Mandala of the Heart – Wednesday
Online Retreat: Mandala of the Heart
Wednesday 28 July
‘On the whole we choose not to fully take in the fact that we are impermanent’
Paramananda
Recordings
8am
Saluting the 3 Jewels
Reading
Unled 45 min meditation with bells to mark 5 stages
The moon reflected
In a mind clear
As still water:
Even the waves, breaking,
Are reflecting its light.
In a mind clear
As still water:
Even the waves, breaking,
Are reflecting its light.
Dogen
10.30 am
Talk by Paramananda
Amitabha mantra
Meditation
Laying down with drumming
Led sitting meditation
Song of The Seven Hearted Boy by Lorca
Seven hearts
are the hearts that I have.
But mine is not there among them.
In the high mountains, mother,
where I sometimes ran into the wind,
seven girls with long hands
carried me around in their mirrors.
I have sung my way through this world
with my mouth with its seven petals.
My crimson colour galleys
have cast off without rigging or oars.
I have lived my life in landscapes
that other men have owned.
And the secrets I wore at my throat,
unbeknownst to me, have come open.
In the high mountains, mother,
where my heart rises over its echoes
in the memory book of a star,
I sometimes ran into the wind.
Seven hearts
are the hearts that I have.
are the hearts that I have.
But mine is not there among them.
In the high mountains, mother,
where I sometimes ran into the wind,
seven girls with long hands
carried me around in their mirrors.
I have sung my way through this world
with my mouth with its seven petals.
My crimson colour galleys
have cast off without rigging or oars.
I have lived my life in landscapes
that other men have owned.
And the secrets I wore at my throat,
unbeknownst to me, have come open.
In the high mountains, mother,
where my heart rises over its echoes
in the memory book of a star,
I sometimes ran into the wind.
Seven hearts
are the hearts that I have.
But mine is not there among them.
Federico García Lorca
4pm
Sevenfold Puja in call and response led by Bodhilila and Paramananda
Ditty of First Desire
In the green morning
I wanted to be a heart.
A heart.
And in the ripe evening
I wanted to be a nightingale.
A nightingale.
(Soul,
turn orange-colored.
Soul,
turn the colour of love.)
In the vivid morning
I wanted to be myself.
A heart.
And at the evening’s end
I wanted to be my voice.
A nightingale.
Soul,
turn orange-colored.
Soul,
turn the colour of love.
Federico García Lorca
