Sunday, January 30, 2011
Grace
I was fortunate enough to hear this in real time played by the magical talent of Yo Yo Ma andAnthony Mc Gill at the CSO
Saturday, January 29, 2011
She was the apple of his eye...
THERE WAS A MAN
There was a man who took a wife
To walk beside him through his life
They walked through sunshine and through rain
They walked through pleasure and through pain
She wore a dress of yellow gold
She was a wonder to behold
And underneath a purple sky
She was the apple of his eye
And when the moon arose in flight
And stars went blazing in the night
They crept into each other’s dream
And slept beside a silver stream
They flew together through the air
And landed on a distant shore
They walked along a golden strand
They walked together hand in hand
She was not the easiest woman in the world
To get along with if you understand
But then again on the other hand
He may not have been the easiest man
But when the moon arose in fright
And stars went blazing in the night
They crept into each other’s dream
And slept beside a silver stream
The world will turn and the rivers flow
The sun will shine and the winds will blow
While angels in the afterglow
Will light their candles in the snow
There was a man who took a wife
To walk beside him through his life
They walked through sunshine and through rain
They walked through pleasure and through pain
She wore a dress of yellow gold
She was a wonder to behold
And underneath a purple sky
She was the apple of his eye
There was a man who took a wife
To walk beside him through his life
They walked through sunshine and through rain
They walked through pleasure and through pain
She wore a dress of yellow gold
She was a wonder to behold
And underneath a purple sky
She was the apple of his eye
And when the moon arose in flight
And stars went blazing in the night
They crept into each other’s dream
And slept beside a silver stream
They flew together through the air
And landed on a distant shore
They walked along a golden strand
They walked together hand in hand
She was not the easiest woman in the world
To get along with if you understand
But then again on the other hand
He may not have been the easiest man
But when the moon arose in fright
And stars went blazing in the night
They crept into each other’s dream
And slept beside a silver stream
The world will turn and the rivers flow
The sun will shine and the winds will blow
While angels in the afterglow
Will light their candles in the snow
There was a man who took a wife
To walk beside him through his life
They walked through sunshine and through rain
They walked through pleasure and through pain
She wore a dress of yellow gold
She was a wonder to behold
And underneath a purple sky
She was the apple of his eye
Friday, January 28, 2011
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Thoughts in an early winter dawn
a self that needs to be remembered
so as to be invited back
again
the things
I have left behind
scattered parts of
me
for what self derived
intent
a black yoga mat that is casted with my imprint
a black velvet scarf
a box of oatmeal
left behind with and without intention,
without asking
for what
a sky blue specked mug
that fits in the palm
of only
my hand
a Gene Corbet print of a
woman reclining
tickets to the opera
parts of myself fragments,fractured,scattered
in the guise of
generosity
one should
not force the creation
of a memory
one can not force
attachment
by a
wish to be acknowledged
beneficence
not just the bargain
we make only with ourselves
to be known outside
the borders of our
skin
I want to collect the pieces of
myself
that i have left
asunder
the only
that remains is beyond
my control
is that of
vague colors, images , tone,sounds,impressions
reflections
that ebb in the crevices of
memory
time
that which I can not
nor wish not to
control
i want to
collect that which I
have left behind randomly
having
expected something
in return
conjured up by
what i left behind
i want all of
me
whole
now
by Rhiannon 1/25/2011
so as to be invited back
again
the things
I have left behind
scattered parts of
me
for what self derived
intent
a black yoga mat that is casted with my imprint
a black velvet scarf
a box of oatmeal
left behind with and without intention,
without asking
for what
a sky blue specked mug
that fits in the palm
of only
my hand
a Gene Corbet print of a
woman reclining
tickets to the opera
parts of myself fragments,fractured,scattered
in the guise of
generosity
one should
not force the creation
of a memory
one can not force
attachment
by a
wish to be acknowledged
beneficence
not just the bargain
we make only with ourselves
to be known outside
the borders of our
skin
I want to collect the pieces of
myself
that i have left
asunder
the only
that remains is beyond
my control
is that of
vague colors, images , tone,sounds,impressions
reflections
that ebb in the crevices of
memory
time
that which I can not
nor wish not to
control
i want to
collect that which I
have left behind randomly
having
expected something
in return
conjured up by
what i left behind
i want all of
me
whole
now
by Rhiannon 1/25/2011
Monday, January 24, 2011
Masters of words,on the soul and...hope
both ,today from the Writer's Almanac, one on the treasures we hide in our souls,
the other of course again on "hope"
It's the birthday of the writer,Edith Wharton. who said, "Life is always a tightrope or a feather bed. Give me the tightrope."
In her short story "The Fullness of Life" she famously wrote:
"You have hit upon the exact word; I was fond of him, yes, just as I was fond of my grandmother, and the house that I was born in, and my old nurse. Oh, I was fond of him, and we were counted a very happy couple. But I have sometimes thought that a woman's nature is like a great house full of rooms: there is the hall, through which everyone passes in going in and out; the drawing room, where one receives formal visits; the sitting-room, where the members of the family come and go as they list; but beyond that, far beyond, are other rooms, the handles of whose doors perhaps are never turned; no one knows the way to them, no one knows whither they lead; and in the innermost room, the holy of holies, the soul sits alone and waits for a footstep that never comes."
"And your husband," asked the Spirit, after a pause, "never got beyond the family sitting-room?"
