Gaia: Love, God & Spirituality in Music, Song and Words !!!! - WISDOM & INSPIRATIONAL

Sing Sing Sing !!!!

http://BabasBoy.gaia.com — Wed, 11 Apr 2007 23:57:28 GMT

            Sing, men and angels, sing,
            for God our Life and King
            Has given us light and spring
            and morning breaking
            Now may man's soul arise
            as kinsman to the skies,
       And God unseals his eyes to an awaking

                   John Masefield

Let Us Live Happily

http://BabasBoy.gaia.com — Wed, 28 Mar 2007 11:54:01 GMT

                         Let Us Live Happily

Let us live happily, without hate amongst those who
hate. Let us dwell unhating amidst hateful men.
Let us live happily, in good health amongst those
who are sick.
Let us dwell in good health amidst ailing men.
Let us live happily, without yearning for sensual
pleasures amongst those who yearn for them.
Let us dwell without yearning amidst those who yearn.
Let us live happily, we who have no impediments.
We shall subsist on joy even as the radiant gods.

                            The Buddha
                  Dhammapada 197-200

HOW MUCH MUSIC CAN YOU MAKE ????

http://BabasBoy.gaia.com — Thu, 22 Mar 2007 00:49:11 GMT

HOW MUCH MUSIC CAN YOU MAKE ????

Imagine this. A concert violinist is performing a difficult piece in
front of a large audience. Suddenly there is a loud snap that
reverberates throughout the auditorium. The audience immediately knows
that a string has broken and fully expects the concert to be suspended
until another string, or instrument, is brought to the musician.

But instead, the violinist composes herself, closes her eyes and then
signals the conductor to begin again. The orchestra resumes where they
had left off and now the musician plays the music on three strings. In
her mind she works out new fingering to compensate for the missing
string. A work that few people can play well on four strings, the
violinist with the broken string plays on three.

When she finishes, an awesome silence hangs in the room. And then as
one, the crowd rises to their feet and cheers wildly. The violinist
smiles and wipes perspiration from her brow. When silence returns to
the great room, she explains why she continued to play in spite of a
broken string. "You know," she says, still breathless, "sometimes it
is the artist's task to find out how much music you can still make
with what you have left." *

We know what she means, don't we? Maybe we've lived most of our lives
and we have only a little time left. Can we still make music?

Maybe disease has robbed us of our capacity to work. Can we still make
music?

Perhaps a financial loss has left us impoverished. Can we still make
music?

Or maybe a meaningful relationship has ended and we feel alone in the
world. Can we still make music?

There will come a time when we all experience loss. Like the
violinist, will we find the courage to discover just how much music we
can still make with what we have left? How much good we can still do?
How much joy we can still share? For I'm convinced that the world,
more than ever, needs the music only you can make.

And if it takes extra courage to make the music, many will applaud
your effort. For some people have lost more than others, and these
brave souls inspire the rest of us to greater heights.

Just how much music can you make with what you have left?

-- Steve Goodier

* Though this scenario is sometimes purported to have happened to
violinist Itzhak Perlman, the incident cannot be substantiated and is
more likely grist in the mill of urban legend.

THE DAFFODIL PRINCIPLE

http://BabasBoy.gaia.com — Sun, 04 Mar 2007 20:31:02 GMT

THE DAFFODIL PRINCIPLE !!!!

Several times my daughter had telephoned to say.
"Mother, you must come see the daffodils before they
are over." I wanted to go, but it was a two-hour drive
from Laguna to Lake Arrowhead. Going and coming took
most of a day--and I honestly did not have a free day
until the following week.

"I will come next Tuesday," I promised, a little
reluctantly, on her third call.

Next Tuesday dawned cold and rainy. Still, I had
promised, and so I drove the length of Route 91,
continued on I-215, and finally turned onto Route 18
and began to drive up the mountain highway. The tops
of the mountains were sheathed in clouds, and I had
gone only a few miles when the road was completely
covered with a wet, gray blanket of fog.

