Me, I’d like to think I’d take the long way home

The Long Way Home from Co.MISSION on Vimeo.


If life were measured in steps, I fear that many would hoard them for as long as possible, going nowhere, tasting nothing. Simply being alive, but never living.”


Silence. It is a soundless echo.

2444_Beryl_Markham_photo_1

There are all kinds of silences and each of them means a different thing. There is the silence that comes with morning in a forest, and this is different from the silence of a sleeping city. There is silence after a rainstorm, and before a rainstorm, and these are not the same. There is the silence of emptiness, the silence of fear, the silence of doubt. There is a certain silence that can emanate from a lifeless object as from a chair lately used, or from a piano with old dust upon its keys, or from anything that has answered to the need of a man, for pleasure or for work. This kind of silence can speak. Its voice may be melancholy, but it is not always so; for the chair may have been left by a laughing child or the last notes of the piano may have been raucous and gay. Whatever the mood or the circumstance, the essence of its quality may linger in the silence that follows. It is a soundless echo.

— Beryl Markham, West with the Night


Beryl Markham (1902 – 1986) was a British-born Kenyan author, aviator, adventurer, and racehorse trainer. During the pioneer days of aviation, she became the first woman to fly solo across the Atlantic from east to west. She is now primarily remembered as the author of the memoir West with the Night - – The Book Summary from Amazon: [Read more...]

A day to lie on the grass with nothing to do but to slip the blades through my fingers

photography,woman,peace,relax,chill,zen

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)

 


Photograph: Mariam Sitchinava.  Quote Source: Stalwart Reader. Voltairine De Cleyre bio.

It’s never too late to be what you might have been. It’s never to early, either.

being-perfect-Anna-Quindlen

“Someday, sometime, you will be sitting somewhere. A berm overlooking a pond in Vermont. The lip of the Grand Canyon at sunset. A seat on the subway. And something bad will have happened: You will have lost someone you loved, or failed at something at which you badly wanted to succeed. And sitting there, you will fall into the center of yourself. You will look for some core to sustain you. And if you have been perfect all your life and have managed to meet all the expectations of your family, your friends, your community, your society, chances are excellent that there will be a black hole where that core ought to be. I don’t want anyone I know to take that terrible chance. And the only way to avoid it is to listen to that small voice inside you that tells you to make mischief, to have fun, to be contrarian, to go another way. George Eliot wrote, ‘It is never too late to be what you might have been.’ It is never too early, either.”

 - Anna Quindlen, Being Perfect


Source: Thank you WhiskeyRiver from Anna Quindlen’s book: Being Perfect

What still pulls on your soul?

athena-red-hair-Thomas-Dodd

What in your life is calling you,
when all the noise is silenced,
the meetings adjourned,
the lists laid aside,
and the wild iris blooms by itself
in the dark forest,
what still pulls on your soul?

— Rumi

 


Poem Source: Stalwart Reader; Photograph - Athena by Thomas Dodd. See bio here.

Monday Morning Mantra

begin-William-Wordsworth

 


Source: ArtPropelled

The dramatics are often unbelievably soft

dandelion

In truth, the dramatics of a life-determining experience are often unbelievably soft. It has so little akin to the bang, the flash, or the volcanic eruption that, at the moment it is made, the experience is often not even noticed. When it deploys its revolutionary effect and plunges a life into a brand-new light giving it a brand-new melody, it does that silently and in this wonderful silence resides its special nobility.

~ Pascal Mercier, Night Train to Lisbon: A Novel

 


Image Credit: Pino Stranieri.  Quote Source: Pascal Mercier, Night Train to Lisbon on Amazon.

Driving. With my alcohol.

breathe-steam-portrait

4:40 am.
I’m rumbling down I-95.
Dave Matthews is blaring through the speakers. And has been joining me on the morning ride all week.

You’ve been off. Haven’t found your rhythm. It’s back. You’re burning it from both ends.  The adrenaline – - it’s pumpin’.

I look down at the gas gauge. And then to the estimate of the mileage remaining. Annoyed at the interruption. Need to stop. Better stop. I pull over to the Mobile station.

