All souls' day

 The new moon holds

For one night long

The old moon in its arms,

Bertolt Brecht

January 1, 2024

 On a foggy new year's morning,

a cup of fragrant tea,

and thee and me.

Midsummer

 I saw the lawn was starred with white clover and golden oxalis blossoms as I was carrying in the groceries on this steamy day.  The birds have been mainly silent since the fireworks time.  The fireflies scarce as well.  The mimosa is putting out a big fizz of its salmon blossoms  -silent, scented mini-fireworks that the hummingbirds used to visit.  So few butterflies and bees these days, they are becoming as rare as hen's teeth.  The super full moon glowed through a hazy sky a few nights ago, but bright enough to cast shadows on the street.  We are in the time of quick downpours and booms of thunder any time of the day or night.  I sat in the cool house and mended two rayon dresses today as gossamer as the spider webs threading the old yew bushes guarding the front porch.  It is the time of sun tea and iced coffee, watermelon and fruit salads.  Time to lose myself in holy tomes and nap in the middle of the day. 

 

The world is holy. 

We are holy. All life is holy. 

Daily prayers are delivered on 

the lips of breaking waves, the whisperings 

of grasses, the shimmering of leaves.

― Terry Tempest Williams

 The path = is the goal.

Ego’s Game

 

As long as there is ego, there will be irony. As long as there is irony, there are possibilities for humor. Ego-clinging is serious business. Humor is a great lubricant for our journey. A sense of humor is one of our most potent methods for overcoming ego-clinging. When you see yourself churning up the same delusive patterns again and again, it is easy to become frustrated and self-critical. However, feeling bad about yourself is another form of self-clinging. A sense of humor lets in fresh air to ventilate ego’s stuffy seriousness. Ego’s game is actually funny, but we are usually too wrapped up in it to notice.

Renunciation

The whole journey of renunciation, or starting to say yes to life, is first of all realizing that you’ve come up against your edge, that everything in you is saying no, and then at that point, softening. This is yet another opportunity to develop loving-kindness for yourself, which results in playfulness—learning to play like a raven in the wind.       -Pema Chodrin

Praise Song for the Day- Poem for Barack Obama’s Presidential Inauguration

Each day we go about our business,
walking past each other, catching each other's
eyes or not, about to speak or speaking.

All about us is noise. All about us is
noise and bramble, thorn and din, each
one of our ancestors on our tongues.

Someone is stitching up a hem, darning
a hole in a uniform, patching a tire,
repairing the things in need of repair.

Someone is trying to make music somewhere,
with a pair of wooden spoons on an oil drum,
with cello, boom box, harmonica, voice.

A woman and her son wait for the bus.
A farmer considers the changing sky.
A teacher says, Take out your pencils. Begin.

We encounter each other in words, words
spiny or smooth, whispered or declaimed,
words to consider, reconsider.

We cross dirt roads and highways that mark
the will of some one and then others, who said
I need to see what's on the other side.

I know there's something better down the road.
We need to find a place where we are safe.
We walk into that which we cannot yet see.

Say it plain: that many have died for this day.
Sing the names of the dead who brought us here,
who laid the train tracks, raised the bridges,

picked the cotton and the lettuce, built
brick by brick the glittering edifices
they would then keep clean and work inside of.

Praise song for struggle, praise song for the day.
Praise song for every hand-lettered sign,
the figuring-it-out at kitchen tables.

Some live by love thy neighbor as thyself,
others by first do no harm or take no more
than you need. What if the mightiest word is love?

Love beyond marital, filial, national,
love that casts a widening pool of light,
love with no need to pre-empt grievance.

In today's sharp sparkle, this winter air,
any thing can be made, any sentence begun.
On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp,

praise song for walking forward in that light.

by Elizabeth Alexander

“Breathing”: A poem by Thich Nhat Hanh from his collection of poetry Call Me by my True Names

Breathing in, I see myself as a flower.
I am the freshness
of a dewdrop.
Breathing out,
my eyes have become flowers.
Please look at me.
I am looking
with the eyes of love.

Breathing in, I am a mountain,
imperturbable,
still,
alive, vigorous.
Breathing out,
I feel solid.
The waves of emotion
can never carry me away.

