Catching up on your posts and came across your July 7 Monday Mantra. Thought you might like to see the original video of the reggae-biased Morepork … so named for their call. If you live close to bush in New Zealand, you turn on the porch light and these little guys will come calling to feed on the moths.”
This little Morepork (or Ruru in Maori) arrived at New Zealand Bird Rescue Charitable Trust’s Green Bay Hospital in Auckland when it was about a week old. Now it is flying and has lost most of its baby feathers. New Zealand Bird Rescue supports the community by assisting many thousands of sick, orphaned, injured and lost birds every year. Birds that come into care here are rehabilitated until they are ready for release back into the wild. We accept and care for all New Zealand birds; no bird is ever turned away. Many have been victims of cat attacks, road accidents, pollution, fishing line entanglements, and human ignorance or cruelty.
Thank you Stephen.
Source: Huffington Post (Baby owl was 1 week old when he was admitted to the New Zealand Bird Rescue Hospital.)
Tired, testy and feelin’ Titanic…
[...] the lightest touch,
a breeze arriving from nowhere,
a whispered healing arrival,
a word in your ear,
a settling into things,
then like a hand in the dark
it arrests the whole body,
steeling you for revelation.
In the silence that follows [...]
~ David Whyte, The Lightest Touch
- Image – Stepsonmysunlitfloor.com.
- Poem: Thank you Carol @ Radiating Blossom. Find poem in David Whyte’s Book: Everything is Waiting for You
Source: Headlikeanorange (Young black-tailed prairie dog)
Okay, not one can write a symphony, or a dictionary,
or even a letter to an old friend, full of remembrance
Not one can manage a single sound though the blue jays
carp and whistle all day in the branches, without
the push of the wind.
But to tell the truth after a while I’m pale with longing
for their thick bodies ruckled with lichen
and you can’t keep me from the woods, from the tonnage
of their shoulders, and their shining green hair.
Today is a day like any other: twenty-four hours, a
little sunshine, a little rain.
Listen, says ambition, nervously shifting her weight from
one boot to another — why don’t you get going?
For there I am, in the mossy shadows, under the trees.
And to tell the truth I don’t want to let go of the wrists
of idleness, I don’t want to sell my life for money,
I don’t even want to come in out of the rain.
- Mary Oliver, “Black Oaks” in West Wind
In a life properly lived, you’re a river. You touch things lightly or deeply; you move along because life herself moves, and you can’t stop it…
~ Jim Harrison
Source: Thank you THISISEVERYTHING
The lodgepole pines I had seen as red and dying were now part of the story they introduced as fire ecology, with pine bark beetles entering the cambium layer of the tree, killing it, and preparing it for fire. Ted spoke of the flames rising with the heat in the forest, splitting open the cones that drop their seeds in the seared soil for the lodgepole’s regeneration the following year. “Lodgepole pinecones may remain unopened for years and burst open only during a forest fire,” Ted said. “They are referred to as serotinous cones.” As a young Mormon woman, I heard “Resurrection.”
~ Terry Tempest Williams, When Women Were Birds: Fifty-four Variations on Voice
Come on Ladies, pucker up. Lay a wet one on Caleb on Hump Day…
Image Credit: Saj Sodhi
Whaddya think of my nose ring?
Source: Neal. Caleb visiting the Erg Chebbi dunes near Mezouga, Morocco in the Sahara Desert.
Day 3. Contemplating a third consecutive day of running. The body was saying No. The Heart was saying No. The Head was saying take the day off.
No inspiration to run. No inspiration to write. (Yet, you seemingly have an abundance of inspiration to eat. Go figure. You think these things would balance themselves out. Laws of nature and all that. Wasn’t that Darwin?)
Who is she? The photograph up top. No idea. But there she was. Stretching. Graceful. Peaceful. And pointing the way to the front door. (Out Butthead. Out!)
On the continuum of awful to ethereal, the morning is rated as sublime. (I could never figure out how to use “sublime” in a sentence and here it is. Feels awkward, like an ill-fitting pair of shoes. Big word, so much bigger than you. Shameful how you jammed that in there. Has to be some form of writer / hacker malpractice.) [Read more...]
