“And what the dead had no speech for, when living,
They can tell you, being dead: the communication
Of the dead is tongued with fire beyond the language of the living.”
— T.S. Eliot

Excerpt from my book, which includes, just as it does within the book, another one of the many poems, by famous poets (who are deceased), that seem to help corroborate what i write about:

   When we think that we are different and separate from our environment, we are wrong.  When we think that we are better than those around us, we are wrong.  When we think that we are special and that the others are not so special, we are wrong.  When we think that we are not so special, as the lucky ones are, we are wrong.  When we think that our skin is of the “better color,” we are wrong.  When we think that our country or religious organization is better, we are wrong.  When we think that fear is separate from what thought/thinking is, we are wrong.  When we think that cruel greed and indifferent selfishness can “get away with it” and exist in deep happiness, we are wrong.  When we think that the left arm that harms the right arm can truly be triumphant, we are wrong.  When we laugh at the dog that chases its own tail, yet (we) endlessly seek pleasure from one amusement after another, we are wrong.  When we think that silence, vast space, and quietness are merely barren voids of lifelessness, we are wrong.  When we think that life, sunlight, gravity, and space are all mere coincidences that will never happen again, we are wrong.  When we think that the big can exist without the little, we are wrong.  When we think that left can exist without right, we are wrong.  When we think that the sailor is not the sails, we are wrong.  When we think that the mountain-climber is not the mountain that he conquers, we are wrong.  When we think that the figure skater is not very slick, we are wrong.  When we think that the magician is not an illusion, we are wrong.  When we think that the “perceiver” is truly separate from “the perceived,” we are wrong.

from Walt Whitman:

     When the script preaches instead of the preacher,
     When the pulpit descends and goes instead of the carver
that carved the supporting desk,
     When I can touch the body of books by night or by day,
and when they touch my body back again,
     When a university course convinces like a slumbering
woman and child convince,
     When the minted gold in the vault smiles like the night-
watchman’s daughter,
     When warrantee deeds loafe in chairs opposite and are my
friendly companions,
     I intend to reach them my hand, and make as much of them
as I do of men and women like you.

Clearly beautiful. Photo by Thomas Peace c. 2016