La plecarea unui om bun

RIP Ducu Suteu

Din Cartea lui Qohelet, Ecleziastul, capitolul 3

Este un timp pentru a se naşte şi un timp pentru a muri;

un timp pentru a planta şi un timp pentru a smulge ce s-a plantat;

3 un timp pentru a ucide şi un timp pentru a vindeca;

un timp pentru a dărâma şi un timp pentru a construi;

4 un timp pentru a plânge şi un timp pentru a râde;

un timp pentru a geme şi un timp pentru a dansa;

5 un timp pentru a arunca pietre şi un timp pentru a aduna pietre;

un timp pentru a îmbrăţişa şi un timp pentru a se îndepărta de îmbrăţişare;

6 un timp pentru a căuta şi un timp pentru a pierde,

un timp pentru a păstra şi un timp pentru a arunca;

7 un timp pentru a rupe și un timp pentru a coase;

un timp pentru a tăcea şi un timp pentru a vorbi.

8 un timp pentru a iubi şi un timp pentru a urî;

un timp pentru luptă şi un timp pentru pace.

A Time for Everything

There is a time for everything,
    and a season for every activity under the heavens:

    a time to be born and a time to die,
    a time to plant and a time to uproot,
    a time to kill and a time to heal,
    a time to tear down and a time to build,
    a time to weep and a time to laugh,
    a time to mourn and a time to dance,
    a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,
    a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing,
    a time to search and a time to give up,
    a time to keep and a time to throw away,
    a time to tear and a time to mend,
    a time to be silent and a time to speak,
    a time to love and a time to hate,
    a time for war and a time for peace.

Reclame

Începutul unei carti-debut

Doru Davidovici, Caii de la Voronet

De fapt, absenti, si caii, si Voronetul, din poveste. Dar povestea ramâne poveste…

„Niciodată n-aş fi crezut că ,,Love Story” o să se sucească, o să
se răsucească şi o să se suprapună într-atât peste povestea mea. Mai
întâi Jennifer a murit, şi deşi aş fi avut chef să picur puţin la căpătâiul
ei, n-am făcut-o: se plângea prea mult în jur. Apoi Jennifer – Ali
McGrew – s-a căsătorit cu directorul de la Paramount şi a murit încă
o dată, de data asta definitiv. Şi, în sfârşit, Jennifer, cu fusta ei scurtă
în carouri şi picioarele lungi, vârâte în ciorapii negri, a apărut într-o
dimineaţă pe şoseaua pustie, făcându-mi semne disperate să opresc.
…Mă trezisem cu limba uscată şi cu creierul coclit; când m-am
sculat, l-am scuturat de pe pătură pe Pufi, care m-a privit cu reproş
şi s-a încolăcit să-şi continue somnul pe covor. Presimţisem de cu
seară o zi din aia, de-a dracului, posacă şi plină de nădufuri. Aşa cum
te-apucă uneori… şi pentru că n-are rost să te descarci pe aproapele
tău, l-am lăsat pe Pufi la părinţi, m-am făcut că uit cele 24 de ore pe
care le mai aveam libere, şi am plecat la unitate. Am preferat Fiatul,
pentru că trenurile, toate, plecau ori nesuferit de devreme, ori nepermis
de târziu. Ieşisem din oraş, şoseaua era încă umezită de aerul nopţii,
şi departe, dincolo de curba lungă, o siluetă ţinea braţul întins, încercând
să oprească rarele maşini care treceau. ,,Vezi să nu” am mormăit
apăsând acceleraţia prea mult chiar şi pentru curba aceea uşoară.
Silueta a lăsat mâna jos, descifrând fără greutate în viteza maşinii
refuzul, iar eu m-am grăbit să iau aerul de om prosper de afaceri în
drum spre importantele-i treburi. Dar când am trecut pe lângă ea, o
palmă uriaşă m-a plesnit prin parbriz, drept între ochi, şi Fiatul a
frânat cuminte, derapând uşor pe pietrele umezite. Până să mă dumiresc,
Jennifer şedea lângă mine, rebegită, cuminte, cu genunchii lipiţi între
braţele strânse. Fiatul a pornit iar, singur, naiba ştie cum, şi când
m-am trezit a doua oară, fata mă întreba dacă nu pot să dau drumul
la calorifer în maşină. Am apăsat automat clapa de aer cald, şi am
privit profilul: părul lins, fruntea uşor bombată, nasul în vânt, bărbia
rotundă şi încăpăţânată – mă rog, tot tacâmul. Se încălzise şi se
revărsase, moale ca o plăcintă, nu întreba unde merg, nu spunea unde
vrea să ajungă. Avea o mutră aşa adormită, încât ar fi fost o cruzime
să-i fac probleme, şi când am privit-o iar, după ce depăşisem un tractor
care şerpuia pe toată lăţimea şoselei, trăgând după el un agregat
misterios folosit în campania agricolă de primăvară, am văzut că
adormise de-a binelea. Dormea tun, cu ceafa rezemată de spătarul
banchetei, cu corpul prăvălit într-o parte, cu genunchii vârâţi în
schimbătorul de viteze; de câte ori îl manevram, îi atingeam ciorapii
negri, întinşi. Treaba ei.”
*