1) “It’s just all too exhausting to get lathered up about. I don’t get any respect!” or,
2) “Do you see the oasis ahead?” or,
3) “If I hold my head very still, perhaps she won’t leave any deposits.” or,
4) “Whaddya think of my new hat?”
Image Credit: Eric Lafforgue
I have never wanted anything more than the wild creatures have, a broad waft of clean air, a day to lie on the grass at times, with nothing to do but to slip the blades through my fingers, and look as long as I pleased at the whole blue arch, and the screens of green and white between; leave for a month to float and float along the salt crests and among the foam, or roll with my naked skin over a clean long stretch of sunshiny sand; food that I liked, straight from the cool ground, and time to taste its sweetness, and time to rest after tasting; sleep when it came, and stillness, that the sleep might leave me when it would, not sooner … This is what I wanted,—this, and free contact with my fellows … not to love and lie, and be ashamed, but to love and say I love, and be glad of it; to feel the currents of ten thousand years of passion flooding me, body to body, as the wild things meet. I have asked no more.
~ Voltairine De Cleyre (1866-1912)
Here’s my morning meditation. 20,000 to 40,000 big-eye trevally shoal as part of a mating ritual. MUSIC UP.
Zeke and I slow and stop on a narrow part of the trail as we close in on a walker and her puppy.
“Is he a Vizsla?”
She’s tall. Lean. Has to be 6′ 3″. A trace of Euro accent. East German Swimmer? Swedish Volleyball player?
Her cute 5-month old terrier is at her heels. Bouncing on her toes. Looking up at her Mommy with admiration.
“Aren’t Vizsla’s smaller?”
Her pup has a pink collar. Lean. Muscled. Beautiful dog.
She grins and points. There’s Zeke. He’s 20 yards off the trail. Rolling on his back, grinding in Deer urine.
I leash Zeke up. He’s still on his back, with all four legs in the air. His eyes manic, full, are locked on mine. He’s baring his teeth and growling.
“Zeke, Don’t Screw With Me.”
And, then with a firm, snap-tug on the leash, I drag him behind me until we’re back in rhythm.
Team Frito-Lay builds a head a steam and roars by Team Euro.
Big and Bad.
Time Check: 5 miles. 63 minutes.
Related Posts: Running Series. Image Source: Mine! Taken today on the run.
So many people glorify and romanticize “busy”.
I do not.
I value purpose.
I believe in resting in reason and moving in passion.
If you’re always busy/moving, you will miss important details.
I like the mountain.
Still, but when it moves lands shift and earth quakes.
~ Joseph Cook
What’s with the mustache?
Have you ever shaved it off?
How long have you had it?
(Pause) It’s older than you are.
Why don’t you shave it off?
So. Why don’t you shave it off?
(Pause) It’s foliage.
(Silence) (I catch the stare. Then the flash of understanding, of empathy. The eyes avert. The awkward step backward to create space.)
I turn my back and walk away.
Image Source: Thank you Carol
~ Florida Scott-Maxwell, The Measure of My Days
- More gems from Florida Scott-Maxwell: I kept calling to you and you did not come and Yes, all that and Ever changing beauty almost ignored and They are stronger than I am. They are me.
- Image: Your Eyes Blaze Out
George Ball is the chairman of the Burpee Seed Company and a former president of the American Horticultural Society. Here’s the intro to his article titled: “Spring Is Here. Why Take a Break?”
As Thursday is the first day of spring, it seems timely to ask, why does anyone go on spring vacation? It seems odd to fly to a tropical destination at the very moment that one of the great astonishments of life on Earth is taking place right at home. When friends tell me their spring-vacation plans, they mention the word “escape.” Really? You want to escape from spring? That’s like fleeing paradise. Far better to escape to spring.
You cannot access the season’s magic on your laptop or smartphone; you can’t watch it on TV or catch it on your radio or simply read about it. If you wish to apprehend spring in its ineffable splendor, you have to show up in person, with every one of your senses engaged, and personally participate in this annual miracle.
