tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-63225162011-04-21T17:23:47.250-07:00lekshehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05433595260998516456noreply@blogger.comBlogger351100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6322516.post-1076397801910532122004-02-09T23:23:00.000-08:002004-02-09T23:25:49.890-08:00

I wanted to be able to easily post photos and a few other things, so I have moved my blog I'll continue to double post for a week or so. Come visit the new site.

lekshehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05433595260998516456noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6322516.post-1076352853370908852004-02-09T10:54:00.000-08:002004-02-09T11:12:15.640-08:00

I have a friend who did a three-year-three-month-three-day, cloistered Buddhist retreat. In fact, many of my closest friends have done that or something like it. Like all unusual activities, these retreats have left some nice stories in their wake. These particular stories are really best told in person. Not sure why. But I thought I might pass along one or two here on the blog. McVicker

lekshehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05433595260998516456noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6322516.post-1076098425771974782004-02-06T12:13:00.000-08:002004-02-06T12:16:09.106-08:00

I am off in less than an hour to facilitate a retreat just past the Columbia River Gorge, on the Washington side. They say it's snowing. I love this place. The drive up reminds me of Tibet in spring, in places. Anyway, I'll miss you. Keep each other company....like you did last month, before Lekshe existed. *laughs, packs a felt hat and boots. With affection, Leks

lekshehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05433595260998516456noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6322516.post-1075962193381825082004-02-06T00:16:00.000-08:002004-02-06T12:24:16.686-08:00

Don't be silly. Who would try to hold the wind or be held by the sun and yet no less warm I lie face down and am born to the steady world of your soft steps up the stairs. i could never have imagined such impatience without hurry. -- who would not consider clinging to life for the soft instant of your kiss?

lekshehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05433595260998516456noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6322516.post-1076006681524777332004-02-05T10:44:00.000-08:002004-02-05T12:28:55.560-08:00

Why won't the apple FALL? It did for Newton, dammit. I need a break. I'm dying and I'm killing people in the process. Why can't I get this? It's too late now. No turning back. No back turning. We're in this for the long haul and we're stuck. Stuck like diamonds in old rock, invisible and waiting a thousand years. I ache. I ache to be better, to be good, even. To have as much skill as

lekshehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05433595260998516456noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6322516.post-1075959758979460802004-02-04T21:42:00.000-08:002004-02-04T21:53:21.890-08:00

All night I sit across the river from the burning ghats on the banks of the Bagmati. The illusion of you blazes before my awakened eyes-- orange embers in human form, rolling clouds of thick, black smoke. We were a tiny point on the endless circle of time. In the morning sun, glittering, silver ashes are swept into the water and float downstream on the slow current.

lekshehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05433595260998516456noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6322516.post-1075958317528079622004-02-04T21:18:00.000-08:002004-02-04T21:49:40.356-08:00

More stories? Well..no time to write a real story today, tonio, but here's a thought... There is a particular kind of woman who's as interested in a decent pair of canvas trousers as she is a nice silk shirt, and she's likely to show up wearing one when some people have it firmly set in their minds that she ought to be wearing the other. You know the kind of woman I mean, no doubt. You've met

lekshehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05433595260998516456noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6322516.post-1075957208805039572004-02-04T21:00:00.000-08:002004-02-04T21:02:30.076-08:00

if they found God in something golden i'm glad or in angles singing, or some impossibly Big Thing, that's good. i can't think of anything more God than this-- your hands, growing thin, tucked neatly beneath your aging chin. i love your face and how it changes-- how it is, which is ageless and full of your silly grins. i love the ecstasy you write with hands that feel the light of ordinary

lekshehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05433595260998516456noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6322516.post-1075939477353823182004-02-04T16:04:00.000-08:002004-02-04T16:06:58.293-08:00

with shimmering accuracy the deeds&thoughts of unripe saints collide in ambiguous embrace. memory pretends to have known but actually wanders more or less in thick darkness. deep wisdom is a crisp jewel. exhale the entire perception. send it out on invisible wings to join the vivid twilight. life is an auspicious question mark. don't kill it. ask, when you breathe.

lekshehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05433595260998516456noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6322516.post-1075921838891237982004-02-04T11:10:00.000-08:002004-02-04T11:16:26.246-08:00

Saturday, January 17, 2004 - This post was lost and Susurra asked if I could locate it. A friend had, coincidentally copied it to his computer, thinking to read it later, and when I lost the post, he sent it. I am just now getting it reposted. Cheers, Susurra. The Perfect Cup I make effort to be mindful. To fill the cup carefully. To pour the amount I think will make you happiest in the end.

lekshehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05433595260998516456noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6322516.post-1075867764620478422004-02-03T20:09:00.000-08:002004-02-03T21:18:39.763-08:00

It's indecorous, I suppose, to refer to someone's site twice in one day, but since I have so little reputation left to protect, I'll just let you know that Carlos has posted his recipe for Garlic Soup on his blog. This, and one more undershirt will get us through the winter. So it's settled... my house, tomorrow, 6 o'clock. Bring your own allium sativum. I have olive oil-probably in excess of

lekshehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05433595260998516456noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6322516.post-1075839463406807992004-02-03T12:17:00.000-08:002004-02-03T14:57:18.373-08:00

Demarcation All lines are fictions. Fences, borders: lies. There's only ever water in the stream. 1/28/2004 this is from carlos arribas' poetry notebook. oh yes. simple and so...so...exact. thanks, carlos, and tonio, for taking me there on his random quote list. whew, nice ride. i'm posting too much. i know, i know. i have a retreat to prep and i am pacing. yikes.

lekshehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05433595260998516456noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6322516.post-1075834726198927422004-02-03T10:58:00.000-08:002004-02-03T15:34:08.420-08:00

I don't often poste political stuff here or anywhere else, but this is so eloquent, I thought to make an exception. --Lekshe An Open Letter to Political Columnist George F. Will of the Washington Post By The Right Reverend John Shelby Spong, Episcopal Bishop of Newark Dear George: You have a huge platform through television, Newsweek and the Washington Post to be a major influence in

lekshehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05433595260998516456noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6322516.post-1075792304690490532004-02-02T23:11:00.000-08:002004-02-02T23:46:44.670-08:00

It's 3:30 AM. I know because I hear the long ziiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiip of Gyaltsen's polar fleece jacket on the other side of the thin plywood wall in cabin number 4. He's going to walk up the trail to the kitchen and fire up the propane stove. He's going to make tea. Probably Celestial Seasonings "Fast Lane," a super-caffeinated blend. Then, by lantern light, he's going to fill the bottom of an

lekshehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05433595260998516456noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6322516.post-1075708630738910512004-02-02T00:00:00.000-08:002004-02-03T14:54:50.250-08:00

so many things I will say now because when I remember your voice, the sky opens and fluent turbulence chases fleet images (death to details but the texture reads like well-formed braille beneath curious fingertips) I will say things, brave things without hiding: I do not fear life's delight nor am I afraid to die blissfully alive, wings open. I might speak like this but really I would like

lekshehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05433595260998516456noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6322516.post-1075610159795794162004-01-31T20:35:00.000-08:002004-02-03T15:03:17.513-08:00

"Are You Mr. William Stafford?" "Are you Mr. William Stafford?" "Yes, but. . ." Well, it was yesterday. Sunlight used to follow my hand. And that's when the strange siren-like sound flooded over the horizon and rushed through the streets of our town. That's when sunlight came from behind a rock and began to follow my hand. "It's for the best," my mother said, "Nothing can ever be wrong for

lekshehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05433595260998516456noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6322516.post-1075612492351070372004-01-30T21:00:00.000-08:002004-02-03T15:05:13.700-08:00

I wrote just a bit about the stamps I'm making. and Susurra was kind enough to send along this cool link to a site where you can use your own image to create a sheet of postage stamps. The image you use has to be 255K or less. There's a gallery to browse, too. Of course, you'll have to add "real" postage to the envelope. But if you don't have time to watercolour a set like mine, by all means

lekshehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05433595260998516456noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6322516.post-1075224589632404192004-01-27T09:29:00.000-08:002004-01-27T09:31:58.873-08:00

