Haiku Moment
By Don
wishful thinking
..entering uncertain sea
....tread water and swim
Monday, January 31, 2005
Sunday, January 30, 2005
Lost in the act of translation...
"How so I explain these poems? Not at all. I quit teaching in colleges because it seemed so criminal to explain works of art. The crisis in my teaching career came, in fact, when I faced an audience which expected me to explain Dubliners by James Joyce. I was game. I'd read the book. But when I opened by big mouth, no sounds came out."
--Anne Sexton
"How so I explain these poems? Not at all. I quit teaching in colleges because it seemed so criminal to explain works of art. The crisis in my teaching career came, in fact, when I faced an audience which expected me to explain Dubliners by James Joyce. I was game. I'd read the book. But when I opened by big mouth, no sounds came out."
--Anne Sexton
Saturday, January 29, 2005
James Wright Poetry Festival
What are you doing on April 15-16, 2005?
Nothing special you say. Well, why not join us at the James Wright Poetry Festival in my hometown, Martins Ferry, Ohio?
Who was James Wright, besides being the 1972 Pulitizer Prize winner for poetry? Excellent question. Here is what the Eastern Ohio Arts Council has to say about him:
"James Wright, a native of Martins Ferry, is widely recognized as one of America's finest 20th century poets. He has left behind a body of work admired by fellow poets as well as critics. The Encyclopedia Britannica entry nicely captures his work, saying that he "wrote about sorrow, salvation, and self-revelation." His images arise from the natural and industrial landscape of the Ohio Valley: the football stadium in Martins Ferry, the blast furnaces of Benwood, Wheeling Steel, Hazel Atlas Glass, the suckholes of the Ohio River. His complex outlook was marked by despair and hope; in his dark vision a spirit of affirmation persists."
For those wishing to know the man that wrote the poetry, click here to download a wonderful essay by Richard P. Gabriel about Wright. It is a simply marvelous piece!
What are you doing on April 15-16, 2005?
Nothing special you say. Well, why not join us at the James Wright Poetry Festival in my hometown, Martins Ferry, Ohio?
Who was James Wright, besides being the 1972 Pulitizer Prize winner for poetry? Excellent question. Here is what the Eastern Ohio Arts Council has to say about him:
"James Wright, a native of Martins Ferry, is widely recognized as one of America's finest 20th century poets. He has left behind a body of work admired by fellow poets as well as critics. The Encyclopedia Britannica entry nicely captures his work, saying that he "wrote about sorrow, salvation, and self-revelation." His images arise from the natural and industrial landscape of the Ohio Valley: the football stadium in Martins Ferry, the blast furnaces of Benwood, Wheeling Steel, Hazel Atlas Glass, the suckholes of the Ohio River. His complex outlook was marked by despair and hope; in his dark vision a spirit of affirmation persists."
For those wishing to know the man that wrote the poetry, click here to download a wonderful essay by Richard P. Gabriel about Wright. It is a simply marvelous piece!
Click here to get more information about the festival. It's a wonderful event, a chance to meet two wonderful poets, Gerald Stern and Linda Gregg, as well as Wright's delightful and engaging widow, Annie Wright. Poetry writing workshops will be offered at the festival.
Friday, January 28, 2005
On A Seven-Day Diary
By Alan Dugan
Oh I got up and went to work
and worked and came back home
and ate and talked and went to sleep.
Then I got up and went to work
and worked and came back home
from work and ate and slept.
Then I got up and went to work
and worked and came back home
and ate and watched a show and slept.
Then I got up and went to work
and worked and came back home
and ate steak and went to sleep.
Then I got up and went to work
and worked and came back home
and ate and fucked and went to sleep.
Then it was Saturday, Saturday, Saturday!
Love must be the reason for the week!
We went shopping! I saw clouds!
The children explained everything!
I could talk about the main thing!
What did I drink on Saturday night
that lost the first, best half of Sunday?
The last half wasn't worth this "word."
Then I got up and went to work
and worked and came back home
from work and ate and went to sleep,
refreshed but tired by the weekend.
From: "On a Seven-Day Diary" from New and Collected Poems 1961-1983, by Alan Dugan (Ecco Press). © Alan Dugan 2000.
By Alan Dugan
Oh I got up and went to work
and worked and came back home
and ate and talked and went to sleep.
Then I got up and went to work
and worked and came back home
from work and ate and slept.
Then I got up and went to work
and worked and came back home
and ate and watched a show and slept.
Then I got up and went to work
and worked and came back home
and ate steak and went to sleep.
