Forgetting and Finding


I might at times
dwell in the land
of forgetting
The moss growing
under rock,
the wind telling stories
The grass keeping
my feet warm, the
quilt of sky too
This is when the
inky specter of
thought takes over
Forging a world that
veils the true colour
and sound of things
And takes me along
a route that my
heart cannot follow
Until I hear the bellowing
cry and become aware
of all I have forgotten
And now my heart has
found her audience,
and she will not let go
And nor do I want her to,
she, so fierce, beautiful
and wise, when broken too
She opens the most
ornate gates on all the vistas,
she lights the brightest stars
And it feels we, us and
world, have always been
waiting for this this moment
Waiting, with perfect patience,
and this, I have come to see,
is the love that saves us. – TS

The Moon Tree


There is a tree in the world
that brings the moon home
so we can sit that much closer
and peer into the nature of our passing
through the grand scope of eternity.
Imagine those who climb the tree,
tasked with removing the obstacles
to our vision and experience of
infinity, loops, and circularity,
with each clip taking us closer
to the grand narrative of
our origin and our trajectory,
so conjoined with the mission
to offer truth and contemplation
that, even from a place so near,
the view comes into being,
the shape of life emerges
so that we may all come to see. – TS

This is the Meaning of Practice

Tammy T. Stone

Tammy T. Stone

I haven’t seen her in years—a feisty, mama-bear, older woman selling books to tourists in a sleepy Thai town by a river.

Kanchanaburi is not far from Bangkok, famous for its River Kwai and immortalized in the movie “The Bridge on the River Kwai,” inspired by the horrible events surrounding the building of the bridge during WWII.

It’s a serene kind of place to find a hammock and veg out for a few days (or lose track of time entirely), though it can jam up with tourists given its history, proximity to Bangkok, and gorgeous river views.

I used to live in Bangkok, and would make the short trip to Kanchanaburi often, to get away from the screeching city (that I love dearly). It had everything I needed: an airy, if sparsely furnished room dangling over the river; delicious food, and long, winding roads, both along the main drag and along the river—great for ambling walks.

And then there was the bookshop, conveniently located near my guesthouse. You could call this junction where the bookshop met the sprawling guesthouse entrance a “hub” the way a saloon is the hub of a Western movie situated on the frontier to nowhere.

It was perfect.

The books on offer were mostly English, stacked inside and outside the shop like faded jewels in various states of disrepair, and each transported me to a far-off world (including the world of memories), reading many of these same titles back home, which seemed such a great distance away.

The owner also had three ancient computers people used for the Internet. They often broke down, and when she couldn’t fix them, she’d ask her grandson, a boy of about 10 who hung around after school, to get to it. He always triumphed, as long as we could wait for his videogame to end.

She and I would only occasionally chat, notably during one visit soon after being bitten by a rabid dog in Indonesia. I had to get shots monthly for a while, and there was a good hospital nearby. She fussed over my small wound, let me use the computer much longer than I was supposed to, and fed me bananas.

Once, I offered to alphabetize her books, and she happily agreed, plying me with more bananas as I worked.

She was friendly in a no-nonsense kind of way, a tiny wisp of a thing. I never learned how long she’d been running the shop, how she found her way into this business, or how she felt about so many tourists hanging around her town.

One evening, I started out for the bridge later than I was normally out. As I rounded the corner, I saw her outside, taking books off a tall unit of shelves fastened to the wall. I suddenly realized that every single evening, she had to take hundreds of books off their shelves, and store them inside the small shop. Every morning, she had to put them back on the shelves.

Everyday, she was collapsing and rebuilding a significant part of her shop.

I guess I thought she’d merely cover them with tarp, or maybe I didn’t guess anything at all. But I was shocked at this twice-daily task that formed part of her modest business.

This time, I was just back from my first 10-day meditation retreat, a few hours away near the Burmese border. I had spent hours agonizing over how the time would ever pass, and how I would survive day after day doing nothing but follow my breath, which I grew to seriously dislike for at least a few minutes hourly.

I learned that in my raw, unfettered state, I was a person with very little patience; what a thick veneer between my functioning public persona and the caged animal within—that’s how it felt at times, anyway. I feared I would never learn how to treat myself, or others with kindness. Instead, I observed myself constantly wanting to be anywhere other than where I was, even if I didn’t have a clue where.

Now, here I was, watching a woman, for the thousandth time or far more, patiently picking books off shelves—a few at a time—to lock up for the night. She moved methodically, rhythmically, spritely. I don’t want to pretend I know what she was feeling inside or romanticize her life in any way, but to me, it seemed she was embodying a great practice in the art of living.

I was humbled and inspired. What a great teacher to have met.

Sometimes, when I find myself slipping into not wanting to do what I perceive to be tedious or undesirable, I think of this remarkable woman, and remember that patience—which, ultimately, is kindness, compassion, belief and love—can breathe everywhere, if I let it.

Life is our great stage for spiritual practice and growth, and that means that everything in life becomes part of this practice.

