“. . .transpersonal psychology is the disciplined study of behaviors and experiences that appear to transcend those hypothetical constructs associated with individual identities and self-concepts, as well as their developmental antecedents, and the implications of these behaviors and experiences for education, training, and psychotherapy” (Krippner, 1998).
Beyond ego, beyond I-Me-My / i me my, beyond beyond.
It was his scream that caught my attention.
So far away, up there. . .
Only the white underbelly spoke its name,
looking for snakes and rodents
Until the man scared me away and I fled
Peace in favor of distraction.
Reality is more complex than we would like.
If we insist upon it making sense,
We will find ourselves despairing.
Reality cannot be neatly packaged. . .
Reality is all that is, and that is often at odds
With what we imagine it should be.
–Rabbi Yannai, an early Jewish sage
BY WISŁAWA SZYMBORSKA
Retrieved and reposted by Poetry Foundation website.
A poem by Lightning Heart
The White Orchid
Remember when you offered it to me,
It was after Shiva touched my shoulders and
Sent seizures through blood, skin, and bone
You came with a lion’s mouth and nose, stringy haired,
Downed in frayed gossamer.
I would not accept it at first out of
Fear for what it meant
Dew lived on its petals, even in the desert
Its yellow mouth, frozen in a seductive smile
They say never to accept an orchid
If it is in bloom,
Something about shocking its system,
Stagnating its growth
Then again, I’ve never been a rule-follower
Now that it is here, I stare at it,
Especially that face–
like butterfly wings suspended on a corkboard
only the pin does not kill it,
for there is no pin
Not this time.
The clay pot is too small
It has to break someday
when tubers burst through
. . .or better yet. . .
When they devour the pot with new life
–a poem by Lightning Heart
Almost a year ago and the edge of the roof is back again, this time in a different form. When will you jump? Well, I’m waiting.
That night. . .in the desert. . .I jumped off the roof.
“I don’t like it here, I want to go back.
According to the old Knowers
If you’re absent from the one you love
Even for one second that ruins the whole thing!
There must be someone. . .just to find
One sign of the other world in this town
Would be enough.
You know the great Chinese Simurgh bird
Got caught in this net. . .
And what can I do. I’m only a wren.
My desire-body, don’t come
Strolling over this way.
Sit where you are, that’s a good place.
When you want dessert, you choose something rich.
In wine, you look for what is clear and firm.
What is the rest? The rest is mirages,
And blurry pictures, and milk mixed with water.
The rest is self-hatred, and mocking other people, and
So just be…
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I hiked at Phoenix Mountain Preserve on Good Friday with quail, lizards, saguaro, and chipmunks. At the top of the mountain I sat on the ground and waited for nothing.
A man and his two children –teenager and a tween—soon arrived.
What did they say when the reached the top of the mountain?
“Nice job, buddy,” the man told his son. “Alright, we’ll chill for a minute.”
They posed for photos of themselves against the cityscape: selfies, group shots, never turning to view the side that held no streets. What did they capture inside their camera?
I heard the flies buzz, felt the sand against my palms.
“Okay, let’s go down, we’re done,” said the man after three minutes.
A middle-aged couple soon came to the top.
“Is this it?” said the woman, disappointed. She searched for a higher point, found it, and led her husband to the next crest. I watched them climb and once they reached that peak, they immediately turned for the descent.
What did they find at the top of the mountain? More rocks and sand perhaps. Something they climbed for, but could not name and could not touch; something always there, but unseen, untouched, unheard, un-experienced by sleepwalkers.
What do you find at the top of the mountain?