I’m listening to the clicks on the pump.  And find myself drifting off.  There’s mist coming from my nose, rising up, and then disappearing into the darkness. I breathe in deeply. Exhale through the nose. And watch the show again. Magic. A Miracle. My morning moment of meditation.  And like the wisp of air, Pessoa’s disquiet rushes to fill the stillness.

You’re more comfortable moving. You find peace in motion.  Yet, you know it ain’t peace.

It’s hanging on my bulletin board in the office: “business is the art of getting people to where they need to be faster than they would get there without you.”  A Hugh McLeod illustration.  A Big red hand with index finger pointing up – #1.  There it is. Your strength. Your core competence. The transference of your disquiet to others.  Pushing the pace.  Injecting your adrenaline. More. Better. FASTER.
[Read more...]

why i feed the birds

bird-in-hand

once
i saw my grandmother hold out
her hand cupping a small offering
of seed to one of the wild sparrows
that frequented the bird bath she
filled with fresh water every day

she stood still
maybe stopped breathing
while the sparrow looked
at her, then the seed
then back as if he was
judging her character

he jumped into her hand
began to eat
she smiled 

a woman holding
a small god 

~ Richard Vargas, why i feed the birds

 


Image Credit. Poem Credit. Poem from Vargas’ book Guernica at Amazon here.

Forget your Perfect

light-levitate

Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack in everything
That’s how the light gets in
That’s how the light gets in
That’s how the light gets in.

~ Leonard Cohen, Anthem


Credits: Thank you Cher @ the Chicago Files for the Cohen lyrics. Thank you Carol for image.


Resting in reason and moving in passion

telemark-norway

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


Image Credit Harald Naper of 047 Vråvatn, Telemark, Norway via Hungarian Soul. Poem Credit: Joseph Cook

Finding Welkin


It was curious to think
that the sky was the same for everyone.
The ground beneath their feet may be different
But the sky remains the same
The sun, the stars, and the people under the sky
were also very much the same
everywhere,
all over the word
hundreds or thousands or maybe millions of people
just like this…

wel·kin [wel-kin], n, the sky; the vault of heaven.


Too true, dear love, too true

birds-night-flock-free-happy-bliss
I lay in the firelight peacefully listening to pigeons on the roof.
To me pigeons say, “Too true, dear love, too true.”
I listened,
looked out on trees beyond both windows
and I was free and happy.

~ Florida Scott-Maxwell, The Measure of My Days



Thief

art-gif-day-night

We waste so many days waiting for weekend.
So many nights wanting morning.
Our lust for future comfort is the biggest thief of life.

— Unknown


Credits: Image. Poem.

You are meant to fight

eyes, red hair

You are meant to fight. When you are sick, your body fights for its right to function. When you hold your breath, your body fights for its right to breathe. There are billions of tiny events—from the surface of your skin, down to the very cells of your body—that have to happen in order for you to be simply sitting here today. If your most minuscule parts haven’t given up yet,

Why should you?”

n.t. 


Source: Quote – ChristinaAntonio. Photograph: Thank you Carol.

Sunday Morning


This beautiful short film is set in southern Argentina and is paired with Bon Iver’s “Michicant.”  This Sunday morning selection was inspired by a poem from Plums & Berries:

before the sun rose
i happened to see
a bird
carve a silhouette
against a waking sky.

Good Sunday Morning.


Uncertain. Alone. Cratered by imperfections.

full-moon-gif

The moon is a loyal companion.

It never leaves. It’s always there, watching, steadfast, knowing us in our light and dark moments, changing forever just as we do.

Every day it’s a different version of itself. Sometimes weak and wan, sometimes strong and full of light. The moon understands what it means to be human.

Uncertain. Alone. Cratered by imperfections.

Tahereh MafiShatter Me


Poem Source: Fables of Reconstruction. Image Credit.

Sing Robin, Sing

photography, european robin

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.


Thinking is my fighting.

yoga-woman


Till My Teeth Rattle

face-photography-portrait-color-woman

There’s no remedy, I suppose — this body
just made from the beginning to be shocked,
constantly surprised, perpetually stunned,
poked and prodded, shaken awake,
shaken again and again roughly, rudely,
then left, even more bewildered,
even more amazed.

Pattiann Rogers, closing lines to “Till My Teeth Rattle.”



