable
'"OM" standing for [Buddha's] Body. The apperception of the illusory
nature which is just all-encompassing Gnosis (jnana), is
represented
by the syllable "HUM" standing for [Buddha's] Mind."

http://www.dharmafellowship.org/library/texts/the-rosary-of-views.htm

file:///C:/Documents%20and%20Settings/Owner/My%20Documents/AAAAAAAAA!.html

Disclaimer:
No kids were sold for food in the making of this post. Your own
experience may differ.

- f13

elementary penquin singing hare krishna

dripping from a dead dog's eye

i am he

.

then what?

Karma police, arrest this man
He talks in maths
He buzzes like a fridge
He's like a detuned radio

Karma police, arrest this girl
Her Hitler hairdo is
Making me feel ill
And we have crashed her party

This is what you get
This is what you get
This is what you get when you mess with us

Karma Police
I've given all I can
It's not enough
I've given all I can
But we're still on the payroll

This is what you get
This is what you get
This is what you get when you mess with us

And for a minute there, I lost myself, I lost myself
And for a minute there, I lost myself, I lost myself

For for a minute there,... I lost myself,... I lost myself
...For for a minute there,.... I lost myself,.... I lost myself
.......for a minute there,..... I lost myself,.....
I ....lost ....myself

Turn off your mind, relax and float down stream,
It is not dying, it is not dying

Lay down all thoughts, surrender to the void,
It is shining, it is shining.

Yet you may see the meaning of within
It is being, it is being

Love is all and love is everyone
It is knowing, it is knowing

And ignorance and hate mourn the dead
It is believing, it is believing

But listen to the colour of your dreams
It is not leaving, it is not leaving

So play the game "Existence" to the end
Of the beginning, of the beginning

I

In my beginning is my end. In succession
Houses rise and fall, crumble, are extended,
Are removed, destroyed, restored, or in their place
Is an open field, or a factory, or a by-pass.
Old stone to new building, old timber to new fires,
Old fires to ashes, and ashes to the earth
Which is already flesh, fur and faeces,
Bone of man and beast, cornstalk and leaf.
Houses live and die: there is a time for building
And a time for living and for generation
And a time for the wind to break the loosened pane
And to shake the wainscot where the field-mouse trots
And to shake the tattered arras woven with a silent motto.

In my beginning is my end. Now the light falls
Across the open field, leaving the deep lane
Shuttered with branches, dark in the afternoon,
Where you lean against a bank while a van passes,
And the deep lane insists on the direction
Into the village, in the electric heat
Hypnotised. In a warm haze the sultry light
Is absorbed, not refracted, by grey stone.
The dahlias sleep in the empty silence.
Wait for the early owl.

In that open field
If you do not come too close, if you do not come too close,
On a summer midnight, you can hear the music
Of the weak pipe and the little drum
And see them dancing around the bonfire
The association of man and woman
In daunsinge, signifying matrimonie-
A dignified and commodiois sacrament.
Two and two, necessarye coniunction,
Holding eche other by the hand or the arm
Whiche betokeneth concorde. Round and round the fire
Leaping through the flames, or joined in circles,
Rustically solemn or in rustic laughter
Lifting heavy feet in clumsy shoes,
Earth feet, loam feet, lifted in country mirth
Mirth of those long since under earth
Nourishing the corn. Keeping time,
Keeping the rhythm in their dancing
As in their living in the living seasons
The time of the seasons and the constellations
The time of milking and the time of harvest
The time of the coupling of man and woman
And that of beasts. Feet rising and falling.
Eating and drinking. Dung and death.

Dawn points, and another day
Prepares for heat and silence. Out at sea the dawn wind
Wrinkles and slides. I am here
Or there, or elsewhere. In my beginning.

II

What is the late November doing
With the disturbance of the spring
And creatures of the summer heat,
And snowdrops writhing under feet
And hollyhocks that aim too high
Red into grey and tumble down
Late roses filled with early snow?
Thunder rolled by the rolling stars
Simulates triumphal cars
Deployed in constellated wars
Scorpion fights against the Sun
Until the Sun and Moon go down
Comets weep and Leonids fly
Hunt the heavens and the plains
Whirled in a vortex that shall bring
The world to that destructive fire
Which burns before the ice-cap reigns.

That was a way of putting it-not very satisfactory:
A periphrastic study in a worn-out poetical fashion,
Leaving one still with the intolerable wrestle
With words and meanings. The poetry does not matter.
It was not (to start again) what one had expected.
What was to be the value of the long looked forward to,
Long hoped for calm, the autumnal serenity
And the wisdom of age? Had they deceived us
Or deceived themselves, the quiet-voiced elders,
Bequeathing us merely a receipt for deceit?
The serenity only a deliberate hebetude,
The wisdom only the knowledge of dead secrets
Useless in the darkness into which they peered
Or from which they turned their eyes. There is, it seems to us,
At best, only a limited value
In the knowledge derived from experience.
The knowledge imposes a pattern, and falsifies,
For the pattern is new in every moment
And every moment is a new and shocking
Valuation of all we have been. We are only undeceived
Of that which, deceiving, could no longer harm.
In the middle, not only in the middle of the way
But all the way, in a dark wood, in a bramble,
On the edge of a grimpen, where is no secure foothold,
And menaced by monsters, fancy lights,
Risking enchantment. Do not let me hear
Of the wisdom of old men, but rather of their folly,
Their fear of fear and frenzy, their fear of possession,
Of belonging to another, or to others, or to God.
The only wisdom we can hope to acquire
Is the wisdom of humility: humility is endless.