Then I got up and went to work
and worked and came back home
and ate and fucked and went to sleep.
Then it was Saturday, Saturday, Saturday!
Love must be the reason for the week!
We went shopping! I saw clouds!
The children explained everything!
I could talk about the main thing!
What did I drink on Saturday night
that lost the first, best half of Sunday?
The last half wasn't worth this "word."
Then I got up and went to work
and worked and came back home
from work and ate and went to sleep,
refreshed but tired by the weekend.
From: "On a Seven-Day Diary" from New and Collected Poems 1961-1983, by Alan Dugan (Ecco Press). © Alan Dugan 2000.
POEM
By Alan Dugan
After your first poetry reading
I shook hands with you
and got a hard-on. Thank you.
We know that old trees
can not feel a thing
when the green tips burst
through the tough bark in spring,
but that's the way it felt,
that's the Objective Correlative
between us poets, love:
a wholly unexpected pain
of something new breaking out
with something old about it
like your new radical poems
those audible objects of love
breaking out through nerves
as you sweated up on stage,
going raw into painful air
for everyone to know.
From: Poems 6 New York, NY: The Ecco Press, 1989.
By Alan Dugan
After your first poetry reading
I shook hands with you
and got a hard-on. Thank you.
We know that old trees
can not feel a thing
when the green tips burst
through the tough bark in spring,
but that's the way it felt,
that's the Objective Correlative
between us poets, love:
a wholly unexpected pain
of something new breaking out
with something old about it
like your new radical poems
those audible objects of love
breaking out through nerves
as you sweated up on stage,
going raw into painful air
for everyone to know.
From: Poems 6 New York, NY: The Ecco Press, 1989.
Thursday, January 27, 2005
Wednesday, January 26, 2005
Wednesday Thought: How We Walk Through Life
"Thus we see that the all-important thing is not killing or giving life, drinking or not drinking, living in the town or the country, being lucky or unlucky, winning or losing. It is how we win, how we lose, how we live or die; finally, how we choose. We walk, and our religion is shown (even to the dullest and most insensitive person), in how we walk. Living in this world means choosing, and the way we choose to walk is infallibly and perfectly expressed in the walk itself."
—R. H. Blyth
"Thus we see that the all-important thing is not killing or giving life, drinking or not drinking, living in the town or the country, being lucky or unlucky, winning or losing. It is how we win, how we lose, how we live or die; finally, how we choose. We walk, and our religion is shown (even to the dullest and most insensitive person), in how we walk. Living in this world means choosing, and the way we choose to walk is infallibly and perfectly expressed in the walk itself."
—R. H. Blyth
Tuesday, January 25, 2005
As If Some Little Arctic Flower
By Emily Dickinson
AS if some little Arctic flower,
Upon the polar hem,
Went wandering down the latitudes,
Until it puzzled came
To continents of summer,
To firmaments of sun,
To strange, bright crowds of flowers,
And birds of foreign tongue!
I say, as if this little flower
To Eden wandered in—
What then? Why, nothing, only
Your inference therefrom!
By Emily Dickinson
AS if some little Arctic flower,
Upon the polar hem,
Went wandering down the latitudes,
Until it puzzled came
To continents of summer,
To firmaments of sun,
To strange, bright crowds of flowers,
And birds of foreign tongue!
I say, as if this little flower
To Eden wandered in—
What then? Why, nothing, only
Your inference therefrom!
Monday, January 24, 2005
Monday Thought: Underestimate Nothing in Life
Life is sacred. Everything about it is. Therefore, we should never under-estimate even the smallest sign we receive about our interconnectedness.
Often small things are indicators of much larger things we should pay attention to in life, like an email from a man in Missouri who has found his special "power" place on Earth.
The Great Spirit speaks to us in amazing ways. Sometimes we manage to find special listening places where we can hear our Creator better. Tom, maybe that is what you've discovered.
Life is sacred. Everything about it is. Therefore, we should never under-estimate even the smallest sign we receive about our interconnectedness.
Often small things are indicators of much larger things we should pay attention to in life, like an email from a man in Missouri who has found his special "power" place on Earth.
The Great Spirit speaks to us in amazing ways. Sometimes we manage to find special listening places where we can hear our Creator better. Tom, maybe that is what you've discovered.
Sunday, January 23, 2005
One for the road...
Click here to see some wonderful photographs by Gary K., a self-avowed storm-chaser from the Lake Tahoe area. Wow!
Click here to see some wonderful photographs by Gary K., a self-avowed storm-chaser from the Lake Tahoe area. Wow!