Yes, all that

woman-beach-portrait-sand

Suddenly, I wonder – is all hardness justified because we are so slow in realizing that life was meant to be heroic? Greatness is required of us. That is life’s aim and justification, and we poor fools have for centuries been trying to make it convenient, manageable, pliant to our will. It is also peaceful and tender and funny and dull. Yes, all that.

~ Florida Scott-Maxwell, The Measure of My Days


Image Credit

The Problem

drawing-heart-Shaz-Aslam

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.

~ Richard Silken

 


Credits: Poem – Fables of Reconstruction. Drawing by Shaz AslamRichard Silken Bio

We may have a ticket, but it is a valid for a ridiculously brief time

INSPIRATION,

“The world, whatever we might think about it, terrified by its vastness and by our helplessness in the face of it, embittered by its indifference to individual suffering – of people, animals, and perhaps also plants, for how can we be sure that plants are free of suffering; whatever we might think about its spaces pierced by the radiation of stars, stars around which we now have begun to discover planets, already dead? still dead? – we don’t know; whatever we might think about this immense theater, to which we may have a ticket, but it is valid for a ridiculously brief time, limited by two decisive dates; whatever else we might think about this world – it is amazing.”

~ Wisława Szymborska


Wisława Szymborska-Włodek (1923 – 2012) was a Polish poet, essayist and translator.  She was described as a “Mozart of Poetry”. Szymborska was awarded the 1996 Nobel Prize in Literature “for poetry that with ironic precision allows the historical and biological context to come to light in fragments of human reality”.

The Three Oddest Words: “When I pronounce the word Future, the first syllable already belongs to the past. When I pronounce the word Silence, I destroy it.  When I pronounce the word Nothing, I make something no nonbeing can hold.” 

The Sky: “My distinguishing marks are wonder and despair.”

Quote Source: Whiskey River; Image Source: Gifs Tumblr

Life, too, is like that

walking away in mist

Life, too, is like that. You live it forward, but understand it backward.

Abraham VergheseCutting for Stone


Image Credit: unmundoparadivagar. Quote Source: anamorphosis-and-isolate

The watcher and the watched

woman,art,

An intellectual? Yes. And never deny it. An intellectual is someone whose mind watches itself. I like this, because I am happy to be both halves, the watcher and the watched. ‘Can they be brought together?’ This is a practical question. We must get down to it. ‘I despise intelligence’ really means: ‘I cannot bear my doubts.’

— Albert Camus


Painting by Tigran Tsitoghdzyan (“White Mirror, Oil on Canvas”) via Elinka Quote Source: Larmoyante


A turn or two I’ll walk

photography-reflection-community-iceland-vogar


A turn or two I’ll walk
To still my beating mind.

— Shakespeare, The Tempest 


Photograph: Ingolfor via Sensual Starfish. Poem Source: Mythology of Blue

I hear the wind blow

photography,black and white

I hear the wind blow,
And I feel that it was worth being born
just to hear the wind blow.

~ Fernando Pessoa


Poem Source: The Ugly Earring. Image Source: Marc Vasseur Photography via Journal of a Nobody

Time in dreams is frozen. You can never get away from where you’ve been.

highway-sunset-motorcyle

When you’re young, you think everything you do is disposable. You move from now to now, crumpling time in your hands, tossing it away. You’re your own speeding car. You think you can get rid of things, and people too — leave them behind. You don’t yet know about the habit they have, of coming back.

Time in dreams is frozen. You can never get away from where you’ve been.

~ Margaret Atwood, “The Blind Assassin”
 
 

Poem Source: Call Me Gabrielle. Photograph: jjones

Ever changing beauty almost ignored

cumulus-road-montana_26432_600x450

“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

SMWI*: Nobody can judge effort. Effort is between you and you.