Ondes gravitationnelles

CENTERING PRAYER

http://marcthomasshaw.com/index.php/2017/09/20/secret-weapon-prayer/

Part of the instructions for the practice of Centering Prayeris to find a sacred word that signals a consent for the action and presence of God within. Some practitioners use “love” or “grace” or “light.”

A "Secret Weapon" Of Centering PrayerThe anonymous author of the 13th century classic The Cloud of Unknowing simply uses the word God.

Teachers of the practice instruct students to choose a word that is generally free of emotional charge or baggage because the aim to facilitate the movement into silence.

So you start with these strategies early on in the practice: “ok, I’m gonna enter into silence, and then when my thoughts take over, bump them out with the sacred word, and return to the silence. Lather, rinse, repeat. OK, I got this. Just bump ’em out of the way. I’m gonna be super enlightened in no time.”

While the instructions for the practice are pretty simple, what can be a little more difficult to learn is the how of Centering Prayer that can help make the practice a little more fruitful.

I am careful not to use the word “effective,” because the notion of doing something to achieve a goal or a particular outcome is precisely the kind of logical-linear strategic thinking that the practice itself helps us transcend.

Over the years as I continue my practice the one component that can get easily lost is that of disposition. As with all things, our intention matters. This is one aspect of our lives we bring to every act and interaction.

Intention. Disposition.

We bring it to making breakfast and packing lunches. We bring it to the drive to work. We bring it to the conference call. We bring it in entering a room.

In the contemplative life, each of these acts, however simple, becomes an opportunity for devotion, for receiving or passing on the beauty of the Beloved. This is the awareness or headspace that grows with the practice.

Early on in the practice, I’d introduce or reintroduce the sacred word impatiently, mildly annoyed when I got so far off track with some inner resentment or lingering argument or embarrassing moment from the past.

After several years it became clear that my intention, my disposition, mattered deeply. There is a piece of the Centering Prayer instructions which is easy to gloss over. Step three instructs us to introduce the sacred word ever-so-gently.

This becomes almost like a skill that is sharpened, the ability to introduce gentleness. We speak the word ever so gently. We notice our own missteps throughout the day: anger, annoyance, yelling, guilt, anxiety, whatever, and watch ourselves and then return to the present moment ever so gently.

In our time of strategy and productivity and efficiency, what a profound dimension of our lives to expand, what a quality to bring into the world, what a disposition to grow: gentleness. There is a strength to gentleness that refuses to be pulled this way and that by circumstances. It’s a disposition that requires security and trust to maintain.

In a way, this is the “secret weapon” of Centering Prayer. Bringing this disposition of gentleness, humility, and receptivity both deepens the experience of the practice and expands these capacities throughout the day. It’s like planting a seed.

It becomes a way to respond to stress, to enact forgiveness, to respond to arguments and hostility. In a sense, the mystical path is one that requires us to die to our attachments on a granular level in preparation for the great death to come, that when the time comes to move into the next phase of the great journey home, we can release this one, we can turn the page and let it go ever so gently.