I slowed to a crawl, my heart pounding. The road
becomes narrow and winding toward the top of the
mountain. As I executed the hazardous turns at a
snail's pace, I was praying to reach the turnoff at
Blue Jay that would signify I had arrived.

When I finally walked into Carolyn's house and hugged
and greeted my grandchildren, I said, "Forget the
daffodils, Carolyn! The road is invisible in the
clouds and fog, and there is nothing in the world
except you and these darling children that I want to
see bad enough to drive another inch!"

My daughter smiled calmly," We drive in this all the
time, Mother."

"Well, you won't get me back on the road until it
clears--and then I'm heading for home!" I assured her.

"I was hoping you'd take me over to the garage to pick
up my car. The mechanic just called, and they've
finished repairing the engine," she answered.

"How far will we have to drive?" I asked cautiously.
"Just a few blocks," Carolyn said cheerfully.

So we buckled up the children and went out to my car.
"I'll drive," Carolyn offered. "I'm used to this." We
got into the car, and she began driving.

In a few minutes I was aware that we were back on the
Rim-of-the-World road heading over the top of the
mountain. "Where are we going?" I exclaimed,
distressed to be back on the mountain road in the fog.
"This isn't the way to the garage!"

"We're going to my garage the long way," Carolyn
smiled, "by way of the daffodils."

"Carolyn," I said sternly, trying to sound as if I
were still the mother and in charge of the situation,
"please turn around. There is nothing in the world
that I want to see enough to drive on this road in
this weather."

"It's all right, Mother," she replied with a knowing
grin. "I know what I'm doing. I promise you will never
forgive yourself if you miss this experience."

And so my sweet, darling daughter who had never given
me a minute of difficulty in her whole life was
suddenly in charge -- and she was kidnapping me! I
couldn't believe it. Like it or not, I was on the way
to see some ridiculous daffodils - driving through the
thick, gray silence of the mist-wrapped mountaintop at
what I thought was risk to life and limb.

I muttered all the way. After about twenty minutes we
turned onto a small gravel road that branched down
into an oak-filled hollow on the side of the mountain.
The Fog had lifted a little, but the sky was lowering,
gray and heavy with clouds.

We parked in a small parking lot adjoining a little
stone church. From our vantage point at the top of the
mountain we could see beyond us, in the mist, the
crests of the San Bernardino range like the dark,
humped backs of a herd of elephants. Far below us the
fog-shrouded valleys, hills, and flatlands stretched
away to the desert.

On the far side of the church I saw a
pine-needle-covered path, with towering evergreens and
manzanita bushes and an inconspicuous, hand-lettered
sign "Daffodil Garden."

We each took a child's hand, and I followed Carolyn
down the path as it wound through the trees. The
mountain sloped away from the side of the path in
irregular dips, folds, and valleys, like a deeply
creased skirt.

Live oaks, mountain laurel, shrubs, and bushes
clustered in the folds, and in the gray, drizzling
air, the green foliage looked dark and monochromatic.
I shivered. Then we turned a corner of the path, and I
looked up and gasped.

Before me lay the most glorious sight, unexpectedly
and completely splendid. It looked as though someone
had taken a great vat of gold and poured it down over
the mountain peak and slopes where it had run into
every crevice and over every rise. Even in the
mist-filled air, the mountainside was radiant, clothed
in massive drifts and waterfalls of daffodils. The
flowers were planted in majestic, swirling patterns,
great ribbons and swaths of deep orange, white, lemon
yellow, salmon pink, saffron, and butter yellow.

Each different-colored variety (I learned later that
there were more than thirty-five varieties of
daffodils in the vast display) was planted as a group
so that it swirled and flowed like its own river with
its own unique hue.

In the center of this incredible and dazzling display
of gold, a great cascade of purple grape hyacinth
flowed down like a waterfall of blossoms framed in its
own rock-lined basin, weaving through the brilliant
daffodils.

A charming path wound throughout the garden. There
were several resting stations, paved with stone and
furnished with Victorian wooden benches and great tubs
of coral and carmine tulips.

