WISDOM words

The conditions of a solitary bird are five:

The first, that it flies to the highest point;

The second, that it does not suffer for company,

not even of its own kind;

The third, that it aims its beak to the skies;

The forth, that it does not have a definite colour;

The fifth, that it sings very softly.

San Juan de la Cruz.  DICHOS DE LUZ Y AMOR

The self confidence of the warrior is not the self-confidence of the average man. The average man seeks certainty in the eyes of the onlooker and calls that self-confidence. The warrior seeks impecability in his own eyes and calls that humbleness. The average man is hooked to his fellow men while a warrior is hooked to infinity.

Only the idea of death makes a warrior sufficiently detached so that he is capable of abandoning himself to anything. He knows his death is stalking him and won't give him time to cling to anything, so he tries, without craving, all of everything.

We choose only once. We choose either to be warriors or to be ordinary men. A second choice does not exist. Not on this earth.

The core of our being is the act of perceiving, and the magic of our being is the act of awareness. Perception and awareness are a single, functional, inextricable unit.

One of the greatest forces in the lives of warriors is fear, because it spurs them to learn.

Nothing in this world is a gift. Whatever has to be learned must be learned the hard way.

A warrior has no honour, no dignity, no family, no name, no country; he has only life to be lived, and under these circumstances, his only tie to his fellow men is his controlled folly.

Teachings of Don Juan recorded by Carlos Castaneda in the “Wheel of Time”

Sun-olive skin,

And bare footed too,

With jasmine in her hair,

Tracing simple paths,

Past sunset mangos,

Brass pots and pans,

Woven fresh yellows,

Silk indigos and blues,

Where cross-legged tailors,

Sow tomorrow's worn lives,

There, by the shoe-Walla’s

Heap of soles.

Monkey-eyed boys,

Dash in and out,

Where turbans

And white sails of cloth,

Dodge carefree bikes

Ringing wild bells,

While the white cow,

Moos at the moon.

On she moves, gentle,

Untouched, through rising

Delicate passwords, into

Silent moss green temples,

Higher than soaring vultures

Where crystal snows,

Fall unseen.

Always there in the blueness of

Flowing sacred streams,

Cutting parched earth,

Across plains down to

Sandalwood mists,

Where pyres burning bodies,

Smoulder acrid death.

And there too, watching with

Ashen faces the mystic eye,

Amidst the drunken mantras of

Mesmerised skeletal sadhus,

Naked to the sun's wrath.

But on she wanders,

Never far from the heart,

Heart of the world,

The Motherland, India.