Sunday Thought: Seeing
The eyes are just one way to see in life. Words are another. Through prayer, meditation, and ways of connecting with the Divine, we can catch a glimpse of our own inner beauty and the beauty of spirit.
I love things of beauty. This morning allow yourself to "see" the beauty of the North. Click here to see some splendid photographs of the Lake Superior environs. I recall a visit to the Apostle Islands in northern Wisconsin several years ago while working on a Native American project near there. All I can say is "Wow!" A special thanks to the photographer, Dennis O'Hara.
The eyes are just one way to see in life. Words are another. Through prayer, meditation, and ways of connecting with the Divine, we can catch a glimpse of our own inner beauty and the beauty of spirit.
I love things of beauty. This morning allow yourself to "see" the beauty of the North. Click here to see some splendid photographs of the Lake Superior environs. I recall a visit to the Apostle Islands in northern Wisconsin several years ago while working on a Native American project near there. All I can say is "Wow!" A special thanks to the photographer, Dennis O'Hara.
Saturday, January 22, 2005
Saturday Thought: Wholeheartedness
"The antidote to exhaustion may not be rest. It may be wholeheartedness. You are so exhausted because all of the things you are doing are just busyness. There's a central core of wholeheartedness totally missing from what you're doing."
-- Brother David Steindl-Rast
"The antidote to exhaustion may not be rest. It may be wholeheartedness. You are so exhausted because all of the things you are doing are just busyness. There's a central core of wholeheartedness totally missing from what you're doing."
-- Brother David Steindl-Rast
Friday, January 21, 2005
Wednesday, January 19, 2005
A Birthday Poem
By Ted Kooser
Just past dawn, the sun stands
with its heavy red head
in a black stanchion of trees,
waiting for someone to come
with his bucket
for the foamy white light,
and then a long day in the pasture.
I too spend my days grazing,
feasting on every green moment
till darkness calls,
and with the others
I walk away into the night,
swinging the little tin bell
of my name.
By Ted Kooser
Just past dawn, the sun stands
with its heavy red head
in a black stanchion of trees,
waiting for someone to come
with his bucket
for the foamy white light,
and then a long day in the pasture.
I too spend my days grazing,
feasting on every green moment
till darkness calls,
and with the others
I walk away into the night,
swinging the little tin bell
of my name.
Tuesday, January 18, 2005
There is Another Sky
By Emily Dickinson
There is another sky,
Ever serene and fair,
And there is another sunshine,
Though it be darkness there;
Never mind faded forests, Austin,
Never mind silent fields -
Here is a little forest,
Whose leaf is ever green;
Here is a brighter garden,
Where not a frost has been;
In its unfading flowers
I hear the bright bee hum:
Prithee, my brother,
Into my garden come!
By Emily Dickinson
There is another sky,
Ever serene and fair,
And there is another sunshine,
Though it be darkness there;
Never mind faded forests, Austin,
Never mind silent fields -
Here is a little forest,
Whose leaf is ever green;
Here is a brighter garden,
Where not a frost has been;
In its unfading flowers
I hear the bright bee hum:
Prithee, my brother,
Into my garden come!
Monday, January 17, 2005
all ignorance toboggans into know
by e.e. cummings
all ignorance toboggans into know
and trudges up to ignorance again:
but winter's not forever,even snow
melts; and if spring should spoil the game, what then?
all history's a winter sport or three:
but were it five, i'd still insist that all
history is too small for even me;
for me and you,exceedingly too small.
Swoop(shrill collective myth)into thy grave
merely to toil the scale to shrillerness
per every madge and mabel dick and dave
--tomorrow is our permanent address
and there they'll scarcely find us(if they do,
we'll move away still further: into now
by e.e. cummings
all ignorance toboggans into know
and trudges up to ignorance again:
but winter's not forever,even snow
melts; and if spring should spoil the game, what then?
all history's a winter sport or three:
but were it five, i'd still insist that all
history is too small for even me;
for me and you,exceedingly too small.
Swoop(shrill collective myth)into thy grave
merely to toil the scale to shrillerness
per every madge and mabel dick and dave
--tomorrow is our permanent address
and there they'll scarcely find us(if they do,
we'll move away still further: into now
Sunday, January 16, 2005
Boy at the Window
By Richard Wilbur
Seeing the snowman standing all alone
In dusk and cold is more than he can bear.
The small boy weeps to hear the wind prepare
A night of gnashings and enormous moan.
His tearful sight can hardly reach to where
The pale-faced figure with bitumen eyes
Returns him such a god-forsaken stare
As outcast Adam gave to Paradise.