As though this were not magnificent enough, Mother
Nature had to add her own grace note - above the
daffodils, a bevy of western bluebirds flitted and
darted, flashing their brilliance. These charming
little birds are the color of sapphires with breasts
of magenta red. As they dance in the air, their colors
are truly like jewels. Above the blowing, glowing
daffodils, the effect was spectacular.

It did not matter that the sun was not shining. The
brilliance of the daffodils was like the glow of the
brightest sunlit day. Words, wonderful as they are,
simply cannot describe the incredible beauty of that
flower-bedecked mountain top.

Five acres of flowers! (This too I discovered later
when some of my questions were answered.) "But who has
done this?" I asked Carolyn. I was overflowing with
gratitude that she brought me - even against my will.

This was a once-in-a-lifetime experience.

"Who?" I asked again, almost speechless with wonder,
"and how, and why, and when?"

"It's just one woman," Carolyn answered. "She lives on
the property. That's her home." Carolyn pointed to a
well-kept A-frame house that looked small and modest
in the midst of all that glory.

We walked up to the house, my mind buzzing with
questions. On the patio we saw a poster. "Answers to
the Questions I Know You Are Asking" was the headline.
The first answer was a simple one. "50,000 bulbs," it
read.

The second answer was, "One at a time, by one woman.
Two hands, two feet, and very little brain."

The third answer was, "Began in 1958."

There it was. The Daffodil Principle.

For me that moment was a life-changing experience. I
thought of this woman whom I had never met, who, more
than thirty-five years before, had begun -- one bulb
at a time-- to bring her vision of beauty and joy to
an obscure mountain top. One bulb at a time.

There was no other way to do it. One bulb at a time.
No shortcuts - simply loving the slow process of
planting. Loving the work as it unfolded.

Loving an achievement that grew so slowly and that
bloomed for only three weeks of each year. Still, just
planting one bulb at a time, year after year, had
changed the world.

This unknown woman had forever changed the world in
which she lived. She had created something of
ineffable magnificence, beauty, and inspiration.

The principle her daffodil garden taught is one of the
greatest principles of celebration: learning to move
toward our goals and desires one step at a time -
often just one baby-step at a time -- learning to love
the doing, learning to use the accumulation of time.

When we multiply tiny pieces of time with small
increments of daily effort, we too will find we can
accomplish magnificent things. We can change the
world.

"Carolyn," I said that morning on the top of the
mountain as we left the haven of daffodils, our minds
and hearts still bathed and bemused by the splendors
we had seen, "it's as though that remarkable woman has
needle-pointed the earth! Decorated it.

Just think of it, she planted every single bulb. For
more than forty years. One bulb at a time! And that's
the only way this garden could be created. Every
individual bulb had to be planted. There was no way of
short-circuiting that process. Five acres of blooms.
That magnificent cascade of hyacinth!

All, just one bulb at a time."

The thought of it filled my mind. I was suddenly
overwhelmed with the implications of what I had seen.
"It makes me sad in a way," I admitted to Carolyn.
"What might I have accomplished if I had thought of a
wonderful goal forty years ago and had worked away at
it 'one bulb at a time' through all those years? Just
think what I might have been able to achieve!"

My wise daughter put the car into gear and summed up
the message of the day in her direct way. "Start
tomorrow," she said with the same knowing smile she
had worn for most of the morning. Oh, profound wisdom!

It is pointless to think of the lost hours of
yesterdays. The way to make learning a lesson a
celebration instead of a cause for regret is to only
ask, "How can I put this to use tomorrow?"

I also learned on that gray and golden morning what a
blessing it is to have a child who is not a child
anymore but a woman -- perceptive and loving beyond
her years -- and to be humble in that awareness.