"Never," she returned, impatiently; "and the worst of it was that he was quite content to remain there. He thought it perfectly beautiful, and sometimes, when he was admiring its commonplace furniture, insignificant as the chairs and tables of a hotel parlor, I felt like crying out to him: 'Fool, will you never guess that close at hand are rooms full of treasures and wonders, such as the eye of man hath not seen, rooms that no step has crossed, but that might be yours to live in, could you but find the handle of the door?'"
And Edith Wharton said, "There are two ways of spreading light: to be the candle or the mirror that receives it."
So often, I feel that the people I know,including me, look at each other so superficially from the outside, it is that we do not dare to show what sparkles deep within or have many of us forgotten to take with us that well designed set of binoculars that sit upon our face, that set of penetrating eyes with soft deep vision,or is it our hearts that we have left behind because our brains have become so big,so massive,so cumbersome,so bossy, that we are weary and can not carry yet another thing, so we leave our hearts at home to collect dust on our shelves.
and now on..hope
Somewhere in the World
by Linda Pastan
Somewhere in the world
something is happening
which will make its slow way here.
A cold front will come to destroy
the camellias, or perhaps it will be
a heat wave to scorch them.
A virus will move without passport
or papers to find me as I shake
a hand or kiss a cheek.
Somewhere a small quarrel
has begun, a few overheated words
ignite a conflagration,
and the smell of smoke
is on its way;
the smell of war.
Wherever I go I knock on wood—
on tabletops or tree trunks.
I rinse my hands over and over again;
I scan the newspapers
and invent alarm codes which are not
my husband's birthdate or my own.
But somewhere something is happening
against which there is no planning, only
those two aging conspirators, Hope and Luck.
"Somewhere in the World" by Linda Pastan, from Traveling Light. © W.W. Norton & Company, 2011. Reprinted with permission
Days are more hopeful,when with intention we see deeply with our eyes and let our hearts speak to us as much as possible...
the other of course again on "hope"
It's the birthday of the writer,Edith Wharton. who said, "Life is always a tightrope or a feather bed. Give me the tightrope."
In her short story "The Fullness of Life" she famously wrote:
"You have hit upon the exact word; I was fond of him, yes, just as I was fond of my grandmother, and the house that I was born in, and my old nurse. Oh, I was fond of him, and we were counted a very happy couple. But I have sometimes thought that a woman's nature is like a great house full of rooms: there is the hall, through which everyone passes in going in and out; the drawing room, where one receives formal visits; the sitting-room, where the members of the family come and go as they list; but beyond that, far beyond, are other rooms, the handles of whose doors perhaps are never turned; no one knows the way to them, no one knows whither they lead; and in the innermost room, the holy of holies, the soul sits alone and waits for a footstep that never comes."
"And your husband," asked the Spirit, after a pause, "never got beyond the family sitting-room?"
"Never," she returned, impatiently; "and the worst of it was that he was quite content to remain there. He thought it perfectly beautiful, and sometimes, when he was admiring its commonplace furniture, insignificant as the chairs and tables of a hotel parlor, I felt like crying out to him: 'Fool, will you never guess that close at hand are rooms full of treasures and wonders, such as the eye of man hath not seen, rooms that no step has crossed, but that might be yours to live in, could you but find the handle of the door?'"
And Edith Wharton said, "There are two ways of spreading light: to be the candle or the mirror that receives it."
So often, I feel that the people I know,including me, look at each other so superficially from the outside, it is that we do not dare to show what sparkles deep within or have many of us forgotten to take with us that well designed set of binoculars that sit upon our face, that set of penetrating eyes with soft deep vision,or is it our hearts that we have left behind because our brains have become so big,so massive,so cumbersome,so bossy, that we are weary and can not carry yet another thing, so we leave our hearts at home to collect dust on our shelves.
and now on..hope
Somewhere in the World
by Linda Pastan
Somewhere in the world
something is happening
which will make its slow way here.
A cold front will come to destroy
the camellias, or perhaps it will be
a heat wave to scorch them.
A virus will move without passport
or papers to find me as I shake
a hand or kiss a cheek.
Somewhere a small quarrel
has begun, a few overheated words
ignite a conflagration,
and the smell of smoke
is on its way;
the smell of war.
Wherever I go I knock on wood—
on tabletops or tree trunks.
I rinse my hands over and over again;
I scan the newspapers
and invent alarm codes which are not
my husband's birthdate or my own.
But somewhere something is happening
against which there is no planning, only
those two aging conspirators, Hope and Luck.
"Somewhere in the World" by Linda Pastan, from Traveling Light. © W.W. Norton & Company, 2011. Reprinted with permission
Days are more hopeful,when with intention we see deeply with our eyes and let our hearts speak to us as much as possible...
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Saturday, January 22, 2011
what i once saw outside my window...
in honor of a most special day to me for now and for eternity...
Happy Birthday to you.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Mysteries...
a poem by Edward Hirsch, today from the Writer"s Almanac called "I'm Going to Start Living Like a Mystic":
Today I am pulling on a green wool sweater
and walking across the park in a dusky snowfall.
The trees stand like twenty-seven prophets in a field,
each a station in a pilgrimage — silent, pondering.
Blue flakes of light falling across their bodies
are the ciphers of a secret, an occultation.
I will examine their leaves as pages in a text
and consider the bookish pigeons, students of winter.