By Marc Thomas Shaw

Going Further

Rich Lewis on the third step of Centering Prayer

Anglican Rector Chris Page on gentleness as strength

Poem: Hagia Sophia by Thomas Merton

Richard Rohr on Nonviolence – Taking Jesus Seriously — Persona

How is it that after two thousand years of meditation on Jesus Christ we’ve managed to avoid everything that he taught so unequivocally? This is true of every Christian denomination, even those who call themselves orthodox or doctrinally pure. We are all “cafeteria Christians.” All of us have evaded some major parts of the Sermon […]

via Richard Rohr on Nonviolence – Taking Jesus Seriously — Persona

Amintiri din anii 90

Résultat de recherche d'images pour "manastirea antim bucuresti"

Era o vreme când mă duceam adesea, duminica după-masa, la Mânăstirea Antim, la ceasurile când se cântă Paraclisul Maicii Domnului. Ieşeam totdeauna de acolo înseninată, împrospătată, întărită, fără să pot spune ce anume îmi făcea acest efect. Sigur, nimic din situația mea nu se schimbase în cursul celor două ceasuri şi ceva petrecute acolo, cum probabil nu se schimbase nici în viața celorlalte persoane aflate în acelaşi loc, în majoritate femei cuvioase şi necăjite, femei pe care le poți afla acolo la orice oră, rugându-se cu foc, însemnându-se la tot pasul cu semnul Crucii, oferindu-I lui Dumnezeu, cu zeci de mătănii, plecăciuni şi închinăciuni, toate păsurile lor şi ale celor dragi. Unele, o spun cu regret, aprige când ceva li se pare nepotrivit cu sfințenia locului.

Se roagă cu neclintită încredere, neavând habar de imensitatea darului pe care, la rândul lor, îl fac lumii. De n-ar fi decât pentru că, într-un regim ateu cum era cel comunist, ele, naşele, mamele şi bunicile au păstrat nestinsă flacăra credinței, şi au transmis-o, pe tăcute, celor mai tineri. Însă, în taina inimii lui Dumnezeu, este vorba, desigur, de mult mai mult: să zicem, pe scurt, de o afinitate dintre Ziditor şi „micul rest”, credincioşii cei mici şi sărmani, de dragul cărora ne iartă, poate, şi pe noi ceilalți…

Luând lucrurile începând, să zicem, de la nivelul solului, cred că efectul vizitei făcute la Antim duminică după-masa, rod neîndoielnic al unui har „marian” dăruit întregii adunări în care mă aflam, mi se trăgea de la faptul că toate rugăciunile ascultate acolo treceau, foarte concret, prin întreaga mea ființă. Pentru că la Antim nu se poate să nu cânți şi tu, împreună cu întreaga obşte… as zice că răsună până şi pereții, în vreme ce în pridvor îşi plâng lacrimile de ceară zeci de lumânări subțirele, galbene, ce se topesc încovoiate parcă de toată durerea lumii. Iar cântările acestea pe texte bisericești reprezintă, pentru o întreagă tradiție (păstrată în grade şi modalități foarte diferite, dar păstrată…) şi un soi de disciplină a respirației, o formă de ascultare prin care credinciosul, uneori chiar fără să-şi dea seama, participă la tainica unire a omului cu Dumnezeu… Care este, dacă te gândești bine, însăşi rațiunea de a fi a Bisericii.

În  minunatul ansamblu de rugăciuni inspirate din psalmi şi alte texte biblice, sau având alte venerabile surse, care este Paraclisul Maicii Domnului străluceşte ca o bijuterie un pasaj din capitolul 1 al Evangheliei după sf. Luca.

În acele zile, sculându-se Maria, s-a dus în grabă la munte, într-o cetate a semintiei lui Iuda…

„Cetatea” suspomenită, unde am fost, era şi rămâne un sătuc din preajma Ierusalimului, numit Ein (sau Ain) Karim, în traducere: „izvorul din vie”, „Mary’s spring”, ce curge încă în localitatea cu pricina, devenită suburbie mai mult sau mai puțin boemă a capitalei statului evreu. În acel loc plin de farmec, printre înălțimi împădurite, unde, dacă vii dinspre nord, trebuie să urci ca să ajungi, Sfânta Fecioară a vizitat-o pe vara ei Elisheba, Elisabeta, aflată în a şasea lună de sarcină, în pofida vârstei ei înaintate…

Résultat de recherche d'images pour "Ein Karem"

„Why Time Flies”…!