The man of snow is, nonetheless, content,
Having no wish to go inside and die.
Still, he is moved to see the youngster cry.
Though frozen water is his element,
He melts enough to drop from one soft eye
A trickle of the purest rain, a tear
For the child at the bright pane surrounded by
Such warmth, such light, such love, and so much fear.
By Richard Wilbur
Seeing the snowman standing all alone
In dusk and cold is more than he can bear.
The small boy weeps to hear the wind prepare
A night of gnashings and enormous moan.
His tearful sight can hardly reach to where
The pale-faced figure with bitumen eyes
Returns him such a god-forsaken stare
As outcast Adam gave to Paradise.
The man of snow is, nonetheless, content,
Having no wish to go inside and die.
Still, he is moved to see the youngster cry.
Though frozen water is his element,
He melts enough to drop from one soft eye
A trickle of the purest rain, a tear
For the child at the bright pane surrounded by
Such warmth, such light, such love, and so much fear.
Full Moon
By Tu Fu
Above the tower -- a lone, twice-sized moon.
On the cold river passing night-filled homes,
It scatters restless gold across the waves.
On mats, it shines richer than silken gauze.
Empty peaks, silence: among sparse stars,
Not yet flawed, it drifts. Pine and cinnamon
Spreading in my old garden . . . All light,
All ten thousand miles at once in its light
By Tu Fu
Above the tower -- a lone, twice-sized moon.
On the cold river passing night-filled homes,
It scatters restless gold across the waves.
On mats, it shines richer than silken gauze.
Empty peaks, silence: among sparse stars,
Not yet flawed, it drifts. Pine and cinnamon
Spreading in my old garden . . . All light,
All ten thousand miles at once in its light
Saturday, January 15, 2005
Friday, January 14, 2005
Introduction to Poetry
By Billy Collins
I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide
or press an ear against its hive.
I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,
or walk inside the poem's room
and feel the walls for a light switch.
I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author's name on the shore.
But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.
They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.
By Billy Collins
I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide
or press an ear against its hive.
I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,
or walk inside the poem's room
and feel the walls for a light switch.
I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author's name on the shore.
But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.
They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.
Friday Thought: Distinctions We Don't Need
"The master in the art of living makes little distinction between his work and his play, his labor and his leisure, his mind and his body, his information and his recreation, his love and his religion. He hardly knows which is which. He simply pursues his vision of excellence at whatever he does, leaving others to decide whether he is working or playing. To him he's always doing both."
Source: Buddhist Wisdom, No specific source
"The master in the art of living makes little distinction between his work and his play, his labor and his leisure, his mind and his body, his information and his recreation, his love and his religion. He hardly knows which is which. He simply pursues his vision of excellence at whatever he does, leaving others to decide whether he is working or playing. To him he's always doing both."
Source: Buddhist Wisdom, No specific source
Thursday, January 13, 2005
Advice to a Prophet
By Richard Wilbur
When you come, as you soon must, to the streets of our city,
Mad-eyed from stating the obvious,
Not proclaiming our fall but begging us
In God's name to have self-pity,
Spare us all word of the weapons, their force and range,
The long numbers that rocket the mind;
Our slow, unreckoning hearts will be left behind,
Unable to fear what is too strange.
Nor shall you scare us with talk of the death of the race.
How should we dream of this place without us?--
The sun mere fire, the leaves untroubled about us,
A stone look on the stone's face?
Speak of the world's own change. Though we cannot conceive
Of an undreamt thing, we know to our cost
How the dreamt cloud crumbles, the vines are blackened by frost,
How the view alters. We could believe,
If you told us so, that the white-tailed deer will slip
Into perfect shade, grown perfectly shy,
The lark avoid the reaches of our eye,
The jack-pine lose its knuckled grip
On the cold ledge, and every torrent burn
As Xanthus once, its gliding trout
Stunned in a twinkling. What should we be without
The dolphin's arc, the dove's return,
These things in which we have seen ourselves and spoken?
Ask us, prophet, how we shall call
Our natures forth when that live tongue is all
Dispelled, that glass obscured or broken
In which we have said the rose of our love and the clean
Horse of our courage, in which beheld
The singing locust of the soul unshelled,
And all we mean or wish to mean.
Ask us, ask us whether with the worldless rose
Our hearts shall fail us; come demanding
Whether there shall be lofty or long standing
When the bronze annals of the oak-tree close.
By Richard Wilbur
When you come, as you soon must, to the streets of our city,
Mad-eyed from stating the obvious,
Not proclaiming our fall but begging us
In God's name to have self-pity,
Spare us all word of the weapons, their force and range,
The long numbers that rocket the mind;
Our slow, unreckoning hearts will be left behind,
Unable to fear what is too strange.
