Friday, August 20, 2010

Rabindranath Tagore-life a poem.

A few days ago I was book by Tagore. It was old, 1917 and the page edges were ragged and soft as blotting paper but the words were bright as spring flowers.

" From this we find our ideal. Perpetual giving up is the truth of life. The perfection of this is our life's perfection. We are to make this life our poem in all its expressions; it must be fully suggestive of our soul which is infinite, not merely of our possessions which have no meaning in themselves. The consciousness of the infinite in us proves itself in our joy in giving ourselves out of our abundance. And then our work is the process of our renunciation, it is one with our life. It is like the flowing of the river, which is the river itself."

Reading the book was, for me like reading T S Eliot's Quartets. I think he was an influence on Eliot. The idea I also come away with is that the One is manifest in the Particular. I am imagining a paticular field of Himalayan primula.

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