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Antevasin | Prerna Anilkumar

Audio: Celer – Delaying The Entropy, In Emptiness, Forms Are Born

Between going and staying the day wavers, in love with its own transparency. The circular afternoon is now a bay where the world in stillness rocks.

All is visible and all elusive, all is near and can’t be touched.

Paper, book, pencil, glass, rest in the shade of their names.

Time throbbing in my temples repeats the same unchanging syllable of blood.

The light turns the indifferent wall into a ghostly theater of reflections.

I find myself in the middle of an eye, watching myself in its blank stare.

The moment scatters. Motionless, I stay and go: I am a pause.

Octavio Paz

AudioDaphnis et Chloé, Suite n°2 (Seiji Ozawa) – Ravel

“For Equilibrium, a Blessing: Like the joy of the sea coming home to shore, May the relief of laughter rinse through your soul.

As the wind loves to call things to dance, May your gravity by lightened by grace.

Like the dignity of moonlight restoring the earth, May your thoughts incline with reverence and respect.

As water takes whatever shape it is in, So free may you be about who you become.

As silence smiles on the other side of what’s said, May your sense of irony bring perspective.

As time remains free of all that it frames, May your mind stay clear of all it names.

May your prayer of listening deepen enough to hear in the depths the laughter of god.”

John O’Donohue

To Bless the Space Between Us: A Book of Blessings

AudioFennesz + Sakamoto – Oto

Don’t call this world adorable, or useful, that’s not it.

It’s frisky, and a theater for more than fair winds.

The eyelash of lightning is neither good nor evil.

The struck tree burns like a pillar of gold.

But the blue rain sinks, straight to the white

feet of the trees

whose mouths open.

Doesn’t the wind, turning in circles, invent the dance?

Haven’t the flowers moved, slowly, across Asia, then Europe,

until at last, now, they shine

in your own yard?

Don’t call this world an explanation, or even an education.

 When the Sufi poet whirled, was he looking

outward, to the mountains so solidly there

in a white-capped ring, or was he looking

 to the center of everything: the seed, the egg, the idea

that was also there,

beautiful as a thumb

curved and touching the finger, tenderly,

little love-ring,

 as he whirled,

oh jug of breath,

in the garden of dust?

Mary Oliver

Where Does the Dance Begin, Where Does It End?

Audio: Luke Howard – Shift

The time will come when, with elation, you will greet yourself arriving at your own door, in your own mirror, and each will smile at the other’s welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat. You will love again the stranger who was your self. Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored for another, who knows you by heart. Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes, peel your own image from the mirror. Sit. Feast on your life.

Derek Walcott

Love after Love

Audio: El Condor Pasa – Simon & Garfunkel

“I will take the sun in my mouth and leap into the ripe air Alive with closed eyes to dash against darkness”

e.e. cummings

Audio: The Lark Ascending – Vaughan Williams

It must be under all the struggle we want to go on.

It must be, that deep down, we are creatures getting ready for when we are needed.

It must be that waiting for the listening ear or the appreciative word, for the right woman or the right man or the right moment just to ourselves,

we are getting ready just to be ready

and nothing else.

Like this moment just before the guests arrive working alone in the kitchen sensing a deep down symmetry in every blessed thing.

The way that everything unbeknownst to us is preparing to meet us too.

Just on the other side of the door someone is about to knock and our life is just about to change

and finally after all these years rehearsing, behind the curtain,

we might just be ready to go on.

David Whyte

Waiting To Go On

Audio: Medicine Woman- Rising Appalachia

“When she does not find love, she may find poetry. Because she does not act, she observes, she feels, she records; a color, a smile awakens profound echoes within her; her destiny is outside her, scattered in cities already built, on the faces of men already marked by life, she makes contact, she relishes with passion and yet in a manner more detached, more free, than that of a young man. Being poorly integrated in the universe of humanity and hardly able to adapt herself therein, she, like the child, is able to see it objectively; instead of being interested solely in her grasp on things, she looks for their significance; she catches their special outlines, their unexpected metamorphoses. She rarely feels a bold creativeness, and usually she lacks the technique of self-expression; but in her conversation, her letters, her literary essays, her sketches, she manifests an original sensitivity. The young girl throws herself into things with ardor, because she is not yet deprived of her transcendence; and the fact that she accomplishes nothing, that she is nothing, will make her impulses only the more passionate. Empty and unlimited, she seeks from within her nothingness to attain All.”

Simone de Beauvoir

The Second Sex

Audio: Kaho Kya Khayaal Hai – Zeb and Haniya

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond any experience, your eyes have their silence: in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me, or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me though i have closed myself as fingers, you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens (touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly, as when the heart of this flower imagines the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals the power of your intense fragility: whose texture compels me with the colour of its countries, rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes and opens; only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses) nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

e.e. cummings

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