I will kneel on the track of a vanquished squirrel
and stare into a blank pond for the figure of Sophia.
I shall begin scouring the sky for signs
as if my whole future were constellated upon it.
I will walk home alone with the deep alone,
a disciple of shadows, in praise of the mysteries.
Being present to appreciate the moments we live our lives
"V'ahavta" ,"and you will love" from the "Shema"-in honor and in gratitude of the miraculous moments of our lives.....
Monday, January 17, 2011
In honor of "the masses that transformed a nation"...."hope on the line"
Excerpt: 'Behind The Dream'
by CLARENCE B. JONES
Palgrave USA
Behind the Dream: The Making of the Speech that Transformed a Nation
By Clarence Jones
Palgrave Macmillan Press
A quarter of a million people, human beings who generally had spent their lives treated as something less, stood shoulder to shoulder across that vast lawn, their hearts beating as one. Hope on the line. When hope was an increasingly scarce resource.
There is no dearth of prose describing the mass of humanity that made its way to the feet of the Great Emancipator that day; no metaphor that has slipped through the cracks waiting to be discovered, dusted off, and injected into the discourse a half century on. The March on Washington has been compared to a tsunami, a shockwave, a wall, a living monument, a human mosaic, an outright miracle.
It was all of those things, and if you saw it with your own eyes, it wasn’t hard to write about. With that many people in one place crying out for something so elemental, you don’t have to be Robert Frost to offer some profound eloquence.
Still, I can say to those who know the event only as a steely black-and-white television image, it’s a shame that the colors of that day — the blue sky, the vibrant green life, the golden sun everywhere — are not part of our national memory. There is something heart wrenching about the widely shown images and film clips of the event that belies the joy of the day. But it could be worse. We could have been marching in an era before cameras and recording devices; then the specifics of the event would eventually fade out of living memory and the world would be left only with the mythology and the text. Text without context, in this case especially, would be quite a loss. One might imagine standing before an audience and read ing Reverend Martin Luther King, Jr.’s “I Have a Dream” speech verbatim, but it is a stretch to believe that any such per formance would sow the seeds of change with, as Dr. King put it that day in Washington, the “fierce urgency of now.” The vast crowd, the great speaker, the words that shook the world — it all comes as a package deal. We are truly fortunate to have a record. Yet what the television cameras and radio microphones captured that August day is but a sliver of the vibrancy of the event. When a .lm adaptation of a beloved novel premieres, the people who say “Oh, but you’ve got to read the book” are inevitably right. The density of the written word makes the .at motion picture a pale artifact in comparison. In a similar fashion, although watching the black-and-white news footage of Dr. King’s historic call to action is stirring to almost everyone who sees it, learning about the work that went into The March and the speech — the discussions and debates behind closed doors — offers a unique context that magnifies the resonance of hearing those famous words “I have a dream” in that phenomenal, inimitable cadence.
If, taken together, the images and recordings of Martin make up that “movie” of the 1963 March on Washington in our collective consciousness, and if it’s true, as people often say, that “If you loved the movie, you’ve got to read the book,” Behind the Dream is that book. It is a story not known to the general public or disclosed to participants in The March — or, in fact, to many of its organizers. I acquired private truths and quiet insights during the months leading up to this historic event. For the most part, I’ve kept them to myself. But as this book is published, I will be entering my eighth decade on this Earth, and as I move closer to the final horizon, I realize the time has come to share what I know. The experiences cannot die with me; the full truth is simply too important to history.
For those of us who put The March together, several aspects of that day struck a chord and went on to have a profound ef fect on us. First was the most obvious — the size of the crowd. It was truly staggering. Estimates vary widely, depending on the agenda of who was keeping count, but those of us who were involved in planning The March put the number at a minimum of 250,000. They showed up to connect with The Movement, to draw strength from the speakers and from each other. This was perhaps not so surprising, since the under pinning of the Civil Rights Movement had always been our sense of communal strength. It is in part why the Black Church was a focal point for The Movement; it allowed in dividuals to see that they were not alone in their suffering, their loss of dignity, their humiliation. But congregations were measured in the hundreds of families, not hundreds of thousands. The March was an especially important milestone for African Americans because it allowed many who suffered the degradation and sometimes physical abuse of racism in relative isolation to share with a vast number of people their pain as well as their hope and optimism for a better day.
Adapted from Behind the Dream by Clarence B. Jones and Stuart Connelly. Copyright 2011 by the authors and reprinted by permission of Palgrave Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited.
Yes, this is yet another perfect example of this year's ongoing, enduring, transforming theme ,again,...."hope".This 2011 my hope is to post as many hopeful posts on my blog as I can, to live my life always grasping the forward edge of hope.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
by CLARENCE B. JONES
Palgrave USA
Behind the Dream: The Making of the Speech that Transformed a Nation
By Clarence Jones
Palgrave Macmillan Press
A quarter of a million people, human beings who generally had spent their lives treated as something less, stood shoulder to shoulder across that vast lawn, their hearts beating as one. Hope on the line. When hope was an increasingly scarce resource.
There is no dearth of prose describing the mass of humanity that made its way to the feet of the Great Emancipator that day; no metaphor that has slipped through the cracks waiting to be discovered, dusted off, and injected into the discourse a half century on. The March on Washington has been compared to a tsunami, a shockwave, a wall, a living monument, a human mosaic, an outright miracle.
