SMWI* = Saturday Morning Work-Out Inspiration. Source: Weighty Matters.
SMWI* = Saturday Morning Work-Out Inspiration. Source: Weighty Matters.
Take one minute…and watch. Full stop.
I confess that I consider life
to be a thing of the most
~ Rainer Maria Rilke
Do you have hope for the future? someone asked Robert Frost, toward the end.
Yes, and even for the past, he replied, that it will turn out to have been all right for what it was, something we can accept, mistakes made by the selves we had to be, not able to be, perhaps, what we wished, or what looking back half the time it seems we could so easily have been, or ought…
The future, yes, and even for the past, that it will become something we can bear.
And I too, and my children, so I hope, will recall as not too heavy the tug of those albatrosses I sadly placed upon their tender necks.
Hope for the past, yes, old Frost, your words provide that courage, and it brings strange peace that itself passes into past, easier to bear because you said it, rather casually, as snow went on falling in Vermont years ago.
~ David Ray, “Thanks, Robert Frost.”
David Ray, 82, was born in Sapulpa, Oklahoma. Ray comes from a broken home that was thrown into upheaval when his father left the family by hopping on the back of a watermelon truck headed to California. After his mother’s next failed marriage ended in the suicide of Ray’s stepfather, he and his sister Mary Ellen were placed into foster care—a system that wasn’t kind to young children in the late 1930s and early 1940s. Ray’s classic “Mulberries of Mingo” steeps from memories of he and his sister being thrown out of a foster families home at dinner time – to fend for themselves eating the mulberries from a neighbor’s tree. The years that followed were dark and tragic as he and his sister were separated to face their separate nightmares of abuse. He is a distinguished award winner, and has lectured and read at over 100 Universities in England, Canada and the U.S. Graduating from the University of Chicago, BA, MA. Ray’s poetry varies from short, three to four lines pieces, to longer 30 lines poems. His work is also often autobiographical, providing unique context and insight to scenes of childhood, love, fear, sex, and travel. “Communication is important to him, and he has the courage, working with a genre in which simplicity is suspect, to say plainly what he means.” He and his wife, poet and essayist Judy Ray, live in Tucson, Arizona.
Studs Terkel: “David Ray’s poetry has always been radiant even though personal tragedy has suffused it.” [Read more...]
Source: The Pet’s Mart (The 10 Naughtiest Dog Breeds)
…after a long day, you need a Kiss from your Mama
Don’t you just love these two (especially the ear flaps UP on queue)
(Note to Self: How many times can you watch this loop, when you know the outcome?)
…you just need to hug a Chicken
…you just need to hug the Big Frog
“…We’re now trained to expect the worst. Lies rule the land…They have numbed us to the core. They are, as Engber says, “the ironic acid that corrodes our sense of wonder.” Ergo, we believe nothing. Everyone is suspect. The authentic thing is never really authentic. Society’s collective goodwill, the natural human instinct to trust you when you say this is legit and honest and true – no really it is I swear – this instinct has been molested. Perhaps beyond repair. You think?
Maybe. Maybe our collective Hoax Fatigue has gotten so bad that we’ll soon reach critical mass, and it will all flip around completely, so when another “First Kiss” comes along, instead of feeling a giddy thrill in the heart, we’ll instead feel bitter and disbelieving, waiting for the rug to be pulled at any second. What a fun way to live.
The evidence certainly seems ample. It’s not just viral videos, after all: the interval between when any uplifting new offering – a video, a song, a movie, a romance, a president, a newborn puppy, you name it – is released, and when than thing is crushed by sarcasm or jadedness, this interval has been compressed in recent years to near-instantaneous, to the point of absurdity. To the point where nothing even matters and it’s almost useless to even try.
Almost. But not quite. Happily, “First Kiss”-style phenoms still light up the Internet, even in this bitter age. Thankfully, the authentic thing can still break through the ice of corrosive cynicism. Against seemingly impossible odds and for almost no budget, millions of people can still made just a little bit giddy in the heart. Amazing. And they didn’t even slip us the tongue.”