Nor shall you scare us with talk of the death of the race.
How should we dream of this place without us?--
The sun mere fire, the leaves untroubled about us,
A stone look on the stone's face?
Speak of the world's own change. Though we cannot conceive
Of an undreamt thing, we know to our cost
How the dreamt cloud crumbles, the vines are blackened by frost,
How the view alters. We could believe,
If you told us so, that the white-tailed deer will slip
Into perfect shade, grown perfectly shy,
The lark avoid the reaches of our eye,
The jack-pine lose its knuckled grip
On the cold ledge, and every torrent burn
As Xanthus once, its gliding trout
Stunned in a twinkling. What should we be without
The dolphin's arc, the dove's return,
These things in which we have seen ourselves and spoken?
Ask us, prophet, how we shall call
Our natures forth when that live tongue is all
Dispelled, that glass obscured or broken
In which we have said the rose of our love and the clean
Horse of our courage, in which beheld
The singing locust of the soul unshelled,
And all we mean or wish to mean.
Ask us, ask us whether with the worldless rose
Our hearts shall fail us; come demanding
Whether there shall be lofty or long standing
When the bronze annals of the oak-tree close.
Thursday Thought: Adopt a Literary Mind
It's winter. In Cleveland, that means there is
plenty of time for reading. Most of us read on
a daily basis, if only the local newspaper, an email
from a friend or work colleague, or an ad for 20%
off canned cat food at the grocery store.
The thought occurred to me that whatever we
read during the course of our day might be
greatly enhanced if we approached our reading
with a "literary mind." What does that mean?
Simply that we see ourselves as literate and
capable of seeing the presence or absence of
value in whatever we read. Moreover, that we
read with an eye for those themes, ideas, and
notions that keep popping up across history.
Novel idea, I say. Give it a try!
It's winter. In Cleveland, that means there is
plenty of time for reading. Most of us read on
a daily basis, if only the local newspaper, an email
from a friend or work colleague, or an ad for 20%
off canned cat food at the grocery store.
The thought occurred to me that whatever we
read during the course of our day might be
greatly enhanced if we approached our reading
with a "literary mind." What does that mean?
Simply that we see ourselves as literate and
capable of seeing the presence or absence of
value in whatever we read. Moreover, that we
read with an eye for those themes, ideas, and
notions that keep popping up across history.
Novel idea, I say. Give it a try!
The Daisy Follows Soft the Sun
By Emily Dickinson
The daisy follows soft the sun,
And when his golden walk is done,
Sits shyly at his feet.
He, waking, finds the flower near.
"Wherefore, marauder, art thou here?"
"Because, sir, love is sweet!"
We are the flower, Thou the sun!
Forgive us, if as days decline,
We nearer steal to Thee,--
Enamoured of the parting west,
The peace, the flight, the amethyst,
Night's possibility!
By Emily Dickinson
The daisy follows soft the sun,
And when his golden walk is done,
Sits shyly at his feet.
He, waking, finds the flower near.
"Wherefore, marauder, art thou here?"
"Because, sir, love is sweet!"
We are the flower, Thou the sun!
Forgive us, if as days decline,
We nearer steal to Thee,--
Enamoured of the parting west,
The peace, the flight, the amethyst,
Night's possibility!
Wednesday, January 12, 2005
How happy is the little stone
By Emily Dickinson
How happy is the little stone
That rambles in the road alone,
And doesn't care about careers,
And exigencies never fears;
Whose coat of elemental brown
A passing universe put on;
And independent as the sun,
Associates or glows alone,
Fulfilling absolute decree
In casual simplicity.
By Emily Dickinson
How happy is the little stone
That rambles in the road alone,
And doesn't care about careers,
And exigencies never fears;
Whose coat of elemental brown
A passing universe put on;
And independent as the sun,
Associates or glows alone,
Fulfilling absolute decree
In casual simplicity.
Canis Major
By Robert Frost
The great Overdog
That heavenly beast
With a star in one eye
Gives a leap in the east.
He dances upright
All the way to the west
And never once drops
On his forefeet to rest.
I'm a poor underdog,
But to-night I will bark
With the great Overdog
That romps through the dark.
By Robert Frost
The great Overdog
That heavenly beast
With a star in one eye
Gives a leap in the east.
He dances upright
All the way to the west
And never once drops
On his forefeet to rest.
I'm a poor underdog,
But to-night I will bark
With the great Overdog
That romps through the dark.