It was all of those things, and if you saw it with your own eyes, it wasn’t hard to write about. With that many people in one place crying out for something so elemental, you don’t have to be Robert Frost to offer some profound eloquence.
Still, I can say to those who know the event only as a steely black-and-white television image, it’s a shame that the colors of that day — the blue sky, the vibrant green life, the golden sun everywhere — are not part of our national memory. There is something heart wrenching about the widely shown images and film clips of the event that belies the joy of the day. But it could be worse. We could have been marching in an era before cameras and recording devices; then the specifics of the event would eventually fade out of living memory and the world would be left only with the mythology and the text. Text without context, in this case especially, would be quite a loss. One might imagine standing before an audience and read ing Reverend Martin Luther King, Jr.’s “I Have a Dream” speech verbatim, but it is a stretch to believe that any such per formance would sow the seeds of change with, as Dr. King put it that day in Washington, the “fierce urgency of now.” The vast crowd, the great speaker, the words that shook the world — it all comes as a package deal. We are truly fortunate to have a record. Yet what the television cameras and radio microphones captured that August day is but a sliver of the vibrancy of the event. When a .lm adaptation of a beloved novel premieres, the people who say “Oh, but you’ve got to read the book” are inevitably right. The density of the written word makes the .at motion picture a pale artifact in comparison. In a similar fashion, although watching the black-and-white news footage of Dr. King’s historic call to action is stirring to almost everyone who sees it, learning about the work that went into The March and the speech — the discussions and debates behind closed doors — offers a unique context that magnifies the resonance of hearing those famous words “I have a dream” in that phenomenal, inimitable cadence.
If, taken together, the images and recordings of Martin make up that “movie” of the 1963 March on Washington in our collective consciousness, and if it’s true, as people often say, that “If you loved the movie, you’ve got to read the book,” Behind the Dream is that book. It is a story not known to the general public or disclosed to participants in The March — or, in fact, to many of its organizers. I acquired private truths and quiet insights during the months leading up to this historic event. For the most part, I’ve kept them to myself. But as this book is published, I will be entering my eighth decade on this Earth, and as I move closer to the final horizon, I realize the time has come to share what I know. The experiences cannot die with me; the full truth is simply too important to history.
For those of us who put The March together, several aspects of that day struck a chord and went on to have a profound ef fect on us. First was the most obvious — the size of the crowd. It was truly staggering. Estimates vary widely, depending on the agenda of who was keeping count, but those of us who were involved in planning The March put the number at a minimum of 250,000. They showed up to connect with The Movement, to draw strength from the speakers and from each other. This was perhaps not so surprising, since the under pinning of the Civil Rights Movement had always been our sense of communal strength. It is in part why the Black Church was a focal point for The Movement; it allowed in dividuals to see that they were not alone in their suffering, their loss of dignity, their humiliation. But congregations were measured in the hundreds of families, not hundreds of thousands. The March was an especially important milestone for African Americans because it allowed many who suffered the degradation and sometimes physical abuse of racism in relative isolation to share with a vast number of people their pain as well as their hope and optimism for a better day.
Adapted from Behind the Dream by Clarence B. Jones and Stuart Connelly. Copyright 2011 by the authors and reprinted by permission of Palgrave Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited.
Yes, this is yet another perfect example of this year's ongoing, enduring, transforming theme ,again,...."hope".This 2011 my hope is to post as many hopeful posts on my blog as I can, to live my life always grasping the forward edge of hope.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
Humanity...
Manatee/Humanity
by Anne Waldman
the manatee is found in shallow slow moving rivers
the manatee moves in estuaries moves in saltwater bays
the manatee in moving moves gently
the manatee is to be found in canals and coastal areas
the manatee is a migratory animal
the manatee is gentle and slow-moving
the manatee moves in slow moving rivers slowly
the manatee is completely herbivorous
the West Indian manatee has no natural enemies
the manatee has no natural enemies but unnatural man
the manatee is constantly threatened by man unnaturally
man with his boats and plastic and attitude
the manatee often drowns in canal locks of man
man who makes no concession to manatee
the manatee often dies in flood control structures
man who makes no concession to manatee nor cares of manatee
life manatee fortune
the manatee dies in collision with water craft
man who does not protect the manatee
what steward of the earth is this unnatural man?
man who makes no concession to manatee
the manatee dies with the ingestion of fish hooks
man who unnaturally, makes no concession to manatee
the manatee dies from litter and monofilament lines
man who is rank in attitude has no use for manatee
the manatee dies entrapped in crab trap lines
the manatee dies from loss of habitat claimed by man
the manatee is maimed by man, the manatee could be aided by
man
man o aid the manatee man come to the manatee heart
a manatee calf is born every 2-5 years
a manatee gestates for a year in the manatee womb
8,400 miles of tidal waters could be for the manatee
11, 000 miles of rivers & stream could be for the manatee
10,000 miles of canals would they all be for the manatee
the manatee has more grey matter in the brain than man
the manatee is perhaps thinking archivally deeper than man
ancient days of manatee so many thousands of years
manatee mind, what is the mind of manatee?
the manatee has no natural enemies
the manatee is completely herbivorous
the metabolism of the manatee is slow, moves slowly
the manatee moves in estuaries, moves in saltwater bays
the manatee moves in slow moving rivers slowly the manatee is gentle
the manatee offspring nurses for up to 2 years
the manatee learns everything from the manatee mother
the manatee mothers and offspring sing to one another
the manatee have large ear-bones
chirps whistles squeaks of the manatee
the manatee in moving slowly moves gently
oscillations of the manatee moving between manatee ears
ears of the manatee mother and manatee offspring
manatee are our Sirenians, and live in the house of the sirens
where are the human sanctuaries for the manatee?
manatees mermaids sirens singing move slowly
the manatee mother and calf so bonded
female manatee bonded with her just one manatee offspring…
what we have to learn from all creatures ,land sea,sky and of course all sentient poets...
