How happy I am to be able to wander among bushes and herbs, under trees and over rocks. no man can love the country as I love it. Woods trees and rocks send back the echo that man desires. Ludvig Von Beethoven, the Man and the Artist As Revealed in his own Words.
Wednesday, January 9, 2019
Why not consecrate ourselves to the queen of the Camelias, and revel in the warm stream of sympathy that flows from her altar? In the liquid amber within the ivory porcelain, the initiated may touch the sweet reticence of Confucius, the piquancy of Lao tsu, and the ethereal aroma of Buddha himself. From The Book of Tea, by Kakuzo Okakura.
Tuesday, January 8, 2019
Monday, January 7, 2019
Sunday, January 6, 2019
Saturday, January 5, 2019
Friday, January 4, 2019
Eno was a great Zen master of the seventh century. He had lost his parents when he was young and earned his living by gathering firewood. One day when he was in the market-place he heard someone reading the Diamond Sutra. He asked where such books were to be had and was told, From Master Konin on the Yellow Plum-blossom Hill. Accordingly, he went to Konin’s Monastery in Anhui and presented himself before the Master. Where do you come from, asked Master Konin. Eno answered, From the South. Bah, said Master Konin. In the South they do not have Buddha in their souls. Eno replied. North and South? These are human distinctions that Buddha knows nothing about. Eno was immediately accepted by the Master as his brother monk. He later became the sixth and last patriarch of Zen. From Zen and Art, by Arthur Waley.
Thursday, January 3, 2019
The grass does not refuse To flourish in the spring wind. The leaves are not angry At falling through the autumn sky. Who, with whip or spur Can urge the feet of Time? The things of the world flourish and decay, Each at its own hour. From The Sun, by Li Po, translated by Arthur Waley.
Wednesday, January 2, 2019
Tuesday, January 1, 2019
The least change in our point of view, gives the whole world a pictorial air. A man who seldom rides, needs only to get into a coach and traverse his own town, to turn the street into a puppet-show. The men, the women, the talking, running, bartering, fighting, an earnest mechanic, a lounger, the beggar, the boys, the dogs, all seem instantly unreal. Or at least wholly detached from any relationship to the observer. Everyone is seen as illusory, not substantial beings. From Emerson, Nature.