Tuesday, January 11, 2005
Cold Poem
By Mary Oliver
Cold now.
Close to the edge. Almost
unbearable. Clouds
bunch up and boil down
from the north of the white bear.
This tree-splitting morning
I dream of his fat tracks,
the lifesaving suet.
I think of summer with its luminous fruit,
blossoms rounding to berries, leaves,
handfuls of grain.
Maybe what cold is, is the time
we measure the love we have always had, secretly,
for our own bones, the hard knife-edged love
for the warm river of the I, beyond all else; maybe
that is what it means the beauty
of the blue shark cruising toward the tumbling seals.
In the season of snow,
in the immeasurable cold,
we grow cruel but honest; we keep
ourselves alive,
if we can, taking one after another
the necessary bodies of others, the many
crushed red flowers.
By Mary Oliver
Cold now.
Close to the edge. Almost
unbearable. Clouds
bunch up and boil down
from the north of the white bear.
This tree-splitting morning
I dream of his fat tracks,
the lifesaving suet.
I think of summer with its luminous fruit,
blossoms rounding to berries, leaves,
handfuls of grain.
Maybe what cold is, is the time
we measure the love we have always had, secretly,
for our own bones, the hard knife-edged love
for the warm river of the I, beyond all else; maybe
that is what it means the beauty
of the blue shark cruising toward the tumbling seals.
In the season of snow,
in the immeasurable cold,
we grow cruel but honest; we keep
ourselves alive,
if we can, taking one after another
the necessary bodies of others, the many
crushed red flowers.
Tuesday Thought: Vision Questing
"Questers venture into the unknown, confront difficulties and dangers, and return home with new understandings of themselves and of the world. A pilgrimage, part trip and part ritual, is prescribed in all the religious traditions for those seeking healing and renewal. The impetus for the journey could be an urge to explore one's spiritual roots, a desire for absolution, a wish to pay homage, or a question that needs answering.
To practice questing, you have to leave home, both literally and figuratively. Travel to a sacred place where something has happened before and see what happens to you now. Don't stop, even if you stumble, until you have found a gift or an insight to bring back with you. If you can't go far, make an inner journey. Ask questions. Look for replies in areas where you have never thought to go before."
Source: Spirituality and Health
"Questers venture into the unknown, confront difficulties and dangers, and return home with new understandings of themselves and of the world. A pilgrimage, part trip and part ritual, is prescribed in all the religious traditions for those seeking healing and renewal. The impetus for the journey could be an urge to explore one's spiritual roots, a desire for absolution, a wish to pay homage, or a question that needs answering.
To practice questing, you have to leave home, both literally and figuratively. Travel to a sacred place where something has happened before and see what happens to you now. Don't stop, even if you stumble, until you have found a gift or an insight to bring back with you. If you can't go far, make an inner journey. Ask questions. Look for replies in areas where you have never thought to go before."
Source: Spirituality and Health
One to consider...
"The cultivation of mindfulness is an invaluable means of appreciating the present moment and healing the body. This discipline also opens our senses and gives us a way to cope with the distress and dissatisfaction of our lives and move toward the creation of a better world. That's the important message of Coming to Our Senses, the opus magnum of one of the pioneers of mind/body medicine.
Jon Kabat-Zinn, the founding director of the Stress Reduction Clinic and the Center for Mindfulness in Medicine, Health Care, and Society at the University of Massachusetts Medical School, leads workshops on stress reduction and mindfulness for doctors and other health professionals and for lay audiences worldwide. He is uniquely qualified to explain why "meditation is not for the faint-hearted nor for those who routinely avoid the whispered longings of their own hearts."
Source: Spirituality and Health
"The cultivation of mindfulness is an invaluable means of appreciating the present moment and healing the body. This discipline also opens our senses and gives us a way to cope with the distress and dissatisfaction of our lives and move toward the creation of a better world. That's the important message of Coming to Our Senses, the opus magnum of one of the pioneers of mind/body medicine.
Jon Kabat-Zinn, the founding director of the Stress Reduction Clinic and the Center for Mindfulness in Medicine, Health Care, and Society at the University of Massachusetts Medical School, leads workshops on stress reduction and mindfulness for doctors and other health professionals and for lay audiences worldwide. He is uniquely qualified to explain why "meditation is not for the faint-hearted nor for those who routinely avoid the whispered longings of their own hearts."
