#day195 — Public Fediverse posts
Live and recent posts from across the Fediverse tagged #day195, aggregated by home.social.
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Tai buvo jaukus namelis kaime, su veja, kuri daugelį metų buvo kruopščiai pjaunama, voluojama ir ravima. Visa vieta buvo prižiūrėta, klestinti ir pilna džiaugsmo. Už namo buvo nedidelis daržas; tai buvo nuostabi vieta, šalia kurios tekėjo ramus upelis, beveik negirdimai čiurlenantis.
Durys atsivėrė ir buvo prilaikomos Budos statulos, pastumtos koja į vietą. Namelio šeimininkas visiškai nesuvokė, ką daro; jam tai buvo tik durų atrama. Susimąstei, ar jis taip pat pasielgtų su statula, kurią pats gerbia, nes jis buvo krikščionis.
Tu neigi kitų žmonių šventus dalykus, tačiau saugai savuosius. Kito žmogaus tikėjimai tau atrodo prietarai, o tavo paties – pagrįsti ir tikri.
Kas yra šventa?
Paplūdimyje jis buvo radęs jūros nugludintą medžio gabalą, primenantį žmogaus galvą. Jis buvo iš kietmedžio, suformuotas jūros vandens ir nuvalytas daugybės metų bei sezonų.
Jis parsivežė jį namo ir padėjo ant židinio lentynos. Kartkartėmis pažvelgdavo į jį ir grožėdavosi tuo, ką buvo sukūrusi jūra.
Vieną dieną jis padėjo šalia gėlių. Vėliau tai kartojosi kasdien. Jis pasijusdavo nejaukiai, jei nebūdavo šviežių gėlių. Pamažu tas medžio gabalas tapo labai svarbus jo gyvenime.
Jis neleisdavo niekam jo liesti, išskyrus save. Kiti galėjo jį išniekinti. Prieš liesdamas jį nusiplaudavo rankas.
Tas medžio gabalas tapo šventas ir sakralus. Jis vienintelis buvo jo vyriausiasis kunigas. Jis atstovavo jam. Tas daiktas pasakodavo jam apie dalykus, kurių jis pats niekada negalėtų pažinti.
Jo gyvenimas buvo tuo užpildytas, ir jis sakė esąs neapsakomai laimingas.
Kas yra šventa?
Ne tai, ką sukūrė protas, ranka ar jūra.
Simbolis niekada nėra tikrovė. Žodis „žolė“ nėra lauko žolė. Žodis „Dievas“ nėra Dievas.
Žodis niekada neapima visumos, kad ir koks gudrus būtų aprašymas.
Žodis „šventa“ pats savaime neturi reikšmės. Jis tampa šventas tik savo santykyje su kažkuo – tikru arba įsivaizduojamu.
Tai, kas tikra, nėra proto sukurti žodžiai. Tikrovės, tiesos, mintis negali paliesti.
Ten, kur yra stebėtojas, tiesos nėra.
Mąstytojas ir jo mintis turi baigtis, kad būtų tiesa.
Tuomet tai, kas yra, tampa šventa.
Ten, kur nėra meilės, nėra nieko švento. Meilė yra visuma, ir joje nėra jokio susiskaldymo.
From The Beauty of Life – Krishnamurti’s Journal
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It was a nice cottage in the country, with a lawn that had been mown, rolled and weeded for many a year. The whole place was well looked after, prosperous and joyful. Behind the house was a small vegetable garden; it was a lovely place with a gentle stream running beside, making hardly a sound. The door opened and was held back by a statue of the Buddha, kicked into place. The owner was totally unaware of what he was doing; to him it was a doorstop. You wondered if he would do the same with a statue he revered, for he was a Christian. You deny the sacred things of another, but you keep your own. The beliefs of another are superstitions, but your own are reasonable and real. What is sacred? On the beach, he had picked up a piece of seawashed wood in the shape of a human head. It was made of hardwood, shaped by the waters of the sea, cleansed by many seasons. He had brought it home and put it on the mantelpiece; he looked at it from time to time and admired what the sea had done. One day, he put some flowers around it, and then it happened every day; he felt uncomfortable if there were not fresh flowers every day, and gradually that piece of shaped wood became very important in his life. He would allow no one to touch it except himself; they might desecrate it; he washed his hands before he touched it. It had become holy, sacred, and he alone was the high priest of it; he represented it; it told him of things he could never know by himself. His life was filled with it, and he was, he said, unspeakably happy. What is sacred? Not the things made by the mind or hand or by the sea. The symbol is never the real; the word ‘grass’ is not the grass of the field; the word ‘God’ is not God. The word never contains the whole, however cunning the description. The word ‘sacred’ has no meaning by itself; it becomes sacred only in its relationship to something, illusory or real. What is real is not the words of the mind; reality, truth, cannot be touched by thought. Where the perceiver is, truth is not. The thinker and his thought must come to an end for truth to be. Then that which is, is sacred. Where there is no love, there is nothing sacred. Love is whole, and in it there is no fragmentation.
From The Beauty of Life – Krishnamurti’s Journal
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It was a nice cottage in the country, with a lawn that had been mown, rolled and weeded for many a year. The whole place was well looked after, prosperous and joyful. Behind the house was a small vegetable garden; it was a lovely place with a gentle stream running beside, making hardly a sound. The door opened and was held back by a statue of the Buddha, kicked into place. The owner was totally unaware of what he was doing; to him it was a doorstop. You wondered if he would do the same with a statue he revered, for he was a Christian. You deny the sacred things of another, but you keep your own. The beliefs of another are superstitions, but your own are reasonable and real. What is sacred? On the beach, he had picked up a piece of seawashed wood in the shape of a human head. It was made of hardwood, shaped by the waters of the sea, cleansed by many seasons. He had brought it home and put it on the mantelpiece; he looked at it from time to time and admired what the sea had done. One day, he put some flowers around it, and then it happened every day; he felt uncomfortable if there were not fresh flowers every day, and gradually that piece of shaped wood became very important in his life. He would allow no one to touch it except himself; they might desecrate it; he washed his hands before he touched it. It had become holy, sacred, and he alone was the high priest of it; he represented it; it told him of things he could never know by himself. His life was filled with it, and he was, he said, unspeakably happy. What is sacred? Not the things made by the mind or hand or by the sea. The symbol is never the real; the word ‘grass’ is not the grass of the field; the word ‘God’ is not God. The word never contains the whole, however cunning the description. The word ‘sacred’ has no meaning by itself; it becomes sacred only in its relationship to something, illusory or real. What is real is not the words of the mind; reality, truth, cannot be touched by thought. Where the perceiver is, truth is not. The thinker and his thought must come to an end for truth to be. Then that which is, is sacred. Where there is no love, there is nothing sacred. Love is whole, and in it there is no fragmentation.
From The Beauty of Life – Krishnamurti’s Journal