April 3, 2008

The more living the heart, the more sensitive it is; but that which causes sensitiveness is the love-element in the heart, and love is God. The person whose heart is not sensitive is without feeling; his heart is not living, it is dead. In that case the divine Spirit is buried in his heart. A person who is always concerned with his own feelings is so absorbed in himself that he has no time to think of another. His whole attention is taken up with his own feelings. He pities himself, he worries about his own pain, and is never open to sympathize with others. He who takes notice of the feelings of another person with whom he comes in contact, practices the first essential moral of Sufism.

--Hazrat Inayat Khan

It is a paradox...

Because Empaths are ultra-sensory, there is a tendency to become self-absorbed, in both pleasure and pain...

The remedy is releasing oneself from one's own pleasure or pain and then sharing the pleasure or pain of another in the act of service...and thereby coming to a better understanding of the sensory experience that was released...

If you love something...let it go...
It will return, a hidden treasure.

Like dandelions:

Dandelions
by Howard Nemerov

These golden heads, these common suns
Only less multitudinous
Than grass itself that gluts
The market of the world with green,
They shine as lovely as they're mean,
Fine as the daughters of the poor
Who go proudly in spangles of brass;
Light-headed, then headless, stalked for a salad.
Inside a week they will be seen
Stricken and old, ghosts in the field
To be picked up at the lightest breath,
With brazen tops all shrunken in
And swollen green gone withered white.
You'll say it's nature's price for beauty
That goes cheap; that being light
Is justly what makes girls grow heavy;
And that the wind, bearing their death,
Whispers the second kingdom come.
—You'll say, the fool of piety,
By resignations hanging on
Until, still justified, you drop.
But surely the thing is sorrowful,
At evening, when the light goes out
Slowly, to see those ruined spinsters,
All down the field their ghostly hair,
Dry sinners waiting in the valley
For the last word and the next life
And the liberation from the lion's mouth.

And when I die, mingle my ashes with dandelion seeds, and toss us to the winds...
Liberated from and again to be swallowed by the lion's mouth.

ALA!!!

Hakima