Stop...don't buy a "box" of chai. There's no such thing. Ack!! Next trip to the supermarket, I am going to put the entire shelf full of chai mix (mix?) in aseptic cartons into a shopping cart and send it rolling down F-- street. Peh! Here is the Nepali recipe for chai. It's quite different than Kashmiri chai, (good for colds) or that made in India (especially that which is served in little

lekshehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05433595260998516456noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6322516.post-1075181744894669012004-01-26T21:35:00.000-08:002004-01-26T21:45:38.123-08:00

A shadow from the left. My brain hesitates apraxia blooms your face becomes a faint nebula empyream sphere catapulted into the shadow (danger is near) but I cannot run. I am inclined to death or death is inclined to me. sight falters, light quivers, particles disintegrate. anoxic disturbance kindles gasping utterance-- poems take birth in the dirt. The present languishes. i am captive

lekshehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05433595260998516456noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6322516.post-1075174796161738682004-01-26T19:39:00.000-08:002004-01-26T19:44:56.950-08:00

Someone asked here, "How do you make those watercolor stamps?" Well... First, some research so I may create the country. In looking for information, today, I ran across this, from a cooking site, where a cooking method has been translated into English: This entrement is of origin Italian is fluid and consistent cream wine-based, sugar and egg-yolk. One will find it presented out of cut, out of

lekshehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05433595260998516456noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6322516.post-1075091031450173082004-01-25T20:23:00.000-08:002004-01-25T21:16:40.513-08:00

It was a long morning rummaging for books in the bazaar and I have had it with Indian tailors. Dragging myself up the paved drive to the Windamere, I mumble impatiently to the chowkidhar and drop into a painted chair on the patio. It's not hot, but I'm sweating. Then, silently, swiftly and with a kind of elegance that I will never achieve, a tall, white-coated Indian man brings a tray with

lekshehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05433595260998516456noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6322516.post-1075075251373036682004-01-25T16:00:00.000-08:002004-01-25T16:02:58.623-08:00

Here are near-lifesize photos of Donald Evans' stamps. Scroll down a bit to find them.

lekshehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05433595260998516456noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6322516.post-1075009116641224232004-01-24T21:38:00.000-08:002004-01-24T22:24:24.826-08:00

A friend reminded me this week that I spent a good number of years making stamps. Not real stamps, of course, but miniature watercolour paintings. This was painstaking work. I first imagined a country, its currency and its people. The stamps were then done in pencil and finished in either watercolour, or in some cases, technical pen. I then hand carved rubber stamps for making cancellation marks.

lekshehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05433595260998516456noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6322516.post-1074988218819207282004-01-24T15:50:00.000-08:002004-01-24T19:32:37.733-08:00

You lean to kiss but I protest. Your hands gesture a polite difference of opinion. I want those hands. Look out the window. See how the moon sits in the black sky with such composure? I want to lean against you like that-- dumbstruck and luminous, pressed flatly into your stillness. You lift the hem of my sweater, as a question. I step back. Not now. Not yet. Your left hand signs a

lekshehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05433595260998516456noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6322516.post-1074644923154889812004-01-20T16:28:00.000-08:002004-01-20T16:41:23.873-08:00

Stop. If we keep talking about love twilight will pass candles will cast bewildered light on every surface. Mystery will slip away. I'll forget why we came here. Quick! You know how life is. The one rule is this: never ask out loud. (give dessert, wine... all those hints) Then, risk everything for a kiss, your legs trembling between mine. Your indulgence is an act of mercy, be a saint.

lekshehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05433595260998516456noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6322516.post-1074626758027357382004-01-20T11:25:00.000-08:002004-01-20T11:38:41.746-08:00

timid medusa, hesitant, surd speech uttered in gelatinous darkness languidly rising through eremitic silence leaves limpid bubbles in your wake, untraceable comment dissolving. precisely mapped at creation: undulous tendrils set in transient oscillation your seraphic touch, incapable of embrace a wary movement of habit, not choice. your electric body ephemeral, fragile muse, holds not one

lekshehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05433595260998516456noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6322516.post-1074582218083680982004-01-19T23:03:00.000-08:002004-01-19T23:09:13.530-08:00

in fitful sleep you murmured eccentric code in the hoarse voice of your reluctant existence & there in suspended dream I saw the angry angel past washing your wounds with blood mercifully waking at last you screamed. (the name I heard was mine) you will say (into the wind, after I leave) that the mere suggestion of communion required a sacrifice to brilliant gods & lost

lekshehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05433595260998516456noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6322516.post-1074550375195292522004-01-19T14:12:00.000-08:002004-01-19T14:46:56.810-08:00