Breathing in,
I am still water.
I reflect the sky
faithfully. Look, I have a full moon
within my heart,
the refreshing moon of the bodhisattva.
Breathing out, I offer the perfect reflection
of my mirror-mind.

Breathing in,
I have become space
without boundaries.
I have no plans left.
I have no luggage.
Breathing out, I am the moon
that is sailing through the sky of utmost emptiness.
I am freedom.

Fishing on the Susquehanna in July

   
I have never been fishing on the Susquehanna
or on any river for that matter
to be perfectly honest.

Not in July or any month
have I had the pleasure—if it is a pleasure—
of fishing on the Susquehanna.

I am more likely to be found
in a quiet room like this one—
a painting of a woman on the wall,

a bowl of tangerines on the table—
trying to manufacture the sensation
of fishing on the Susquehanna.

There is little doubt
that others have been fishing
on the Susquehanna,

rowing upstream in a wooden boat,
sliding the oars under the water
then raising them to drip in the light.

But the nearest I have ever come to
fishing on the Susquehanna
was one afternoon in a museum in Philadelphia

when I balanced a little egg of time
in front of a painting
in which that river curled around a bend

under a blue cloud-ruffled sky,
dense trees along the banks,
and a fellow with a red bandanna

sitting in a small, green
flat-bottom boat
holding the thin whip of a pole.

That is something I am unlikely
ever to do, I remember
saying to myself and the person next to me.

Then I blinked and moved on
to other American scenes
of haystacks, water whitening over rocks,

even one of a brown hare
who seemed so wired with alertness
I imagined him springing right out of the frame.

By Billy Collins

 

I hope you wake with a gasp,
a thousand flutters in your heart
Not from the whirlpool of worry. Not from a bad dream.
Not from a deadline or a string of demands, or the great to-do
of the still-to-be-done. Not from the lopsided weight of futility and failure
or some wayward mutiny shaking your bones. Not from the loss
of letting go or the grief of giving in. Not from the illusions of your metaphorical
imprisonment or escape. Not from grass-is-greener or anywhere-but-here.
I hope, instead, you rise from the tremble of something finding its edges,
earthquaking its way into being. That riotous pulsing of birth, and the cry that comes
just after, the lungs taking in their first overwhelmed breaths. That same lucid
sweetness of entry and release. The song of your life being sung. 
-Maya Rachel Stein

 “Drink water from the spring where horses drink. The horse will never drink bad water. Lay your bed where the cat sleeps. Eat the fruit that has been touched by a worm. Boldly pick the mushroom on which the insects sit. Plant the tree where the mole digs. Dig your fountain where the birds hide from the heat. Go to sleep and wake up at the same time with the birds – you will reap all of the day's golden grains. Eat more green – you will have strong legs and a resistant heart, like the beings of the forest. Swim often and you will feel on earth like the fish in the water. Look at the sky as often as possible and your thoughts will become light and clear. Be quiet a lot, speak little – and silence will come in your heart, and your spirit will be calm and full of peace.”

Saint Seraphim of Sarov

woolly mandala

 

another poem from bentlily

 

Another poem about cherry blossoms

I write a poem about you every year
because it’s impossible to overlook you

the way you flounce onto the scene
with so much unrestrained splendor
as though you have no idea
it was just winter.

You are so defiantly upbeat,
so sudden,
so pink.

You are the extrovert of trees.

We drive to school on a street
flanked by your pompoms
waiting for the one windy day
when you will shake loose
your confetti petals all over our car

ending your season,
the way you arrived,
in a burst 
of glory.

 by Samantha Reynolds

 

In the name of the daybreak
and the eyelids of morning
and the wayfaring moon
and the night when it departs,

I swear I will not dishonor
my soul with hatred,
but offer myself humbly
as a guardian of nature,
as a healer of misery,
as a messenger of wonder,
as an architect of peace.

In the name of the sun and its mirrors
and the day that embraces it
and the cloud veils drawn over it
and the uttermost night
and the male and the female
and the plants bursting with seed
and the crowning seasons
of the firefly and the apple,

I will honor all life
—wherever and in whatever form
it may dwell—on Earth my home,
and in the mansions of the stars.

— Diane Ackerman

The Guest House

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
As an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

— Jalaluddin Rumi, translation by Coleman Barks (The Essential Rumi)