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Appreciating my life... with music
Tonight at The OLd Town School of Folk Music, Two great Celtic bands,Comas and Malinky, to revive my spirits...
Thank you .......,for my life.
This Sunday morning as I finished up my yoga practice,I was feeling nice, kind of vulnerable,but serene inside , grounded.I was going to stop in a Whole Foods nearby which usually has a very crowded parking lot.It was still early for a Sunday ,so the lot looked to be not very crowds,,so I turned on mu left turn signal, moved into the turning lane that was empty ,to make my turn.A big white Volvo suv was leaving the lot, about to make a right turn.I patiently waited as the white car began its turn,when all of a sudden a small red car going about 45mph was coming straight on to collide with the white suv ,which may have killed both drivers.I honked as loud as I could to alert the red car to slow down, but it was too late.The man in the red car intensely gazed at me and I at him and in a locked stare of frenzy but also deep compassion, I understood, he started swerving onto my lane directly head on to me , to protect the person in the white car.I was trapped in the turning lane,desperately honking with no where to move, thinking I would die.Suddenly a strange and unbelievable sensation occurred, I literally felt by spirit lifting,rising, out of my body,hovering patiently, waiting as if for directions as to where to go.My conscious intellect remained aware and here is where the divine intervenes. The little red car speeding to collide head on with me swerves around me 360 degrees into opposing traffic that had cleared and the greatest miracle of my" life being spared "has just occurred.I see the little red car out of thecorner of my eye at the curbside, the man bowing his head on his steering wheel for a few minutes.I ,still waiting in the turning lane, trembling, really more like shaking, tearful, feeling a heavy protective cloud above me, the sensation of a hollow space in my chest where my heart usually resides,but had lept out in solidarity with the cloud , the veil of my soul above my head.I stopped in an empty bank lot to gain composure, reflect, put down these thoughts.I still feel the hollow in my chest that my spirit is cautiously and thoughtfully re entering me in some new way for me to learn.Today,I am the luckiest person on this planet, my life was spared,I am alive.I am reminded how second by second I am given this gift, the miracle of living.When I am bestowed such elegant auspicious grace,I ask of those of you who happen to read this today,what next..
perhaps ,the singular answer , is there is only "one answer", to be good, to be just,to be loving,to be compassionate,to be so grateful for the miracle of my life and give back because miracles grow,expand, save our lives ,give us life when we try to live,love and give.Today's story is true, it is a story of a day in my life.it is about .....hope!
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
perhaps ,the singular answer , is there is only "one answer", to be good, to be just,to be loving,to be compassionate,to be so grateful for the miracle of my life and give back because miracles grow,expand, save our lives ,give us life when we try to live,love and give.Today's story is true, it is a story of a day in my life.it is about .....hope!
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
Saturday, January 15, 2011
In honor of Martin Luther King'Birthday,....a poet's freedom
On Hearing of the Intention of a Gentleman to Purchase the Poet's Freedom
by George Moses Horton
When on life's ocean first I spread my sail,
I then implored a mild auspicious gale;
And from the slippery strand I took my flight,
And sought the peaceful haven of delight.
Tyrannic storms arose upon my soul,
And dreadful did their mad'ning thunders roll;
The pensive muse was shaken from her sphere,
And hope, it vanished in the clouds of fear.
At length a golden sun broke through the gloom,
And from his smiles arose a sweet perfume--
A calm ensued, and birds began to sing,
And lo! the sacred muse resumed her wing.
With frantic joy she chaunted as she flew,
And kiss'd the clement hand that bore her through;
Her envious foes did from her sight retreat,
Or prostrate fall beneath her burning feet.
'Twas like a proselyte, allied to Heaven--
Or rising spirits' boast of sins forgiven,
Whose shout dissolves the adamant away,
Whose melting voice the stubborn rocks obey.
'Twas like the salutation of the dove,
Borne on the zephyr through some lonesome grove,
When Spring returns, and Winter's chill is past,
And vegetation smiles above the blast.
'Twas like the evening of a nuptial pair,
When love pervades the hour of sad despair--
'Twas like fair Helen's sweet return to Troy,
When every Grecian bosom swell'd with joy.
The silent harp which on the osiers hung,
Was then attuned, and manumission sung;
Away by hope the clouds of fear were driven,
And music breathed my gratitude to Heaven.
Hard was the race to reach the distant goal,
The needle oft was shaken from the pole;
In such distress who could forbear to weep?
Toss'd by the headlong billows of the deep!
The tantalizing beams which shone so plain,
Which turned my former pleasures into pain--
Which falsely promised all the joys of fame,
Gave way, and to a more substantial flame.
Some philanthropic souls as from afar,
With pity strove to break the slavish bar;
To whom my floods of gratitude shall roll,
And yield with pleasure to their soft control.
And sure of Providence this work begun--
He shod my feet this rugged race to run;
And in despite of all the swelling tide,
Along the dismal path will prove my guide.
