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In memory of Roxie

 In memory of Roxie At the borderlands of Dewachen, the pure land of Buddha Amitabha, there is a peculiar stretch of land. It is reserved mainly for the dogs of people who practice the Dharma. There are predominantly dogs on that land, but exceptions occur. Occasionally, one could see the glimpse of some well-behaved cats, who keep themselves to themselves, and even a snake or two could be found, after the story of the White Snake came to be known. The dogs have some memories of their humans reciting sadhanas and prayers, they remember the mantras whispered in their fluffy ears; the memories of the smell of burning incense lingers on the tips of their noses; the taste of the tormas they somehow managed to snatch from the shrine still coats their tongs. All those conditions accumulated together produce the little dog paradise in which everything is as it should be in the world of dogs: The tennis balls are there for a chase whenever needed, and when they fly, they murmur softly...
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Homage to the Muses






I am desperately trying to remember an idea that I had earlier. It was so vivid, so good, that I was certain that I will remember it for years to come. A few hours later — nothing. Not a single shred of memory apart from the fact that it was good and important. 
Where do our thoughts come from? Are they stored somewhere, and we just put our hands down, grab one by the neck and take it to the surface of our mind? No? Do we produce them? I guess that is the answer of most. ‘It is my thought! I built it myself’? 
‘Out of what’, I would ask.
I always had the feeling that the thoughts do not belong to me. It always feels rather magical to have an idea and most of the time I don’t feel happy receiving the credit for it. I feel like a fraud, like a pretender. 

People in older times were somehow humbler. They believed in the existence of the Muses, and I find this very agreeable. How wonderfully humble that idea is! I produce something, but only if I am inspired by the gods. So ‘me’ is not that important. ‘Me’ doesn’t work by itself, but only in combination with the spirits.

As a Buddhist, although I find this not completely compliant  with my views, I regard it as sufficient. From a practical point a view, it works. It reduces the self-obsession and acknowledges the interconnectedness of things. 
So please dear poets and creators, next time, when you produce something, make a little offering to the Muses. It will only do you good. 

Comments

  1. Petya8 March 2025 at 07:22

    To the Muses!

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Lucy8 March 2025 at 09:01

      Thank you 🙏🏽 that feels so good to hear, and brings spaciousness. And peace.

      Delete
  2. Anonymous9 March 2025 at 10:31

    and the notification for this arrived exactly when I needed to read it! Thank you 🙏🏻 Anne

    ReplyDelete
  3. Frans Horbach6 November 2025 at 05:57

    So I ordered and received - yesterday- the translated text of the profound ‘Words of my perfect teacher’ by Patrul Rinpoche; and now, in the middle of this full moon night, trying (via Google) to find out more about the Padmakara Translation Group, I learned about the various Tibetan centers in France and then stumbled on your blog. And I now remember that in the mid 70’s I was in that chateau, which previously was owned by mr Benson, and that at that time I witnessed the arrival of a young Tibetan boy/lama who was approached by the lamas with the highest respect. I could see how the boy gave his blessings with such royal dignity, and I wondered about the nature of his youthful appearance. At that time I knew little about the intricacies of Tibetan Buddhism (I still don’t). But the memory came back with a halo of subliminal thoughts.
    And now I remember a holiday visit with my mother to Varna on the Black Sea. I don’t remember exactly when, but It was the first year that the communist government of Bulgaria allowed some western tourists to visit. In our hotel worked a student my age, who told me that he was not allowed to enter in communication with tourists; but we were young and did meet in secret anyway. The Bulgarian student in our hotel had warned me about the secret police, to be careful; and indeed I soon found that I was being followed. A few days later I was arrested and brought to a police station for questioning. I am Dutch, but the police assumed I was a spy and understood Bulgarian or Russian. I remained in good flower-power hippy mindset and watched in mild astonishment what was happening. Eventually I was released. You wrote about growing up in communist Bulgaria and the longing to be free, to be curious, to ask the deep questions, and to live a meaningful life, to be creative and open for Muse’s inspiration. I remember seeing that longing in the student I met in the hotel, but I didn’t realise at that time the political/environmental/social context he was living in.
    So, thank you, my name is Frans Horbach and I live in Amsterdam.

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