Like two birds of golden plumage, inseparable companions, the individual self and the immortal Self are perched on branches of the selfsame tree. The former tastes of the sweet and bitter fruits of the tree; the latter, tasting of neither, calmly observes. ―The Upanishads
In Our Consciousness of Time In our consciousness of time we are doomed to the past. The future we may dream of but can know it only after it has come and gone. The present too we know only as the past. When we say, “This now is present, the heat, the breeze, the rippling…
I have thrown from me the whirling dance of mind
And stand now in the spirit’s silence free,
Timeless and deathless beyond creature-kind,
The centre of my own eternity.
Floating like stars upon a strip of sky.
This world behind is made of truer stuff
Hope And why shouldn’t it be true that there’s a soul? What labor does it cost God, who fibrils the phosphorescent tulle of the nebulae, who veins brushstrokes so subtle of light on the comets that never fail, to give immortality to the spirit? Is it more incomprehensible, by chance, to be reborn than…
Surely here is soul: with it we have eternal breath:
In the fire of love we live, or pass by many ways,