The media world in which we dwell offers us a shared spectacle of limitless images, constant chatter, endless noise, infinite information and mountains of data—at once a stimulant and a narcotic. What’s lacking in this man-made media galaxy is everything that matters: beauty, love, magic, mystery, grandeur, rapture, the miraculous. Not to forget poetry, delicacy, refinement, purity, splendor, intimacy, innocence, fulfillment, inspiration. And then there’s nuance, drama, poignancy, integrity, harmony.
Where will you find these? On your smartphone? Non. On your tropical vacation? Unlikely. Discover the magnitude, mystery and wonder of life at home, working in your garden, in springtime….
It gets better. Read the rest here: Spring Is Here. Why Take a Break?
Image Source: My Favourite Web Photos
…St. Patrick’s Day!
I wonder if the sap is stirring yet,
If wintry birds are dreaming of a mate,
If frozen snowdrops feel as yet the sun
And crocus fires are kindling one by one:
Sing robin, sing:
I still am sore in doubt concerning Spring.
~ Christina Rossetti
Credits: Photograph of a European Robin by Leonard Davis. Poem via Gardendigest.com. Christina Rossetti (1830-1894) was an English poet who wrote a variety of romantic, devotional, and children’s poems.
And if you missed the original, here’s “20 Strangers Kiss for the First Time“
And don’t miss today’s NY Times Article offering fascinating background on the original video: A Kiss Is Just a Kiss, Unless It’s an Ad for a Clothing Company (43.5 million views on YouTube and Vimeo and counting…”)
Thank you Lori for sharing.
The problem (if there was one) was simply a problem with the question. He wants to paint a bird, needs to, and the problem is why. Why paint a bird? Why do anything at all? Not how, because hows are easy, series or sequence, one foot after the other, but existentially why bother, what does it solve? Be the tree, solve for bird. What does that mean? It’s a problem of focus, it’s a problem of diligence, it’s supposed to be a grackle but it sort of got away from him. But why not let the colors do what they want, which is blend, which is kind of neighborly, if you think about it. Blackbird, he says. So be it. Indexed and normative. Who gets to measure the distance between experience and its representation? Who controls the lines of inquiry? He does, but he’s not very good at it. And just because you want to paint a bird, do actually paint a bird, it doesn’t mean you’ve accomplished anything. Maybe if it was pretty, it would mean something. Maybe if it was beautiful it would be true. But it’s not, not beautiful, not true, not even realistic, more like a man in a birdsuit, blue shoulders instead of feathers, because he isn’t looking at a bird, real bird, as he paints, he is looking at his heart, which is impossible, unless his heart is a metaphor for his heart, as everything is a metaphor for itself, so that looking at the page is like looking out the window at a bird in your chest with a song in its throat that you don’t want to hear but you paint anyway because the hand is a voice that can sing what the voice will not and the hand wants to do something useful. Sometimes, at night, in bed, before I fall asleep, I think about a poem I might write, someday, about my heart, says the heart. Answer: be the heart. Answer: be the hand. Answer: be the bird. Answer: be the sky.
“The enchantment of the sky, ever changing beauty almost ignored. Beyond words, without fixed form, not to be understood, or stated. It ravished away dullness, worry, even pain. It graces life when nothing else does. It is the first marvel of the day. Even when leaden grey it is still a friend, withdrawn for a time.”
~ Florida Scott-Maxwell, Measure of My Days
Image Credit: Natgeo
(All together now: “What fresh hell is this?“)
Source: Thank you Mme Scherzo
Six Mile run. Sixty-two minutes.
*Sylvia Plath: I felt my lungs inflate with the onrush of scenery— air, mountains, trees…I thought, “This is what it is to be happy.”
Related Posts: Running Series. Credit: Thank you Susan for photo of Zeke.
And this post was inspired by this “List of Nice Sounds“
No one. I mean no one, beats high-stepping Caleb in a foot race.
Don’t miss Caleb’s color commentary at end of the race.