I am the Queen of Noisy Things and I miss quiet. The last time I heard deep quiet was in New Brunswick, in the parking lot of the Ice Crystal Palace Hotel, at 2 a.m. in the morning. A whole flock of gulls raised itself from the dim field of white into the night sky in a single, swift calligraphic motion, utterly silent. They disappeared into the black and I stood, shivering, in the simple

lekshehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05433595260998516456noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6322516.post-1074548261788017612004-01-19T13:37:00.000-08:002004-01-19T13:39:40.216-08:00

As long as we are on earth, the love that unites us will bring suffering by our very contact with one another. Because this love is a resetting of a Body of broken bones. --Thomas Merton, New Seeds of Contemplation, copyright 1961, by the Abbey of Gethsemani, Inc.

lekshehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05433595260998516456noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6322516.post-1074232955642670062004-01-15T22:02:00.000-08:002004-01-15T22:35:30.030-08:00

Part of me is defined by your absence...an empty place in the shape of you. I still find myself holding up my experience for your assessment. I am left to ponder questions which are yours, I suppose. Having answered them, I speak, sometimes, meaning to tell you, and then I remember. You're gone. Then the shape of the you resident in me organizes itself more specifically. So, your existence is

lekshehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05433595260998516456noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6322516.post-1074198932770507862004-01-15T12:35:00.000-08:002004-01-15T12:38:16.543-08:00

A note from my old friend, bf, who lost his wife this year, and takes a daily walk as part of the 'mend:' There is, of course, a certain point at which you naturally turn, the outbound finished, your attention on the return, or the "going back," we could say. There could even have been a hiatus between the two, with a flood of images about youth and promise and even a perky kind of music that

lekshehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05433595260998516456noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6322516.post-1074119438321389832004-01-14T14:30:00.000-08:002004-01-14T14:32:30.013-08:00

Been reading about silence. Ran across this little sweet fragment. I love those moments of accidental discovery. All that searching, and suddenly you see, you're there. And you find yourself loving and blessing that which is There With You. That's my path... whatever's in front of me. Right Here and Right Now. I took a small path leading up a hill valley, finding there a temple, its gate

lekshehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05433595260998516456noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6322516.post-1074109896609217812004-01-14T11:51:00.000-08:002004-01-14T12:06:44.030-08:00

I was talking with a friend this morning, a well-read, erudite man. I asked if he'd read Rumi, the great scholar-poet, Sufi mystic, born in 1207. He said, "No." I was stunned. This man has read everything I have read, wanted to read, and much, much I did not. Not having read Rumi is something akin to..ummm.. not having eaten bread, or butter or jam. I have read all the Rumi I have been able

lekshehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05433595260998516456noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6322516.post-1074025367233704892004-01-13T12:22:00.000-08:002004-01-13T12:51:15.903-08:00

tiny zerO Note from the Denver airport. Gate 29, way down at the end of the concourse. I'm sitting across from a tall man dressed in jeans and a black, long-sleeved t-shirt. White cotton sox, well-oiled boots and a simple, canvas jacket. He must be 6' 3". His hairline has receded. Not just now, some time in the past. Some of it's grey. His face is a round, weathered moon. He's talking on a cell

lekshehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05433595260998516456noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6322516.post-1073977033411922422004-01-12T22:57:00.000-08:002004-01-13T11:46:11.840-08:00

Well, Dale, here I go. Of course, now I can't think of a single thing to say. See? Will it always be like this? Will I have the shortest blog in history? So let me begin by saying thank you for being immediately & freshly honest. Dragons, tigers, roshis. The world is full of dangerous things, is it not? And beautiful things. Ashes and offerings indeed. That's the point, in a way. To have them

lekshehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05433595260998516456noreply@blogger.com