From the precious Mari Popova’s Brainpickings.

This social-synchronistic function of time is what New Yorker staff writer Alan Burdick examines in Why Time Flies: A Mostly Scientific Investigation(public library) — a layered, rigorously researched, lyrically narrated inquiry into the most befuddling dimension of existence.

Discus chronologicus, a German depiction of time from the early 1720s, from Cartographies of Time

Burdick begins at the beginning — the ur-question of how the universe originated from nothing and what this means for time, a question at the heart of the landmark 1922 debate between Einstein and Bergson that shaped our modern understanding of time. Burdick asks:

For argument’s sake, I’ll accept that perhaps the universe did not exist before the Big Bang — but it exploded in something, right? What was that? What was there before the beginning? Proposing such questions, the astrophysicist Stephen Hawking has said, is like standing at the South Pole and asking which way is south: “Earlier times simply would not be defined.”

Nearly a century after Borges’s exquisite refutation of time in language — “Time is a river which sweeps me along, but I am the river; it is a tiger which destroys me, but I am the tiger; it is a fire which consumes me, but I am the fire.” — Burdick adds with an eye to the inherent limitations of our metaphors:

Perhaps Hawking is trying to be reassuring. What he seems to mean is that human language has a limit. We (or at least the rest of us) reach this boundary whenever we ponder the cosmic. We imagine by analogy and metaphor: that strange and vast thing is like this smaller, more familiar thing. The universe is a cathedral, a clockworks, an egg. But the parallels ultimately diverge; only an egg is an egg. Such analogies appeal precisely because they are tangible elements of the universe. As terms, they are self-contained — but they cannot contain the container that holds them. So it is with time. Whenever we talk about it, we do so in terms of something lesser. We find or lose time, like a set of keys; we save and spend it, like money. Time creeps, crawls, flies, flees, flows, and stands still; it is abundant or scarce; it weighs on us with palpable heft. […]

Yet whatever one calls it, we share a rough idea of what’s meant: a lasting sense of one’s self moving in a sea of selves, dependent yet alone; a sense, or perhaps a deep and common wish, that I somehow belongs to we, and that this we belongs to something even larger and less comprehensible; and the recurring thought, so easy to brush aside in the daily effort to cross the street safely and get through one’s to-do list, much less to confront the world’s true crises, that my time, our time, matters precisely because it ends.

Illustration by Harvey Weiss from Time Is When by Beth Youman Gleick, 1960

From the temporal meditations of the ancient philosophers to the last hundred years of ingenious psychological experiments, Burdick goes on to explore such aspects of his subject — a nearly infinite subject, to be sure, which makes his endeavor all the more impressive — as why time dilates and contractsdepending on whether we are having fun or facing danger, how fetuses are able to coordinate their circadian activity, and what we are actually measuring when we speak of keeping time. In a fascinating chapter detailing the complex ecosystem of time-making — the inventionsstandardizations, and global teams of scientists responsible for measuring and synchronizing earthly time — Burdick reflects on the tremendous coordination of human efforts keeping the world’s clocks ticking:

Time is a social phenomenon. This property is not incidental to time; it is its essence. Time, equally in single cells as in their human conglomerates, is the engine of interaction. A single clock works only as long as it refers, sooner or later, obviously or not, to the other clocks around it. One can rage about it, and we do. But without a clock and the dais of time, we each rage in silence, alone.

Art by Lisbeth Zwerger for a special edition of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland

But our technologies are always prosthetic extensions of our consciousness — time, it turns out, is an innately social phenomenon not only in how it is measured, but in how it is experienced. Burdick cites the research of French neuropsychologist Sylvie Droit-Volet, who studies the warping of our temporal perception. In one experiment, she presented people with images of human faces — some neutral, some happy, some angry, some frightened — each displayed on the screen for anywhere between half a second to a second and a half. The research subjects were then asked to evaluate how long the faces appeared for.