Thus on the dusky verge of deep despair,
Eternal Providence was with me there;
When pleasure seemed to fade on life's gay dawn,
And the last beam of hope was almost gone.
by George Moses Horton
When on life's ocean first I spread my sail,
I then implored a mild auspicious gale;
And from the slippery strand I took my flight,
And sought the peaceful haven of delight.
Tyrannic storms arose upon my soul,
And dreadful did their mad'ning thunders roll;
The pensive muse was shaken from her sphere,
And hope, it vanished in the clouds of fear.
At length a golden sun broke through the gloom,
And from his smiles arose a sweet perfume--
A calm ensued, and birds began to sing,
And lo! the sacred muse resumed her wing.
With frantic joy she chaunted as she flew,
And kiss'd the clement hand that bore her through;
Her envious foes did from her sight retreat,
Or prostrate fall beneath her burning feet.
'Twas like a proselyte, allied to Heaven--
Or rising spirits' boast of sins forgiven,
Whose shout dissolves the adamant away,
Whose melting voice the stubborn rocks obey.
'Twas like the salutation of the dove,
Borne on the zephyr through some lonesome grove,
When Spring returns, and Winter's chill is past,
And vegetation smiles above the blast.
'Twas like the evening of a nuptial pair,
When love pervades the hour of sad despair--
'Twas like fair Helen's sweet return to Troy,
When every Grecian bosom swell'd with joy.
The silent harp which on the osiers hung,
Was then attuned, and manumission sung;
Away by hope the clouds of fear were driven,
And music breathed my gratitude to Heaven.
Hard was the race to reach the distant goal,
The needle oft was shaken from the pole;
In such distress who could forbear to weep?
Toss'd by the headlong billows of the deep!
The tantalizing beams which shone so plain,
Which turned my former pleasures into pain--
Which falsely promised all the joys of fame,
Gave way, and to a more substantial flame.
Some philanthropic souls as from afar,
With pity strove to break the slavish bar;
To whom my floods of gratitude shall roll,
And yield with pleasure to their soft control.
And sure of Providence this work begun--
He shod my feet this rugged race to run;
And in despite of all the swelling tide,
Along the dismal path will prove my guide.
Thus on the dusky verge of deep despair,
Eternal Providence was with me there;
When pleasure seemed to fade on life's gay dawn,
And the last beam of hope was almost gone.
Friday, January 14, 2011
Children of Sudan from explore.org
In this case, pictures say more than infinite words, children are hope.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Stream...of Consciousness
"Today is the birthday of William James, born in New York City (1842). As a young man, he studied art, then went on to Harvard University and earned a medical degree there. But he was never a practicing doctor — instead, he stayed on as a member of the Harvard faculty. He said: "I originally studied medicine in order to be a physiologist, but I drifted into psychology and philosophy from a sort of fatality. I never had any philosophic instruction, the first lecture on psychology I ever heard being the first I ever gave."
James coined and popularized was "stream-of-consciousness," which he meant as a psychological term. He said, "It is a fact that in each of us, when awake (and often when asleep), some kind of consciousness is always going on. There is a stream, a succession of states, or waves, or fields (or of whatever you please to call them), of knowledge, of feeling, of desire, of deliberation, etc., that constantly pass and repass, and that constitute our inner life. The existence of this stream is the primal fact, the nature and origin of it form the essential problem, of our science." But eventually he settled on "stream-of-consciousness," an idea that other scholars lifted from psychology and used to talk about literature."
This too from the Writer's Almanac today. I have always wondered where the term ,"stream of consciousness" arose from. I have found that following that continuous wave that borders between thought,feeling,desire,sensation,perception, dream always leads me to new frontiers. I have also found that yoga has helped me to fine tune and tolerate the unexpected undulations on this unchartered path that always leads me to new knowledge often acquired by riding a wave of extreme perplexity.
James coined and popularized was "stream-of-consciousness," which he meant as a psychological term. He said, "It is a fact that in each of us, when awake (and often when asleep), some kind of consciousness is always going on. There is a stream, a succession of states, or waves, or fields (or of whatever you please to call them), of knowledge, of feeling, of desire, of deliberation, etc., that constantly pass and repass, and that constitute our inner life. The existence of this stream is the primal fact, the nature and origin of it form the essential problem, of our science." But eventually he settled on "stream-of-consciousness," an idea that other scholars lifted from psychology and used to talk about literature."
This too from the Writer's Almanac today. I have always wondered where the term ,"stream of consciousness" arose from. I have found that following that continuous wave that borders between thought,feeling,desire,sensation,perception, dream always leads me to new frontiers. I have also found that yoga has helped me to fine tune and tolerate the unexpected undulations on this unchartered path that always leads me to new knowledge often acquired by riding a wave of extreme perplexity.
Monday, January 10, 2011
another form of hope..."our hearts"
Heart
by Gregory Orr
Its hinges rustless,
restless; opening
and shutting on trust.
~
We guard it;
it guides us.
Gods lack it.
Vacant their gaze.
~
Doctors listen
to its cryptic
lisp.
From sacred
to scared—a few
beats skipped,
a letter slipped.
~
Cavity and spasm;
a spark can start
it; parting stop it.
Such a radiant husk
to hive our dust!
by Gregory Orr
Its hinges rustless,
restless; opening
and shutting on trust.