~ Mark Morford, A Kiss for the Hopelessly Jaded
Mother and Son are texting last night.
Dad is in the Group Message.
Son with monosyllabic responses.
The intermittent bing bing bing signaling the back and forth.
Dad is silent. Observing the exchange from a distance.
Pictures come across from El Salvador. Magic.
There he is. Smiling.
What was he? 7 months old? 9 months?
I’m holding him up by his arm pits.
His little hands gripping mine. Trusting.
Warm water splashing over us.
He bows his head towards my chest to duck the spray.
I pull him closer.
He rests his head on my shoulder.
He squeezes his hands into little fists and rubs his eyes.
And looks up.
Those eyes. That smile.
I squeeze him tighter.
And feel his skin on my chest. On my fingertips.
And smell the Johnson’s Baby Shampoo in his hair.
Hold that moment.
As I told your Mom in our wedding vows,
I promise to love you fiercely too.
One day, when you’re a Mother, you’ll know the kind of love that I am talking about.
A love that makes my eyes well up with tears of joy when you simply hug me.
A love that moves me to rise from bed and check on you at three in the morning mostly because I just miss you when you sleep.
A love that makes it hard for me to let go of your hand when you try to balance on something because I know you need to learn from your mistakes.
I promise to look you in the eyes when you come to me with a problem.
I’ll always want to fix it for you right then and there.
I promise to listen as to whether you’ll want a hand or just an ear.
I promise to drop you off at college and when I do, I promise to do my best to contain my excitement for you so that I won’t embarrass you in front of your new friends.
I promise to have a reputation amongst your friends as a Dad that intimidates your boyfriends.
I promise to raise you to be strong and independent.
I promise to cry when I let go of your hand when I let go of your hand at the alter…
…I want you to know that every time when you open the door when I come home from work you’ll see a smile on my face
My arms already open ready to catch you
I’ll always be ready to catch you…
For you, Rachel…
Source: Thank you Carol @ Radiating Blossom
“He was named “Big Bird” at the shelter and renamed “Theo”. He was the shyest of them all to meet us, though he bounded instantly into [my son] Beau’s lap as soon as he entered their pen. The look on his little furry face was enough to seal the deal for me, we had met our newest family member. Every day now, when 23-month-old Beau is put down for his nap, Theo follows and they sleep for a minimum of 2 hours together. I think that Theo, having been abandoned by [his] mother early, feels like Beau is like a litter mate to him. He’s only 8 weeks old now, so he’s still very young…”
And, don’t miss the rest of the story and incredible photos at this link: Theo and Beau in a Nap Time Love Story.
Thank you Rachel.
90 seconds to A Perfect Day
“At five, I had the intuitive, instinctive faith that my cosmos, my family and the world were good and true and beautiful. That somehow I had always been and always would be. And I knew in a way of a five-year-old that I had worth and dignity and individuality. Later, when I read Nietzsche’s statement that these are not given to us by nature but are tasks that we must somehow solve, I knew him to be wrong. We all had them once.”
~ George Sheehan, Running & Being
Thank you Rachel
There is some secret that water holds that we need to know. I edge up close to the creek and peer into it for a revelation of some kind, an explanation of the world. Some things I think I know: that the sun rises, that the darkness heals, that animals are intelligent, that rocks are aware, that the earth has a sense of humor. The spring wind is blowing hard. The aspens along the bank make sounds of wood rubbing together, dry boards of an old house in a storm. Fair-weather clouds break loose on the bottom of the western horizon and drift one by one across the blue sky. Below me in the creek there is a clear pool full of minnows. I get down on my belly and carefully put my hand in the water among the small fishes. The minnows jerk past my numb fingers, swift as black seconds ticking. I cannot catch even one.
~ Tom Hennen
Tom Hennen was born in Morris, Minnesota and grew up in a farming family. His poetry was informed by a lifelong and intimate relationship with the prairie. He lives in Minnesota.
