Blog Archives

Who Is This Aliveness I Am?

Notes from Path and Pen, A weekend conference on writing as spiritual practice.
Created and facilitated by Rabbi Rami Shapiro

God is a verb in Hebrew. God is what’s happening; everything is an expression of God.
God is the ocean, we are the waves.
Ours is narrow mind, God is spacious mind.
The point is transforming consciousness from ego wave to ocean.
Narrow mind is safe and inoffensive, ocean is wild and raw and true.
Wild God is in the wilderness.
Spiritual practice is about learning ways to get out of the way of God’s indwelling Spirit.
We don’t write, we just write it down.
We are not writing what we know, but what we need to know.
Writing is a way of becoming whole.
Writing is a practice, not a hobby.
Kabalah is to receive transformative grace from God.The test is not in altered states, but altered traits. We need grace not to be freed from want, but freed from need. Centering in the present moment can do that.
Spirituality is not a feeling, but a quality of being, the quality of being awake to God present in, with, and as all reality.
In writing, form is not as important as the right intent…..something done for its own sake. When you write simply to write, not to achieve fame, fortune, or even enlightenment, then whatever form you chose has the potential to awaken you to the presence of God.

Quoted from Rami Shapiro, an award winning poet and essayist.  He is an ordained rabbi and holds a doctoral degree in religious studies. Two of his recent books are: The Divine Feminine, Annotated and Explained, and The Sacred Art of Lovingkindness.

Follow Your Own Weirdness

The title quote is from Ray Waddle, a writer.

Poets are prophets. They can speak things they don’t know yet.  From  a talk by Shelley Warren.

Altered states are easy, altered traits are difficult. From Rabbi Rami Shapiro.

And to keep a perspective…. two passed on by my son Steve:

Shhhh!  is the sound of no one caring what you think.

and

No matter how great your sorrow or how great your pain, one billion, three hundred million Chinese don’t give a _______.

And a memory of a moment of truth from my youngest son, Tommy.  When he wasn’t quite three yet, I tried to get him to speak  for a tape recording to send to my mother, who lived in another state.  He stared silently at the recorder, so I  encouraged him to say who he was.  He not only remained mute, he became obviously upset.  Finally he burst out in an anguished voice, “I’m somebody!  I’m somebody!”

A universal cry, I believe.