Source: Spirituality and Health
Monday, January 10, 2005
My Life
By Billy Collins
Former U.S. Poet Laureate
Sometimes I see it as a straight line
drawn with a pencil and a ruler
transecting the circle of the world
or as a finger piercing
a smoke ring, casual, inquisitive,
but then the sun will come out
or the phone will ring
and I will cease to wonder
if it is one thing,
a large ball of air and memory,
or many things,
a string of small farming towns,
a dark road winding through them.
Let us say it is a field
I have been hoeing every day,
hoeing and singing,
then going to sleep in one of its furrows,
or now that it is more than half over,
a partially open door,
rain dripping from the eaves.
Like yours, it could be anything, a nest with one egg,
a hallway that leads to a thousand rooms--
whatever happens to float into view
when I close my eyes
or look out a window
for more than a few minutes,
so that some days I think
it must be everything and nothing at once.
But this morning, sitting up in bed,
wearing my black sweater and my glasses,
the curtains drawn and the windows up,
I am a lake, my poem is an empty boat,
and my life is the breeze that blows
through the whole scene
stirring everything it touches--
the surface of the water, the limp sail,
even the heavy, leafy trees along the shore.
By Billy Collins
Former U.S. Poet Laureate
Sometimes I see it as a straight line
drawn with a pencil and a ruler
transecting the circle of the world
or as a finger piercing
a smoke ring, casual, inquisitive,
but then the sun will come out
or the phone will ring
and I will cease to wonder
if it is one thing,
a large ball of air and memory,
or many things,
a string of small farming towns,
a dark road winding through them.
Let us say it is a field
I have been hoeing every day,
hoeing and singing,
then going to sleep in one of its furrows,
or now that it is more than half over,
a partially open door,
rain dripping from the eaves.
Like yours, it could be anything, a nest with one egg,
a hallway that leads to a thousand rooms--
whatever happens to float into view
when I close my eyes
or look out a window
for more than a few minutes,
so that some days I think
it must be everything and nothing at once.
But this morning, sitting up in bed,
wearing my black sweater and my glasses,
the curtains drawn and the windows up,
I am a lake, my poem is an empty boat,
and my life is the breeze that blows
through the whole scene
stirring everything it touches--
the surface of the water, the limp sail,
even the heavy, leafy trees along the shore.
Untitled
Each time I go outside
the world is different.
This has happened all my life.
*
The clock stopped at 5:30
for three months.
Now it's always time to quit work,
have a drink, cook dinner.
*
"What I would do for wisdom,"
I cried out as a young man.
Evidently not much. Or so it seems.
Even on walks I follow the dog.
*
Old friend,
perhaps we work too hard
at being remembered.
From Braided Creek: A Conversation in Poetry by Jim Harrison and Ted Kooser
Note: Ted Kooser is the current U.S. Poet Laureate.
Each time I go outside
the world is different.
This has happened all my life.
*
The clock stopped at 5:30
for three months.
Now it's always time to quit work,
have a drink, cook dinner.
*
"What I would do for wisdom,"
I cried out as a young man.
Evidently not much. Or so it seems.
Even on walks I follow the dog.
*
Old friend,
perhaps we work too hard
at being remembered.
From Braided Creek: A Conversation in Poetry by Jim Harrison and Ted Kooser
Note: Ted Kooser is the current U.S. Poet Laureate.
Sunday, January 09, 2005
Sunday Thought: How We Choose
"Thus we see that the all-important thing is
not killing or giving life, drinking or not drinking,
living in the town or the country, being lucky or
unlucky, winning or losing. It is how we win, how
we lose, how we live or die; finally, how we choose.
We walk, and our religion is shown (even to the
dullest and most insensitive person), in how we
walk. Living in this world means choosing, and
the way we choose to walk is infallibly and
perfectly expressed in the walk itself.
—R. H. Blyth
"Thus we see that the all-important thing is
not killing or giving life, drinking or not drinking,
living in the town or the country, being lucky or
unlucky, winning or losing. It is how we win, how
we lose, how we live or die; finally, how we choose.
We walk, and our religion is shown (even to the
dullest and most insensitive person), in how we
walk. Living in this world means choosing, and
the way we choose to walk is infallibly and
perfectly expressed in the walk itself.
—R. H. Blyth
Saturday, January 08, 2005
Saturday Thought: Native American Version of 23rd Psalm
The GREAT FATHER above a SHEPHERD CHIEF is.
I am His and with Him I want not.
He throws out to me a rope
and the name of the rope is loveand
He draws me to where the grass is green and the water is not dangerous,
and I eat and lie down and am satisfied.
Sometimes my heart is very weak and falls down
but He lifts me up again draws me into a good road.
His name is WONDERFUL .
