6
" There is a bench in the back of my garden shaded by Virginia creeper, climbing roses, and a white pine where I sit early in the morning and watch the action. Light blue bells of a dwarf campanula drift over the rock garden just before my eyes. Behind it, a three-foot stand of aconite is flowering now, each dark blue cowl-like corolla bowed for worship or intrigue: thus its common name, monkshood. Next to the aconite, black madonna lilies with their seductive Easter scent are just coming into bloom. At the back of the garden, a hollow log, used in its glory days for a base to split kindling, now spills white cascade petunias and lobelia.
I can't get enough of watching the bees and trying to imagine how they experience the abundance of, say, a blue campanula blosssom, the dizzy light pulsing, every fiber of being immersed in the flower. ...
Last night, after a day in the garden, I asked Robin to explain (again) photosynthesis to me. I can't take in this business of _eating light_ and turning it into stem and thorn and flower...
I would not call this meditation, sitting in the back garden. Maybe I would call it eating light. Mystical traditions recognize two kinds of practice: _apophatic mysticism_, which is the dark surrender of Zen, the Via Negativa of John of the Cross, and _kataphatic mysticism_, less well defined: an openhearted surrender to the beauty of creation. Maybe Francis of Assissi was, on the whole, a kataphatic mystic, as was Thérèse of Lisieux in her exuberant momemnts: but the fact is, kataphatic mysticism has low status in religious circles. Francis and Thérèse were made, really made, any mother superior will let you know, in the dark nights of their lives: no more of this throwing off your clothes and singing songs and babbling about the shelter of God's arms.
When I was twelve and had my first menstrual period, my grandmother took me aside and said, 'Now your childhood is over. You will never really be happy again.' That is pretty much how some spiritual directors treat the transition from kataphatic to apophatic mysticism.
But, I'm sorry, I'm going to sit here every day the sun shines and eat this light. Hung in the bell of desire. "
― , The Barn at the End of the World: The Apprenticeship of a Quaker, Buddhist Shepherd
7
" Then, suddenly again, Christopher Robin, who was still looking at the world, with his chin in his hand, called out " Pooh!" " Yes?" said Pooh. " When I'm--when--Pooh!" " Yes, Christopher Robin?" " I'm not going to do Nothing any more." " Never again?" " Well, not so much. They don't let you." Pooh waited for him to go on, but he was silent again. " Yes, Christopher Robin?" said Pooh helpfully. " Pooh, when I'm--you know--when I'm not doing Nothing, will you come up here sometimes?" " Just me?" " Yes, Pooh." " Will you be here too?" " Yes Pooh, I will be really. I promise I will be Pooh." " That's good," said Pooh. " Pooh, promise you won't forget about me, ever. Not even when I'm a hundred." Pooh thought for a little. " How old shall I be then?" " Ninety-nine." Pooh nodded. " I promise," he said. Still with his eyes on the world Christopher Robin put out a hand and felt Pooh's paw. " Pooh," said Christopher Robin earnestly, " if I--if I'm not quite--" he stopped and tried again-- " Pooh, whatever happens, you will understand, won't you?" " Understand what?" " Oh, nothing." He laughed and jumped to his feet. " Come on!" " Where?" said Pooh. " Anywhere." said Christopher Robin.So, they went off together. But wherever they go, and whatever happens to them on the way, in that enchanted place on the top of the Forest, a little boy and his Bear will always be playing. "
8
" If we shadows have offended,
Think but this, and all is mended,
That you have but slumbered here
While these visions did appear.
And this weak and idle theme,
No more yielding but a dream,
Gentles, do not reprehend:
If you pardon, we will mend:
And, as I am an honest Puck,
If we have unearned luck
Now to 'scape the serpent's tongue,
We will make amends ere long;
Else the Puck a liar call;
So, good night unto you all.
Give me your hands, if we be friends,
And Robin shall restore amends. "
― William Shakespeare , A Midsummer Night's Dream
12
" Had Kurt Cobain not committed suicide in 1994, would his genius have survived the continuous incisions of a media that was only too proud of its ability to chisel away at his fragile psyche in the years before he decided that he'd had enough off their invasions? And, had Jimi Hendrix not passed way in 1970, would he, too have eventually fallen into decline, first equalled, then eclipsed by the brilliant wave of new guitarists: Robin Trower, Ritchie Blackmore, Mick Ronson, who emerged during the early 1970s? In death, Hendrix led by example: in life he could have been left for the dead. "
― Dave Thompson
13
" Believe in Yourself
Why must we see something to believe in its existence?The wind itself cannot be seen by man, but all have felt it's gentle touch and watched the mighty trees bow as it swept past.
We cannot see love yet its nurturing warmth is the essence of our being and sorrow can touch our very soul.
For remorse is like a ripple on the ocean, once given it remains only in the heart of the receiver.
Yet all of these cannot be seen only felt. Why then do you doubt your self-worth? For though it cannot cast a reflection in the mirror you have only to look in the eyes of those you love to
See it clearly.
Prologue To Kiss a King
To Kiss a King Copyright © 2017 by Julie Brookshier and Robin Woods
All rights reserved. Except for use in a review, the reproduction or use of this work in whole or in part in any form is forbidden without written permission of one or more of the authors.
This is a fictional work. Names, characters, places, and events are merely the product of the authors' imaginations or used fictitiously, purely for entertainment purposes. Any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead, or undead or any business establishments, events or places past, present, or future, is entirely coincidental. "
― Grace Willows , To Kiss a King
17
" VespersLittle Boy kneels at the foot of the bed,Droops on the little hands little gold head.Hush! Hush! Whisper who dares!Christopher Robin is saying his prayers.God bless Mummy. I know that's right.Wasn't it fun in the bath tonight?The cold's so cold, and the hot's so hot.Oh! God bless Daddy -- I quite forgot.If I open my fingers a little bit more,I can see Nanny's dressing-gown on the door.It's a beautiful blue, but it hasn't a hood.Oh! God bless Nanny and make her good.Mine has a hood, and I lie in bed,And pull the hood right over my head,And I shut my eyes, and I curl up small,And nobody knows that I'm there at all.Oh! Thank you, God, for a lovely day.And what was the other I had to say?I said " Bless Daddy," so what can it be?Oh! Now I remember. God bless Me.Little Boy kneels at the foot of the bed.Droops on the little hands little gold head.Hush! Hush! Whisper who dares!Christopher Robin is saying his prayers. "