~
We guard it;
it guides us.
Gods lack it.
Vacant their gaze.
~
Doctors listen
to its cryptic
lisp.
From sacred
to scared—a few
beats skipped,
a letter slipped.
~
Cavity and spasm;
a spark can start
it; parting stop it.
Such a radiant husk
to hive our dust!
"shelter from the assaultive world"...."starting with unexpected harmonies,revelations"
again from the writer's almanac today
A Clearing
by Denise Levertov
What lies at the end of enticing
country driveways, curving
off among trees? Often only
a car graveyard, a house-trailer,
a trashy bungalow. But this one,
for once, brings you
through the shade of its green tunnel
to a paradise of cedars,
of lawns mown but not too closely,
of iris, moss, fern, rivers of stone rounded
by sea or stream,
of a wooden unassertive large-windowed house.
The big trees enclose
an expanse of sky, trees and sky
together protect the clearing.
One is sheltered here
from the assaultive world
as if escaped from it, and yet
once arrived, is given (oneself
and others being a part of that world)
a generous welcome.
It's paradise
as a paradigm for how
to live on earth,
how to be private and open
quiet and richly eloquent.
Everything man-made here
was truly made by the hands
of those who live here, of those
who live with what they have made.
It took time, and is growing still
because it's alive.
It is paradise, and paradise
is a kind of poem; it has
a poem's characteristics:
inspiration; starting with the given;
unexpected harmonies; revelations.
It's rare among
the worlds one finds
at the end of enticing driveways.
Yesterday as I was listening to the radio ,I heard on npr a hopeful story about this past year's rampaging oil spillage in the Gulf.
Much unharnassed,unnecessary destruction went amok,but the journalist pointed out, something unexpected and that is the story of the methane gasthat was leaking out on the ocean floor killing life. There are bacteria on the ocean floor that assimilate methane,use it for their own consumptipn, to grow and replicate. As thesubstrate of methane increased,more bacteria proliferated,with more food available for them, so ultimately nature kicked in and cleaned up much of the toxic methane. That is only a fragment of what needs to be,for restoration to occur on the ocean floor and shore,but it is a ray of hope amidst the muck.
So as I read this poem this morning, i grasped onto the words,"shelter from an assaultive world","a paradigm of how to live on earth"."starting with unexpected harmonies,revelations".
This year, the theme,the raison d'etre is to look for hope,because if one looks,one does find...at the end of a driveway.or even on the bottom of an oil spilled sea floor. May hope always be that gentle wind that rests upon our shoulders whispering to us to seek her out...
Saturday, January 8, 2011
On Winter...from the Bard
Blow, Blow, thou Winter Wind
by William Shakespeare
Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
Thou art not so unkind
As man's ingratitude, as man's ingratitude.
Though thou the waters warp,
Thy teeth are not so sharp,
Although thy breath be rude, although thy breath be rude.
My faithful friends draw nigh
And look us in the eye
It is a wealthy man who has good friends like you.
Through darkness, cold, and snow,
Wherever you may go,
You bear my friendship true, you bear my friendship true.
Now warm these gentle folk
With maple, birch, and oak
And turn you front and back to feel the cheerful blaze
And be of cheerful mind
And bless the wintertime
Its calm and starry nights and bright and silent days
There are angels hovering round
To carry the tidings home
To the new Jerusalem
The shepherds came with joy
The sheep and cows stood near
The child lay asleep
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
Friday, January 7, 2011
again from the Writer's Almanac,Theodore Roethke, a wordsmith extraordinaire,
Night Journey
by Theodore Roethke
Now as the train bears west,
Its rhythm rocks the earth,
And from my Pullman berth
I stare into the night
While others take their rest.
Bridges of iron lace,
A suddenness of trees,
A lap of mountain mist
All cross my line of sight,
Then a bleak wasted place,
And a lake below my knees.
Full on my neck I feel
The straining at a curve;
My muscles move with steel,
I wake in every nerve.
I watch a beacon swing
From dark to blazing bright;
We thunder through ravines
And gullies washed with light.
Beyond the mountain pass
Mist deepens on the pane;
We rush into a rain
That rattles double glass.
Wheels shake the roadbed stone,
The pistons jerk and shove,
I stay up half the night.
To see the land I love.
"Night Journey" by Theodore Roethke, from Theodore Roethke: Selected Poems. © Library of America. Reprinted with permission.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
I love the ....Ocean
ATLANTIS
Donovan
The continent of Atlantis was an island
which lay before the great flood
in the area we now call the Atlantic Ocean.
So great an area of land, that from her western shores
those beautiful sailors journeyed
to the South and the North Americas with ease,
in their ships with painted sails.
To the East Africa was a neighbour, across a short strait of sea miles.
The great Egyptian age is but a remnant of The Atlantian culture.
The antediluvian kings colonised the world
All the Gods who play in the mythological dramas
In all legends from all lands were from fair Atlantis.
Knowing her fate, Atlantis sent out ships to all corners of the Earth.
On board were the Twelve:
The poet, the physician, the farmer, the scientist,
The magician and the other so-called Gods of our legends.
Though Gods they were -
And as the elders of our time choose to remain blind
Let us rejoice and let us sing and dance and ring in the new
Hail Atlantis!
Way down below the ocean where I wanna be she may be,
Way down below the ocean where I wanna be she may be,
Way down below the ocean where I wanna be she may be.