Sometimes, it may be very soon,
it may be a long long time,
He will draw me into a valley.
It is dark there,
but I'll be afraid not,
for it is between those mountains
that the SHEPHERD CHIEF will meet me
and the hunger that I have in my heart
all through life will be satisfied.
Sometimes he makes the love rope into a whip,
but afterwards He gives me a staff to lean upon.
He spreads a table before me with all kinds of foods.
He puts His hand upon my head and all the " tired " is gone.
My cup he fills till it runs over.
What I tell is true. I lie not.
These roads that are "away ahead"
will stay with me through this life and after;
and afterwards I will go to live in the Big Teepee
and sit down with the SHEPHERD CHIEF forever.
The GREAT FATHER above a SHEPHERD CHIEF is.
I am His and with Him I want not.
He throws out to me a rope
and the name of the rope is loveand
He draws me to where the grass is green and the water is not dangerous,
and I eat and lie down and am satisfied.
Sometimes my heart is very weak and falls down
but He lifts me up again draws me into a good road.
His name is WONDERFUL .
Sometimes, it may be very soon,
it may be a long long time,
He will draw me into a valley.
It is dark there,
but I'll be afraid not,
for it is between those mountains
that the SHEPHERD CHIEF will meet me
and the hunger that I have in my heart
all through life will be satisfied.
Sometimes he makes the love rope into a whip,
but afterwards He gives me a staff to lean upon.
He spreads a table before me with all kinds of foods.
He puts His hand upon my head and all the " tired " is gone.
My cup he fills till it runs over.
What I tell is true. I lie not.
These roads that are "away ahead"
will stay with me through this life and after;
and afterwards I will go to live in the Big Teepee
and sit down with the SHEPHERD CHIEF forever.
Friday, January 07, 2005
One of my favorites...
The Road Not Taken
By Robert Frost
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
The Road Not Taken
By Robert Frost
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
Thursday, January 06, 2005
Thursday Thought: Being an Indian
"Being Indian is an attitude, a state of mind,
a way of being in harmony with all things and
all beings. It is allowing the heart to be the
distributor of energy on this planet; to allow
feelings and sensitivities to determine where
energy goes; bringing aliveness up from the
Earth and from the Sky, putting it in and
giving it out from the heart."
~ Brooke Medicine Eagle ~
"Being Indian is an attitude, a state of mind,
a way of being in harmony with all things and
all beings. It is allowing the heart to be the
distributor of energy on this planet; to allow
feelings and sensitivities to determine where
energy goes; bringing aliveness up from the
Earth and from the Sky, putting it in and
giving it out from the heart."
~ Brooke Medicine Eagle ~
Wednesday, January 05, 2005
On second thought...
"Beware, you who call yourselves
perfect in your obedience of the law.
You pay your taxes but you ignore
justice, mercy and honesty. You
should practice these things first.
You wash the outside of your cups
and plates, but inside you harbour
thoughts of greed and theft. Wash
the inside of the cup and it will all
be clean."
--Jesus
"Beware, you who call yourselves
perfect in your obedience of the law.
You pay your taxes but you ignore
justice, mercy and honesty. You
should practice these things first.
You wash the outside of your cups
and plates, but inside you harbour
thoughts of greed and theft. Wash
the inside of the cup and it will all
be clean."
--Jesus
Tuesday, January 04, 2005
On second thought...
"Often people ask: How long should
I meditate? And when?... The point is
not how long you meditate; the point
is whether the practise actually brings
you to a certain state of mindfulness
and presence, where you are a little
open and able to connect with your
heart essence. Five minutes of wakeful
sitting practise is of far greater value
than twenty minutes of dozing!"
--Sogyal Rinpoche
"Often people ask: How long should
I meditate? And when?... The point is
not how long you meditate; the point
is whether the practise actually brings
you to a certain state of mindfulness
and presence, where you are a little
open and able to connect with your
heart essence. Five minutes of wakeful
sitting practise is of far greater value
than twenty minutes of dozing!"
--Sogyal Rinpoche
Monday, January 03, 2005
Sunday, January 02, 2005
Sunday Thought: New Perspective of Death
"When it comes time to die, be not like those
whose hearts are filled with the fear of death,
so when their time comes they weep and pray
for a little more time to live their lives over
again in a different way. Sing your death song,
and die like a hero going home."
--Tecumseh
"When it comes time to die, be not like those
whose hearts are filled with the fear of death,
so when their time comes they weep and pray
for a little more time to live their lives over
again in a different way. Sing your death song,
and die like a hero going home."
--Tecumseh
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