poem

Eldering - Eldership

A head of gray hairs
Doesn't mean one's an elder.
Advanced in years,
One's called an old fool.

But one in whom there is
Truth, restraint,
Rectitude, gentleness,
Self-control--
He's called an elder,
His impurities disgorged,
Enlightened.

Going Commercial

Here is a harvest poem from an open space session on AOH and business from Steve Skinner from Leeds in UK. (recent  Art of Hosting training in UK).

Going Commercial
 
With the public and private sector, how do we make a start?
Do I just talk about their problems, or ask what they feel in their heart?
 
And how do I get an invite? Should I focus on just one thing?
Shall I make a dynamic, high profile, power point presentation -
Or just turn up and sing?
 
And what is my marketing strategy – how can I best explain?
When really I just build relationships and heal their hurt and pain.
 
Can I use a dialogue? What’s my methodology?  read more »

A cut is a cut

Tagged with:
I find that when i enter living as practice subtle shifts occur 
moment by moment.......

everything becomes practice then
a cut is a cut
a letting go of a cut is a cut

Even a cut from what may be my ego is practice
how it hurts me and others  is  a teaching
to inspire more practice
to act with less ego
and more trust
in harmony with  the ever unfoldingness

to not fear ego as the enemy
to make my shadow a worthy opponent
 read more »

Moving from my heart

moving from my heart 
I enter the unknow

finding life each day...
as the scale grows organically
I respond as I can best
almost as a relunctant warrior for peace

but what have I got to loose
by giving of myself

letting go
to the hidden 
but subtle harmony 
within
 
Offered by Toke Møller
April 2008 

Societal wealth

The Fieldnotes, an online magazine, by the Shambhala Institute makes always good reading. I was amazed this time by an article - Forest Wealth - that speaks about the hosting that a forest does. The autor, Jim Drescher, tries then to make the link with creation of social wealth.

Here are the main questions he raises:  read more »

Watermark Sacred

Tagged with:

WATERMARK SACRED
by Cliff Penwell


We are the slowest of the swimming mammals,
trapped in places where souls would not travel
of their own, but for the longing rooted in us.

Flight is still a mystery: by day our thin arms
do nothing for us; only at night do wishes
become owl's wings, lifting heavy bodies
dreaming more of breath than of blood.

For a litle while yet we must console
ourselves with images of stars--
little boxes, mirrors and wires sing to us
of our own majesty, ephemeral and layered
in tissues of glass and steel.

Where did we go? What happened to our
breath of creation, the alchemy of moist  read more »

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