The gray in your hair doesn’t make you old,
Nor the crow’s feet under your eyes, I’m told.
But when your mind makes a contract your body can’t fill,
You’re over the hill, brother, over the hill.
-Mary E. Mitchell, 32 Easy Lessons in Metaphysics and the Science of our Mind
You can learn only from
moving forward at the rate
you are moved,
as brightness, into brightness
— Sarah Manguso, Two Kinds of Decay
Source: Animated Gifs
“Photographer Ben Hopper‘s “Transfiguration” project transforms his subjects into living sculptures. Each photo is charged with kinetic energy, only heightened by the bold streaks of body paint and splatters of white powder. Some of the photographs look like cubist paintings because of the contrast between black, white, and human flesh along with the seemingly impossible angles and feats of flexibility performed by the subjects. The body paint looks almost like strokes of charcoal, creating depth while also the illusion of two-dimensionality.”
Don’t miss 34 other incredible shots here: Transfiguration – Ben Hopper’s Blog
Source: Precious Things
Seven of us, and one dog, are aboard the boat. […] So we become, for the afternoon, sea creatures ourselves. How light our bodies feel as we lounge against the planks and trail our hands in the water. Ahead is the sandy point of our destination, and between us and it not a single apportioning marker but the wide water’s drowsy lap and slide, its abundance and gleam. We stroll on its surface freely, citizens of the water world. How different from the foot on the stone, the hand opening the gate, the gravel path of the garden, the trudge through loose sand, the heel sticking into the clay of the field! Such weight, on the earth, is on our shoulders: gravity keeping us at home. But on the water we shake off the harness of weight; we glide; we are passengers of a sleek ocean bird with its single white wing filled with wind.
~ Mary Oliver, Long Life: Essays and Other Writings
The mercury tipped 15º F. A veritable heat wave.
It’s 6:20 AM and the train pulls into Grand Central.
I twist in my ear buds and cue up my “Favorites” playlist.
Angus Stone: Bird on a Buffalo.
The herd stampedes out of the station.
Are you the bird? Or the buffalo?
I’m passing commuters on my left. And on my right.
Middle age, my a**. Can’t touch me. I’m sure those are whispers I hear behind me: “Who is that Pro Athlete?”
Another solid night of sleep. Superman. Cape.
I’m out on 48th and heading cross-town.
Cold air shocks Clark Kent. He wobbles, exhales mist, watches it rise and marches on.
My pace has me hitting each “Walk” sign in succession. Dominos falling.
No slowing, no stopping. Batta Bing, Batta Bang.
It’s going to be a good day.
Light wind gusts at my back.
Wind triggers the Old Irish Blessing
May the road rise to meet you,
May the wind be always at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face,
The rains fall soft upon your fields.
And until we meet again,
May God hold you in the palm of his hand.
May the cabs stay on the highway and not plow into me on the curb.
May these brutal Arctic winds stay down.
May the sun warm my cold freezing a**,
And please God, no freezing rain. Please no more. [Read more…]
Caleb has taken our very own Val Boyko to Morocco. Love the head gear Val!
Val is a fellow WordPress blogger. Be sure to check out Val’s blog at Find Your Middle Ground.
Then I’m laying out my winter clothes and wishing I was gone, going home, where the New York City winters aren’t bleeding me.” So goes the Simon and Garfunkel song, buried deep in the memory, an oldie that seems to have been around for as long as this old winter has.
And long it has been. Long stretches of painfully frigid weather, brief respites, then more snow, ice and freezing rain. Freeze, thaw, repeat — the cycle xpands in the mind to unbearable infinities, the unyielding sensation of being trapped.
But check the calendar: This week means we are officially in late February, which means March. March means daffodils, which means this all must eventually end.
Until then, we wait, battered and diminished. Winter shrinks the vision, narrows it to the limits of a parka hood. It numbs the heart, dulls the reflexes of graciousness and gratitude as people’s behavior on sidewalks and train platforms shifts to self-preservation. It bends the neck, as the eyes scan for ice, gauging the leapability of slush puddles and the danger of left-turning, nonyielding cabs. Is that filthy, black-edged snowbank crusty enough to slip on, or soft enough to sink into? Will I break my ankle or just soak it? Should I give up now, and die right here? It’s windy. It hurts. I can’t go on.
I’ll go on…
Do be sure to go on. Read the rest here: ~ The Winter Has Gotten Old
Thank you Susan