Beatriz Martinez: Golpya (Spanish Folk)


"The difference between a tourist and a pilgrim: A tourist has a lot of expectation and very little acceptance, A pilgrim has no expectations and a lot of acceptance." ~Satish Kumar~

Click below to listen (you can also download here):




Love's deeper commitment 
by Jeff Foster


Let's not commit to a future together. The future is so unknown, and we are so fluid, and tired of pretending that we know.

Our thoughts and feelings are ever-changing, uncontrollable, like a wild ocean of love. Our desires wax and wane; our dreams are born and die in every moment.

Let's not commit to a form of love. The forms are always shifting, like the tides. We do not need security here. We are not seeking comfort, but Truth. Let's make a deeper commitment; one that cannot be broken or lost.

To presence. To meeting in the here-and-now. To bringing all of ourselves. To knowing, and letting ourselves be known. To telling the truth, today; knowing that our truth may change tomorrow. To bowing before each other, even if our hearts are broken and tender.

No promises, no guarantees.

Loving takes courage! Yes!

For love is a field, not a form. Let us commit to the field, remember the field in every moment of our precious days on this Earth.

In ten years' time, we may still be together. We may have children. We may live together, or live apart. We may never see each other again. This may be our last day.

If we are honest, we really do not know; not knowing is our Home.

We may be friends, or lovers, or strangers, or family, or we may remain undefined, beyond narrative, our love unable to be captured in words.

Here at the edge of the known, on the line that once divided sanity from madness, and doubt from certainty, we play, we dance, we drink tea, we touch each other, we cry, we laugh, we meet.

We sacrifice comfort and predictability. But what we gain is astonishing: This tremendous sense of being alive. No longer numb to the mysteries of love, the mysteries of our bodies.

A little raw, perhaps. A little shaky. Maybe a little disoriented, but perhaps this is the price of being totally free.

Maybe an old part of us still seeks mommy or daddy, that Magic Person who will never leave, always be there, take away the loneliness repressed in our guts. Loving that frightened part too; bowing to that part too, but no longer being controlled by it.

And they will ask:
What about your future?
What happens if you have children?
How the hell do you define yourselves?
Why are you afraid of commitment?
Why do you run from security? Comfort? Future?


They will say you are crazy, or you don't understand love, or you are lost, or you are unloving and selfish, and you will smile, and understand their fear, for their fear was once yours, and you cannot abandon your path now.

And nobody has to walk with you. Ever.

At some point, only Truth will satisfy. A living Truth, renewing itself each and every moment, the wild Truth of the open heart.

When Love and Truth are One, when the Commitment is deeply rooted in the breath, we can finally face each other without resentment, and explode into the most melancholy sunsets, held in the most profound joy.

Walking alone, together, alone.
 



 

Antonio Machado
“Cantares”

 
Todo pasa y todo queda,
pero lo nuestro es pasar,
pasar haciendo caminos,
caminos sobre el mar.
 

Hace algún tiempo en ese lugar
donde hoy los bosques se visten de espinos
se oyó la voz de un poeta gritar
"Caminante no hay camino,
se hace camino al andar..."
 
Golpe a golpe, verso a verso...
Golpe a golpe, verso a verso...
Golpe a golpe, verso a veeeerso...

 
Murió el poeta lejos del hogar.
Le cubre el polvo de un país vecino
Al alejarse le vieron llorar.
"Caminante no hay camino,
se hace camino al andar..."
 
Golpe a golpe, verso a verso...
Golpe a golpe, verso a verso...
Golpe a golpe, verso a versoooo...

 
Cuando el jilguero no puede cantar.
Cuando el poeta es un peregrino,
cuando de nada nos sirve rezar.
"Caminante no hay camino,
se hace camino al andar..."

Golpe a golpe, verso a verso...
Golpe a golpe, verso a verso...
Golpe a golpe, verso a versoooo...


Antonio Machado

“Singings”
Everything passes and everything stays,
but our fate is to pass,
to pass making paths,
paths on the sea.

Some time ago in that place
where woods dress with hawthorns today
the voice of a poet was heard, screaming
'Walker, there is no path,
the path is made when walking...'

 
Stroke by stroke, verse by verse...
Stroke by stroke, verse by verse...
Stroke by stroke, verse by verse...

 
The poet died far away from home.
He's covered by dust of a neighboring
When going away, they saw him crying.
'Walker, there is no path,
the path is made when walking...'

 
Stroke by stroke, verse by verse...
Stroke by stroke, verse by verse...
Stroke by stroke, verse by verse...

 
When the goldfinch cannot sing.
When the poet is a pilgrim,
when praying has no use.
'Walker, there is no path,
the path is made when walking...'

 
Stroke by stroke, verse by verse...
Stroke by stroke, verse by verse...
Stroke by stroke, verse by verse...



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