Thank you, Carolyn. Thank you for lessons of that
unforgettable morning. Thank you for the gift of the
daffodils.

by: Jaroldeen Asplund Edwards

"It takes courage to push yourself to places that you
have never been before... to test your limits... to
break through barriers. And the day came when the risk
it took to remain tight inside the bud was more
painful than the risk it took to blossom."
Anais Nin

Whispers From A Spiritual Garden

http://BabasBoy.gaia.com — Tue, 26 Dec 2006 20:46:42 GMT

Artist: Yusuf Islam
Album: An Other Cup
Year: 2006
Title: Whispers From A Spiritual Garden

Whispers From A Spiritual Garden

The eternal source of love is implanted
In every part of existence -
The desire for another.
Though night and day,
Outwardly appears enemies,
Yet both serve one purpose -
Each seeking the other.

Yusuf Islam
(a.k.a. Cat Stevens)

'Intimacy' poem and Free Hugs!

http://Skeye.gaia.com — Fri, 06 Oct 2006 00:51:20 GMT

Hugs are Universally appreciated
the drawing near of Heart,
never fear intimacy with me
withdrawing does not mean
we part.
 




Inspiration in hearing closely
to what no ear can detect,
the rythm of life flows on
with no need to protect
from anything.

 
This Friend you can rely on
to always be honest
and true,
for this Friend
is nothing other
than the Heart
of You.

Original Tribe post:
Free Hugs!

Zaadz pod:
~{{{Huggers United}}}~

Be Patient / Rilke

http://BabasBoy.gaia.com — Thu, 31 Aug 2006 13:39:00 GMT

"Be patient toward all that
   is unsolved in your heart.
   And try to love the
   questions themselves."

      Rainer Maria Rilke

Re: Why We Write

http://BabasBoy.gaia.com — Tue, 18 Jul 2006 05:45:41 GMT

Thanks for this also !!!! WOW, did I ever get behind on the Pod I started. But am I ever so fortunate that soo many of you have come here and posted such wonderful words.

Thank You so very much for helping get this Pod started, and watering it so that it will hopefully continue to grow. What wonderful words !!!! Thanks again !!!!

In His Love and Light,

Mick

Why We Write

http://camphappiness.gaia.com — Thu, 13 Jul 2006 06:21:47 GMT

Why We Write

There are many things which resist naming

And that is why we write.

We write because language is slippery,

And the truth is

The light we have to see by

Is always shifting.

Never forget that writers are prophets.

We speak in tongues.

We testify.

We are for each other a believing mirror.

Our words make us visible.

Our listening makes us heard.

Never forget that writers are soldiers.

Our writing is the long march,

The walk into time.

Each word is a drum.

We sound it across great distances,

Reaching one another and ourselves.

Every poem is a day’s march.

A celebration more necessary than water or wine.

Every poem is a drink of blood.

Never forget that writing is an act of courage –

Not on the days when it is simple and we discount it.

Not on the days when it is hard and we write like sand.

Our words are torches.

We pass them hand to hand

And mouth to mouth

Like a burning kiss.

Never forget to say thank you.

Every syllable is a grace.

Julia Cameron

Enjoy the Tea

http://BabasBoy.gaia.com — Mon, 10 Jul 2006 14:10:12 GMT

Enjoy the Tea

A group of alumni, highly established in their
careers, got together to visit their old university
professor. Conversation soon turned into complaints
about stress in work and life.
Offering his guests tea, the Professor went to the
kitchen and returned with a large pot of tea and an
assortment of cups - porcelain, plastic, glass,
crystal, some plain looking, some expensive, some
exquisite - telling them to help themselves to the
tea.

When all the students had a cup of tea in hand, the
professor said: "If you noticed, all the nice looking
expensive cups were taken up, leaving behind the plain
and cheap ones. While it is but normal for you to want
only the best for yourselves, that is the source of
your problems and stress.

What all of you really wanted was tea, not the cup,
but you consciously went for the best cups and were
eyeing each other's cups. Now consider this: Life is
the tea, and the jobs, money and position in society
are the cups. They are just tools to hold and contain
Life, and do not change the quality of Life. Some
times, by concentrating only on the cup, we fail to
enjoy the tea God has provided."

So, don't let the cups drive you... enjoy the tea
instead.

Author Unknown