Way down below the ocean where I wanna be she may be,
Way down below the ocean where I wanna be she may be.
My antediluvian baby, oh yeah yeah, yeah yeah yeah,
I wanna see you some day
My antediluvian baby, oh yeah yeah, yeah yeah yeah,
My antediluvian baby,
My antediluvian baby, I love you, girl,
Girl, I wanna see you some day.
My antediluvian baby, oh yeah
I wanna see you some day, oh
My antediluvian baby.
My antediluvian baby, I wanna see you
My antediluvian baby, gotta tell me where she gone
I wanna see you some day
Wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up, oh yeah
Oh glub glub, down down, yeah
My antediluvian baby, oh yeah yeah yeah yeah
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Hope
This year, I will look for the forward edge of hope as much as I am able,
This music makes me feel hope
Monday, January 3, 2011
a voice to warm a cold winter's night
Recorded by: Mairéad Nà Mhaonaigh
Written by: Mairéad Nà Mhaonaigh
A lullaby which I composed for my daughter Nia.
Seo amhrán a chum mé do mo nÃon Nia….suantraà le comhairle do girseach bheag ghálanta!
Mair̩ad РVocals
Manus – Bouzouki / Guitar / Programming / Backing Vocals
Jim Higgins – Percussion
Translated to English by - Tristan Rosenstock
Lyrics
My Daughter, O
Come walk with me, my daughter O
Over the sand dunes of Tráigh Bhán*
And make castles of gold, my daughter O
From the smooth sand and bright shells.
May your journey be easy, my daughter O,
Through this life that lies ahead of you
And follow your desire, my daughter O,
For protection will be there for you.
My daughter O, óró X 3
May you go safely each night and day.
O set your sail, my daughter O,
Out to Gola on a magical boat
On the crest of waves, my daughter O,
Until the moon shines over you.
O go to sleep, my daughter O,
On a warm bed of white silk,
Lie down peacefully, my daughter O,
And listen to the sweet songs of the birds.
May you go safely, my daughter O,
Without worry or gloom
Each day and night,
And remember your mark, my daughter O,
On the smooth sand of Tráigh Bhán.
*Tráigh Bhán – White Strand
Promises..."lovely,dark and deep"
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
BY ROBERT FROST
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Robert Frost, “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening” from The Poetry of Robert Frost, edited by Edward Connery Lathem. Copyright 1923, © 1969 by Henry Holt and Company, Inc., renewed 1951, by Robert Frost. Reprinted with the permission of Henry Holt and Company, LLC.
I have read and remembered this poem at various times in my life,each time a new meaning is offered , i see new aspects of the unfolding of my life with each return to Frost's timeless,spaceless subtle yet penetrating words.This time what I remember is waking up often in the middle of the night panicked ,trying to find answers within myself,instead of waiting,letting the answers gently surface without force.What I have rediscovered that Frost reminds me so well with his words is that "i have promises to keep" that those promises are uniquely mine and they are hard earned promises that I cherish,that my life would have no meaning ,that it would be woefully incomplete if I was not always actively working on the most important one or two promises that I will always live for and by and I imagine will one day die for as well, die for in the way "one lives a life well lived". So to keep these promises, bring them to fruition. to an active facilitated reality,I have infinite miles"to go before I sleep".
And for me the reward in the present for trying to keep those promises to myself and directly or indirectly to those that I love is, sometimes on my path I will have the great good fortune to see, to know" the woods (through my life,the promises I attempt to keep) are lovely,dark and deep...."
Sunday, January 2, 2011
Holding my breath....in order to breathe
This morning in my yoga practice, I had large measures of internal struggle, so much so that half way through the standing poses (which I usually get great comfort and strength from),I considered stopping and wrapping up my practice, calling it a day, which I almost did. I have really never as of yet thought of actually stopping,ending my practice because my thoughts weighed so heavily on me ,I literally felt like I was suffocating,and yoga requires breathing,is all breathing.So, I paused,sat for a minute,collected myself, went to the rest room and continued to go on ,not in ease ,not with grace,not in elegance,just going on as best I could. the" going on" led me to focus my mind on my breath and my thoughts softened, i let go of the noose they tightened around my soul. Later during the day, I was thinking about a serious decision I needed to make today which would alter my life significantly and bring about abrupt changes. I realized I had been white knuckling it for about four months already, that I was gasping for air,feeling the torments of suffocating my own self. I also realized that some of my affinity towards ashtanga yoga has to do with the notion of taking control of one's breath,digging deeper and deeper within to find new open spaces that breath that once stagnated in crevices now flowed freely.I thought a lot about what it really means to be gentler,kinder to myself. i thought a lot about what seems right at least in this second of time for me. I thought about how I often obscure reality when I get myself into those situations that breath does not flow. When I breathe as completely with attention and awareness, I see vast possibilities that I could not allow myself to see.I realize sometimes I create a crisis in my head when there is no crisis in reality. I wage war with myself.I am not one that believes that miracles occur in isolation . Miracles to me are gifts,but they are in part as a result of some effort,some perception,some work at attempting to resolve one's inner struggles . Somehow that force ,wisdom,hope,energy within us unites with energies much greater than us and as a partner with that unknown a miracle ensues.
I am not feeling so submerged right now,but I am aware that sometimes that submergence, that feeling of suffocation,of not knowing where or if my next breath will emerge is ultimately necessary for my own growth.
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