Photograph courtesy of Sara Fancy
By Richard Griffin
Sally and I stand at the top of a rolling hill in the pasture. A horse is peacefully grazing some distance away. Spread around us are multi-colored sport cones. They represent Sally's family. Some of them have been tipped over to indicate that this person is deceased or presumed dead. Sally is here hoping to shed light on a dissatisfaction that has been gnawing at her. Where does it come from? What is it about?
Suddenly, she gets the answer. I can see her posture, expression, and breathing simultaneously relax.
These are the signs of an understanding that is deeper than just intellect. It is knowledge that is felt more than spoken. The horse, who has been happily ignoring us, recognizes the change as well and comes over to stand next to her. She looks at the horse and begins to sob. I ask her what just happened.
By Suzi Tucker
What is the difference between teachers and gods? Between students and supplicants?
Well, one difference is in the level of freedom that they have. The teacher-student relationship assumes the freedom to change. In other words, when the teacher shifts his or her way of teaching or even what is being explored, the student is free to follow or to withdraw. In this freedom, the student allows himself or herself to continue to receive from what has already been learned.
The learning experience is complete with respect to the relationship to the particular teacher, but the potential unfoldings over time are limitless. In this way, a decision to stay with a particular teacher is not actually a decision to stay, but rather it is a moment to choose anew.
And the teacher is free to build upon the original ideas — adding to, reexamining, reframing and continuing to value what has been even as he or she moves toward the new. When the insights and gathered knowledge of the past can be integrated, rather than dismissed or rejected, the backbone of the future is strengthened.
“No one knows your name until you draw your last breath.” -- Rumi
By Rosalba Stocco, MSW, RSW
When I first heard this line from Rumi, it left me dumbstruck. What does it mean? It can’t be true. My family knows my name. My friends know my name. I knew my parents’ names. What in the world does it mean?
“It means that people don’t really know you until after you are gone.” That’s what Jacqueline told me. And then the pieces fell together for me. How sad, my children will not really know me until I draw my last breath and then some?
I then thought of my parents: Amalia Semenzin, my mother, and Luigi Cadorin, my father. When they died 20 and 30 years ago, I really thought I knew them. I knew them as their Canadianized youngest daughter.
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