In the hush of twilight, under the celestial dome,
Lies a humble potter, crafting vessels from human clay.
In giving we find riches, in service our true home,
Non-violence our dharma, to enlighten the way.
By the river's edge, within the heart's silent room,
Meditation births sparks of wisdom, truth ablaze.
Each hindrance, a teacher; each challenge, a loom,
Weaving lessons of growth in life's nuanced maze.
Peace is not mere absence of strife or turmoil,
It's clarity of vision, understanding's gaze.
Within us and around us, it's life's fertile soil,
Nurturing compassion in our interconnected space.
Patience, a companion on this winding road,
Reminding us that change is not a race.
Experience, the guide, with wisdom bestowed,
Teaching us to trust, at our own pace.
Learning from our mother, nature's sacred art,
Embracing each moment, in her expansive grace.
To serve, to love, to share from the heart,
This is the essence of our human chase.
The sources below helped generate your response ...
- How can it be wrong to eat the
rice and dal cooked for the wedding, when it is exactly the same as what I
have cooked for you now!'How skilfully Mother managed it! She didn't
argue: she cooked, she fed me, but then she made her point, and I agreed to
eat the rice and dal as she said.
I had a knack of putting my thoughts into verse. I would compose poems,
taking two or three hours, sometimes a whole day, over each one. Then I
would chant the verses aloud and correct any shortcomings that I noticed,
and when I felt fully satisfied with it I would offer the poem as a sacrifice to
the god of fire. One day during the cold weather I was sitting by the kitchen
fire keeping myself warm and burning poems. Mother noticed it and asked
what I was doing. When I told her she said: ‘But I have never seen your
poems!'So after that, whenever I completed a Deem, I would first recite it to
her and then throw it into the fire. Later in Benares I would sit composing
my poems on the banks of the Ganges, and after I was satisfied with them I
would immerse them in the water.
Near our home in Baroda lived a potter who kept a donkey.
Source: 259702138-Moved-By-Love.txt... - Discharging a Debt to the Word
The pattern of my life has been one of experiment born of reflection and
of reflection born of experiment. I call this reflection nididhyasa, a state of
concentrated contemplation in which ideas flash into the mind like living
sparks. I do not usually feel disposed to write them down, but at one time
when I was in an unusual state of mind I did feel the urge to record them-not
all of them, only some of the ideas that occurred to me. They are to be found
in Vichar-pothi, A Nosegay of Thoughts. Fortunately this urge did not last
long, a few days later it faded away.
I had no thought of publishing Vichar-pothi, but some scholars began to
make copies of it, and about one hundred and fifty such copies came into
existence during the next twelve years. But now-a-days bad handwriting and
careless mistakes have become all too common, and in addition not all the
copies were made direct from the original. As a result, many errors crept in,
and some sentences were rendered completely meaningless. It therefore
became necessary to publish an authentic version.
These thoughts have not been well expressed. Good writing has form, but
these are rather formless. Nor can they be called aphorisms, since an
aphorism is bound by logic, while these are free. What are they then? I call
them ' half-formed mutterings.
Source: 259702138-Moved-By-Love.txt... - 'Have you watered the tulsi?'asked Mother. 'No,' I said.
'Then go and do it now. I will only give you your food when it's done.'That
was her lasting gift to me. She gave me so much else, milk to drink, food to
eat, and stayed up night after night to care for me when I was sick; but this
training in right human conduct was the greatest gift of all.
There was a lack-tree in our courtyard at Gagode. I was only a small child
then, and as soon as I saw a fruit beginning to grow I would start asking
when I could eat it. When at last it was ripe Mother would cut it down and
fill a lot of leaf-cups with segments of the fruit. Then she told me to take
these as gifts to every house in the neighbourhood. When they had all been
distributed she would seat me at her side and give me some of the sweet
segments to eat. 'Vinya,' she would say, 'we must first give, and afterwards
eat.'She was teaching me some of the deepest truth of philosophy, but she
made it into a little rhyme:
Giving is God-like,
Hoarding is Hell.
This teaching of hers made such an impression on me that without it, I
must admit, I might never have had the inspiration to start the land-gift
movement.
Source: 259702138-Moved-By-Love.txt...