“There is a language older by far and deeper than words. It is the language of bodies, of body on body, wind on snow, rain on trees, wave on stone. It is the language of dream, gesture, symbol, memory. We have forgotten this language. We do not even remember that it exists…”
“When we’re in high-drama mode, everything is a crisis. But that’s often because we need the adrenalin or we’re bored…
…The hardest thing about perspective is it means we need to grow up. Or maybe we don’t. One way to have good perspective is to see the world through the eyes of a child. We innocently report. We accept how others think and feel. If something is had or sad, or we’re scared, we say that. We say how we feel and what we want and need. We know that when we’re tired, we see things out of focus. And when things get too difficult, we either go play in the park or we take a nap. Somehow we know that everything will work out.”
I’m in the car off to work.
I’m scanning my playlist to find a match to my mood. I’m challenged. Nothing seems to fit. Nothing that is, except the weather.
Mind pans back ten years. A sunny day in Miami. A lazy Sunday afternoon. She loves car rides. The sun roof is open. Andrea Bocelli is crooning on the cd player. We’re crossing the Rickenbacker Causeway. The City center is on our left. Biscayne Bay’s shimmering aquamarine blues are on the right. A warm tropical breeze is gushing through the windows. I look over and her eyes are closed and her hair is blowing in the wind. A portrait of youthful bliss. An indelible image that can be pulled up at will. [Read more...]
1 minute clip. I’m confident that this clip, paired with Queen’s “You’re My Best Friend“, will put you in the right frame of mind to kick off your day.
and piping hot tomato soup… :)
Source: Thank you madamescherzo
Source: videohall. Related Posts:
Saturdays during my childhood were spent playing with our cousins. Or fishing.
Billy was the oldest by a year. Like his Dad, he was built to run and had a spiritual connection with nature. With ease, Billy filled his match box with grasshoppers (for fish bait) while we stumbled around with the creatures making a mockery of us.
We’d grab our fishing poles and race our bikes to the Kootenay River. Billy would bound ahead from rock to rock. With grace. Like an Aboriginal Tracker. Quiet. Surefooted. No energy wasted.
The rest of us were in pursuit. Jimmy’s arms and legs flying. Baby fat rhythmically swinging up and down with each stride. Sweating profusely. Screaming at us to “wait up.”
ME: 6am. I cranked up my morning reading and scanned to find Kristin’s new post Play the Tape Through. Play the Tape Through. Play the tape through. Repeating the mantra in my head like a stylus stuck in a groove of a RCA gramophone. Shrieking again and again.
KRISTIN: “When you choose the behavior, you choose the consequences… -Dr. Phil.” It sounds so simple, but most people, myself included, have acted without stopping to play the tape through at one time or another- if not over and over again. Picture having a video tape of all your thoughts and actions and the consequences of those thoughts and actions. It is my guess that a whole lot of people would think twice if they could view the tape before ever acting in the first place.
ME: Roll the tape back. Way back. The play ends. Referees are on high alert…scanning the ice looking for trouble. Who’s the player who retaliates after the whistle blows? Who’s the one taking the extra shot? Who loses control? Satisfaction for 3 seconds. Then off to the penalty box. Some things never change.
We’ve been hanging (HANGING) since lunch time Friday when Theresa rushed out of the office to the hospital. (HE’S EARLY!)
Well, the stork has arrived. Alexander Salvatore was born at 11:18 pm last night. He came a bit early (6 weeks)… and a bit light (5 lbs, 7 oz) – - and he gave his Mom a tough time of it…however, everyone is just fine. Congratulations Theresa and Dominic! Strap in for the best ride of your life…
A new day has come
Where it was dark now there’s light
Where there was pain now there’s joy
Where there was weakness, I found my strength
All in the eyes of a boy
Heidi Bjork is an artist painting watercolor art of passion, love and romance in black and white. Heidi is originally from Kópavogur, Iceland and is now based in Staffordshire, UK. Heidi’s first children’s book will be published in Iceland in autumn 2012. Heidi was kind enough to permit me to share her work with you. Check out Heidi’s site at heidibjork.com. I love her work…