How wondrous it can be.

6 Love Letters to Nature.

Tammy T. Stone

Tammy T. Stone

The heady first moments of love are a vortex. They cause swirls of emotion, the forgetting of time…and the writing of gushy letters to the object of our love.

Once we step off the perches of this dizzying elixir, we see that our relationships with others and the love that emerges must be founded on our relationship with (and love for) ourselves, and who are we, if not creatures intimately bound up with the Earth, as a geographic, environmental and spiritual space?

Throughout our lives, we are moving with the tides of our primary relationships. We have these with our parents and siblings, certainly, as well as other key, early influences. We also have this, essentially and always, with nature.

It’s no wonder writers have long expressed, through their poetry, letters and other form of writing, their wonder—rapture, really—at the bounty of Earth’s offerings. Earth is where we can be nourished, sustained, reclaimed.

Sometimes, in my own writing, I struggle to find the words to express the magnitude of what bubbles up inside of me—the muse is a fickle, if brilliant and cathartic one!

I love turning to the inspired writings of others, who capture in so many different voices and so beautifully, what it means to live among the elements that shape and define us and accompany us on our life journey.

I hope you enjoy these stunning expressions of love for the nature that permeates our lives.

1. A Letter to Nature by Sue Monk Kidd

Dear God,

I love this tree.

I love the light filtering through the moss and the leaves.

I love all your earth songs — the breeze rustling through the grass, the rhythm of the crickets, the beating of the wings.

Here, surrounded and permeated by your creation, I feel you. I feel life. I know myself, connected.

O God, is there anything you’ve made that can’t pour life and healing into me?

When I think of the simplicity and extravagance of creation, I want to bend down and write the word “yes” across the earth so you can see it.

2. Excerpt from his book, Love Letter to the Earth, by Thich Nhat Hanh.

We can be like the Buddha, and in difficult moments touch the Earth as our witness. We can take refuge in the Earth as our original mother. We can say, “I touch the pure and refreshing Earth.” Whatever nationality or culture we belong to, whatever religion we follow, whether we’re Buddhists, Christians, Muslims, Jews, or atheists, we can all see that Mother Earth is a great bodhisattva. When we see her in this way, with all her many virtues, we will walk more gently on her and treat her and all her children more gently. We will want to protect her and not harm her or any of the myriad forms of life she has given birth to. We will stop wreaking destruction and violence on Mother Earth. We will resolve the question of what we mistakenly call “the environmental problem.” The Earth is not just the environment. The Earth is us. Everything depends on whether we have this insight or not.

When you’re able to see the Earth for the bodhisattva that she is, you will want to bow down and touch the Earth with reverence and respect. Then love and care will be born in your heart. This awakening is enlightenment. Don’t look for enlightenment elsewhere. This awakening, this enlightenment, will bring about a great transformation in you, and you’ll have more happiness, more love, and more understanding than from any other practice. Enlightenment, liberation, peace, and joy aren’t dreams for the future; they’re a reality available to us in the present moment.

3. Excerpt from her poem, God the Artist, by Angela Morgan.

God, when you chiseled a raindrop,
How did you think of a stem,
Bearing a lovely satin leaf
To hold the tiny gem?
How did you know a million drops
Would deck the morning’s hem?

Why did you mate the moonlit night
With the honeysuckle vines?
How did you know Madeira bloom
Distilled ecstatic wines?
How did you weave the velvet disk
Where tangled perfumes are?
God, when you thought of a pine tree,
How did you think of a star?

4. Morning Rain, by Tu Fu.

A slight rain comes, bathed in dawn light.
I hear it among treetop leaves before mist
Arrives. Soon it sprinkles the soil and,
Windblown, follows clouds away. Deepened

Colors grace thatch homes for a moment.
Flocks and herds of things wild glisten
Faintly. Then the scent of musk opens across
Half a mountain—and lingers on past noon.

5. “Nature” is what we see, by Emily Dickinson.

“Nature” is what we see—
The Hill—the Afternoon—
Squirrel—Eclipse—the Bumble bee—
Nay—Nature is Heaven—
Nature is what we hear—
The Bobolink—the Sea—
Thunder—the Cricket—
Nay—Nature is Harmony—
Nature is what we know—
Yet have no art to say—
So impotent Our Wisdom is
To her Simplicity.

6. The Endearing Sea, by Dobashi Jiju.

As I lived far away from the sea,
it gradually passed more out of my mind every day,
like its distance.
After days and days,
it became like a dot, no longer looking like a sea.
I felt compelled to go the movies
to see the sea
on the screen.
But when I slept at night,
the sea came to me, pushing down my chest
and raising clear blue waves.
I just slept, even in the daytime,
the sea kept mounting big waves
on my chest,
covering me with spray from a storm.
And sometimes it washed up beautiful white bones,
which had sunk to its bottom,
up around my ribs.

Bonus: How can I resist including a Kerouac quote here?

Maybe that’s what life is … a wink of the eye and winking stars.”