The houses are all gone under the sea.

The dancers are all gone under the hill.

III

O dark dark dark. They all go into the dark,
The vacant interstellar spaces, the vacant into the vacant,
The captains, merchant bankers, eminent men of letters,
The generous patrons of art, the statesmen and the rulers,
Distinguished civil servants, chairmen of many committees,
Industrial lords and petty contractors, all go into the dark,
And dark the Sun and Moon, and the Almanach de Gotha
And the Stock Exchange Gazette, the Directory of Directors,
And cold the sense and lost the motive of action.
And we all go with them, into the silent funeral,
Nobody's funeral, for there is no one to bury.
I said to my soul, be still, and let the dark come upon you
Which shall be the darkness of God. As, in a theatre,
The lights are extinguished, for the scene to be changed
With a hollow rumble of wings, with a movement of darkness on
darkness,
And we know that the hills and the trees, the distant panorama
And the bold imposing facade are all being rolled away-
Or as, when an underground train, in the tube, stops too long between
stations
And the conversation rises and slowly fades into silence
And you see behind every face the mental emptiness deepen
Leaving only the growing terror of nothing to think about;
Or when, under ether, the mind is conscious but conscious of nothing-
I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope
For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love,
For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith
But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting.
Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought:
So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing.
Whisper of running streams, and winter lightning.
The wild thyme unseen and the wild strawberry,
The laughter in the garden, echoed ecstasy
Not lost, but requiring, pointing to the agony
Of death and birth.

You say I am repeating
Something I have said before. I shall say it again.
Shall I say it again? In order to arrive there,
To arrive where you are, to get from where you are not,

You must go by a way wherein there is no ecstasy.
In order to arrive at what you do not know

You must go by a way which is the way of ignorance.
In order to possess what you do not possess

You must go by the way of dispossession.
In order to arrive at what you are not

You must go through the way in which you are not.
And what you do not know is the only thing you know
And what you own is what you do not own
And where you are is where you are not.

IV

The wounded surgeon plies the steel
That questions the distempered part;
Beneath the bleeding hands we feel
The sharp compassion of the healer's art
Resolving the enigma of the fever chart.

Our only health is the disease
If we obey the dying nurse
Whose constant care is not to please
But to remind of our, and Adam's curse,
And that, to be restored, our sickness must grow worse.

The whole earth is our hospital
Endowed by the ruined millionaire,
Wherein, if we do well, we shall
Die of the absolute paternal care
That will not leave us, but prevents us everywhere.

The chill ascends from feet to knees,
The fever sings in mental wires.
If to be warmed, then I must freeze
And quake in frigid purgatorial fires
Of which the flame is roses, and the smoke is briars.

The dripping blood our only drink,
The bloody flesh our only food:
In spite of which we like to think
That we are sound, substantial flesh and blood-
Again, in spite of that, we call this Friday good.

V

So here I am, in the middle way, having had twenty years-
Twenty years largely wasted, the years of l'entre deux guerres
Trying to use words, and every attempt
Is a wholly new start, and a different kind of failure
Because one has only learnt to get the better of words
For the thing one no longer has to say, or the way in which
One is no longer disposed to say it. And so each venture
Is a new beginning, a raid on the inarticulate
With shabby equipment always deteriorating
In the general mess of imprecision of feeling,
Undisciplined squads of emotion. And what there is to conquer
By strength and submission, has already been discovered
Once or twice, or several times, by men whom one cannot hope
To emulate-but there is no competition-
There is only the fight to recover what has been lost
And found and lost again and again: and now, under conditions
That seem unpropitious. But perhaps neither gain nor loss.
For us, there is only the trying. The rest is not our business.

Home is where one starts from. As we grow older
The world becomes stranger, the pattern more complicated
Of dead and living. Not the intense moment
Isolated, with no before and after,
But a lifetime burning in every moment
And not the lifetime of one man only
But of old stones that cannot be deciphered.
There is a time for the evening under starlight,
A time for the evening under lamplight
(The evening with the photograph album).
Love is most nearly itself
When here and now cease to matter.
Old men ought to be explorers
Here or there does not matter
We must be still and still moving
Into another intensity
For a further union, a deeper communion
Through the dark cold and the empty desolation,
The wave cry, the wind cry, the vast waters
Of the petrel and the porpoise. In my end is my beginning.

T.S. Eliot

"As we grow older
The world becomes stranger, the pattern more complicated
Of dead and living. Not the intense moment
Isolated, with no before and after,
But a lifetime burning in every moment
And not the lifetime of one man only
But of old stones that cannot be deciphered."

as i grow older the "no before and after" burns in every moment just
as the lifertime does, but not quite as Eliot envisionened i think...
and love is most itself when just in the here and now, and old men
might leave the silly weight of baggage and move on in the razor
scented day...
....the desolation might bear more regard than seeking another cloud
castle, notions of exploring and bravery being neither here nor
there...

I can offer nothing
This nothing's everlasting
I could be Shiva lying
Beneath ferocious darkness
My heart's devoured
Cover me with flowers

Let me see the face
Of all enduring grace
Let me take a crack at
All that matters
And in the weightless hours
Cover me with flowers

Cover me with flowers

- David Sylvian


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