She found that across images displayed for the same duration, happy faces were perceived to last longer than neutral ones and shorter than angry or fearful ones. Burdick explains:

The key ingredient seems to be a physiological response called arousal, which isn’t what you might think. In experimental psychology, “arousal” refers to the degree to which the body is preparing itself to act in some manner. It’s measured through heart rate and the skin’s electrical conductivity; sometimes subjects are asked to rate their own arousal in comparison to images of faces or puppet figures. Arousal can be thought of as the physiological expression of one’s emotions or, perhaps, as a precursor of physical action; in practice there may be little difference. By standard measures, anger is the most arousing emotion, for viewer and angry person alike, followed by fear, then happiness, then sadness. Arousal is thought to accelerate the pacemaker, causing more ticks than usual to accumulate in a given interval, thereby making emotionally laden images seem to last longer than others of equal duration… Physiologists and psychologists think of arousal as a primed physical state — not moving but poised to move. When we see movement, even implied movement in a static image, the thinking goes, we enact that movement internally. In a sense, arousal is a measure of your ability to put yourself in another person’s shoes.

Art by Oliver Tallec from This Is a Poem That Heals Fish by Jean-Pierre Simeón

We perform this kind of emotional mimicry intuitively and incessantly over the course of our daily social interactions, in some degree donning the emotional and mental outfit of each person with whom we come into close contact. But we are also, apparently, absorbing each other’s sense of time, which is encoded in our psychoemotional states. In another study, Droit-Volet found that research subjects perceived images of elderly faces to last shorter than they actually did and misjudged the duration of young faces in the opposite direction — viewers were essentially embodying the typically slower movements of the elderly. Burdick explains:

A slower clock ticks less often in a given interval of time; fewer ticks accumulate, so the interval is judged to be briefer than it actually is. Perceiving or remembering an elderly person induces the viewer to reenact, or simulate, their bodily states, namely their slow movement.

A book, Rebecca Solnit memorably wrote, is “a heart that only beats in the chest of another.” In a very real sense, we are each a temporally open book and empathy a clock that only ticks in the consciousness of another. Burdick writes:

Our shared temporal distortions can be thought of as manifestations of empathy; after all, to embody another’s time is to place oneself in his or her skin. We imitate each other’s gestures and emotions — but we’re more likely to do so, studies find, with people with whom we identify or whose company we would like to share.

[…]

Life dictates that we possess some sort of internal mechanism to keep time and monitor brief durations — yet the one we carry around can be thrown off course by the least emotional breeze. What’s the point of owning such a fallible clock? … Maybe there’s another way to think about it, Droit-Volet suggests. It’s not that our clock doesn’t run well; on the contrary, it’s superb at adapting to the ever-changing social and emotional environment that we navigate every day. The time that I perceive in social settings isn’t solely mine, nor is there just one cast to it, which is part of what gives our social interactions their shading. “There is thus no unique, homogeneous time but instead multiple experiences of time,” Droit-Volet writes in one paper. “Our temporal distortions directly reflect the way our brain and body adapt to these multiple times.” She quotes the philosopher Henri Bergson: “On doit mettre de côte le temps unique, seuls comptent les temps multiples, ceux de l’expérience.” We must put aside the idea of a single time, all that counts are the multiple times that make up experience.

Our slightest social exchanges — our glances, our smiles and frowns — gain potency from our ability to synchronize them among ourselves, Droit-Volet notes. We bend time to make time with one another, and the many temporal distortions we experience are indicators of empathy; the better able I am to envisage myself in your body and your state of mind, and you in mine, the better we can each recognize a threat, an ally, a friend, or someone in need. But empathy is a fairly sophisticated trait, a mark of emotional adulthood; it takes learning and time. As children grow and develop empathy, they gain a better sense of how to navigate the social world. Put another way, it may be that a critical aspect of growing up is learning how to bend our time in step with others. We may be born alone, but childhood ends with a synchrony of clocks, as we lend ourselves fully to the contagion of time.

Perhaps Borges was right, after all, that time is the substance we are made of.

Complement the thoroughly fascinating Why Time Flies with James Gleick on how our time-travel fantasies illuminate consciousness, Patti Smith on time and transformation, T.S. Eliot’s timeless ode to time, and Hannah Arendt on time, space, and our thinking ego, then revisit the story of how Rilke and Rodin gave birth to the modern meaning of empathy.