Charles Thornely: In this subtly powerful book, the author addresses the psychoses, the neuroses and affilictions that few of us are spared in todays fast-moving and ever-changing society.
As a Buddhist practitioner and experienced psychotherapist strongly influenced by Carl Rogers, Mr Brazier talks us through how the process of therapy can be enhanced by the humility, openness, & unconditional respect of the practitioner (working, of course, with the client as a co-traveller on life's journey.) In contrast to the reliance on the sacred cows of much modern psychology such as "MY life","My rights", etc., he offers a deeper and far more profound hope for sufferers by letting go and probing beneath the symptoms to rediscover one's original spontaneous nature, one's humanity, one's connectedness, even one's vulnerability, the source of all healing.
Written engagingly with a quiet authority, the book is highly recommended for anyone involved in psychotherapy (officially or informally),for those interested in discovering more regarding Buddhist concepts and philosophy, and for any spiritual seekers who sense a void at the heart of everyday life. This book, devoid of sentimentality, but most empathetic in tone and flavour, offers enormous hope and encouragement.https://www.amazon.com/Zen-Therapy-Buddhist-Approach-Psychotherapy/dp/1841193526
WORDS OF HONEN SHONIN
“To talk about the profound meaning of Nembutsu is rather superficial. (Pursuing the profound meaning of Nembutsu too much often ends in shallow understanding.) Have a profound wish to be born in the Pure Land, instead of pursuing the profound meaning, and you will surely attain the Birth.”
POETRY CORNERLittle Brass Bell - Liz Allmark
In the shape of a girl
With a long skirt
A bygone of another age
In a junk shop
But in this time
It speaks of times
Who used the bell?
For what purpose?
A woman summoning a maid?
A woman in bed asking for help?
Or just a pleasant ornament
On a shelf
To be used
As and when necessary.
So many ideas
In a bell.There was a Child Went Forth - Walt Whitman, 1856Yaya de Andrade
: Today we discussed this text and I think you must publish it in the newsletter so the Global Sangha will read it.
There was a child went forth every day,
And the first object he look'd upon, that object he became,
And that object became part of him for the day or a certain part
of the day,
Or for many years or stretching cycles of years.
The early lilacs became part of this child,
And grass and white and red morning-glories, and white and red
clover, and the song of the phoebe-bird,
And the Third-month lambs and the sow's pink-faint litter, and
the mare's foal and the cow's calf,
And the noisy brood of the barnyard or by the mire of the pond-
And the fish suspending themselves so curiously below there, and
the beautiful curious liquid,
And the water-plants with their graceful flat heads, all became part
The field-sprouts of Fourth-month and Fifth-month became part
Winter-grain sprouts and those of the light-yellow corn, and the
esculent roots of the garden,
And the apple-trees cover'd with blossoms and the fruit afterward,
and wood-berries, and the commonest weeds by the road,
And the old drunkard staggering home from the outhouse of the
tavern whence he had lately risen,
And the schoolmistress that pass'd on her way to the school,
And the friendly boys that pass'd, and the quarrelsome boys,
And the tidy and fresh-cheek'd girls, and the barefoot negro boy
And all the changes of city and country wherever he went.
His own parents, he that had father'd him and she that had con-
ceiv'd him in her womb and birth'd him,
They gave this child more of themselves than that,
They gave him afterward every day, they became part of him.
The mother at home quietly placing the dishes on the supper-
The mother with mild words, clean her cap and gown, a whole-
some odor falling off her person and clothes as she walks by,
The father, strong, self-sufficient, manly, mean, anger'd, unjust,
The blow, the quick loud word, the tight bargain, the crafty lure,
The family usages, the language, the company, the furniture, the
yearning and swelling heart,
Affection that will not be gainsay'd, the sense of what is real, the
thought if after all it should prove unreal,
The doubts of day-time and the doubts of night-time, the curious
whether and how,
Whether that which appears so is so, or is it all flashes and specks?
Men and women crowding fast in the streets, if they are not flashes
and specks what are they?
The streets themselves and the façades of houses, and goods in
Vehicles, teams, the heavy-plank'd wharves, the huge crossing at
The village on the highland seen from afar at sunset, the river
Shadows, aureola and mist, the light falling on roofs and gables of
white or brown two miles off,
The schooner near by sleepily dropping down the tide, the little
boat slack-tow'd astern,
The hurrying tumbling waves, quick-broken crests, slapping,
The strata of color'd clouds, the long bar of maroon-tint away
solitary by itself, the spread of purity it lies motionless in,
The horizon's edge, the flying sea-crow, the fragrance of salt
marsh and shore mud,
These became part of that child who went forth every day, and
who now goes, and will always go forth every day.