If tomorrow wasn’t promised,
what would you give for today?
Forget everything else.
Forget everything else.
Forget there was any sun light left,
what would you spend today thinking about?
We get one opportunity in life.
One chance in life to do whatever you are going to do.
To lay your foundation.
Whatever legacy you are going to leave,
Leave your legacy.
And its found through your effort.
Wins and losses come a dime dozen,
But effort, nobody can judge effort.
Because effort is between you and you.
Effort doesn’t have anything to do with anybody else.
Because every day is a new day.
Every moment is a new moment.
So now you’ve got to go out and show them
that I’m a  a different creature, now,
then I was five minutes ago.
Because I’m pissed off for greatness.
Because if you aren’t pissed off for greatness,
that means You are ok with being mediocre.
And no man in here is OK with being mediocre…


SMWI*= Saturday Morning Work-out Inspiration

1 out of 4. Wood to chop.

face, close-up,portrait,wrinkles,face,eyes,portrait,photography

If only I may grow: firmer, simpler, quieter, warmer.

~ Dag Hammarskjöld


Dag Hammarskjöld (1905-1961) was a Swedish diplomat, economist, and author. The second Secretary-General of the United Nations, he served from April 1953 until his death in a plane crash in September 1961. He is one of just three people to be awarded a posthumous Nobel Peace Prize.  After Hammarskjöld’s death, U.S. president John F. Kennedy regretted that he opposed the UN policy in the Congo and said: “I realise now that in comparison to him, I am a small man. He was the greatest statesman of our century.”


Image Credit. Quote Source: Journal of a Nobody.

OK. Right. I feel it. I smell it. When?

spring,photography

“Soon, I will feel that sweet, spring breeze, gently coaxing the flowers to give up their scents.”


Source: Julien Douvier via Madame Scherzo

A feeling in the stomach, a delight of the nerves, of the forearms. The skin tastes the air…

light-photography-nature-trees

Sometimes a kind of glory lights up the mind of a man. It happens to nearly everyone. You can feel it growing or preparing like a fuse burning toward dynamite. It is a feeling in the stomach, a delight of the nerves, of the forearms. The skin tastes the air, and every deep-drawn breath is sweet. Its beginning has the pleasure of a great stretching yawn; it flashes in the brain and the whole world glows outside your eyes. A man may have lived all of his life in the gray, and the land and trees of him dark and somber. The events, even the important ones, may have trooped by faceless and pale. And then — the glory — so that a cricket song sweetens his ears, the smell of the earth rises chanting to his nose, and dappling light under a tree blesses his eyes. Then a man pours outward, a torrent of him, and yet he is not diminished. And I guess a man’s importance in the world can be measured by the quality and number of his glories. It is a lonely thing but it relates us to the world. It is the mother of all creativeness, and it sets each man separate from all other men.

~ John Steinbeck, East of Eden


Last night I had the strangest dream

blue,face,portrait,art,photography

Last night I had the strangest dream. I was in a laboratory with Dr. Boas and he was talking to me and a group of other people about religion, insisting that life must have a meaning, that man couldn’t live without that. Then he made a mass of jelly-like stuff of the most beautiful blue I had ever seen — and he seemed to be asking us all what to do with it. I remember thinking it was very beautiful but wondering helplessly what it was for. People came and went making absurd suggestions. Somehow Dr. Boas tried to carry them out — but always the people went away angry, or disappointed — and finally after we’d been up all night they had all disappeared and there were just the two of us. He looked at me and said, appealingly “Touch it.” I took some of the astonishingly blue beauty in my hand, and felt with a great thrill that it was living matter. I said “Why it’s life — and that’s enough” — and he looked so pleased that I had found the answer — and said yes “It’s life and that is wonder enough.”

~ Margaret Mead, Anthropologist

 


Quote Source: Brain Pickings - Life Is Like Blue Jelly: Margaret Mead Discovers the Meaning of Existence in a Dream. Image: Unknown.

Only Us – - Small, Solitary

House of Cards - Kevin Spacey

There’s no solace
above or below.
Only us —
small,
solitary,
striving,
battling one another.
I pray to myself,
for myself.

~ House of Cards, 1×12.


Source: facies-destruens


Ever think of that?

photography,black and white

Most of the pain you’re dealing with are really just thoughts.. ever think of that?

- Buddhist Bootcamp

 


Credits: Image – Journal of a Nobody.  Quote: Thank you Karen @ Karen’s Korner

There are just some things you can’t feel and experience from the comfort of your warm home


Don’t fish? Don’t like fishing? Don’t care about fishing? No worries. This short film is so much bigger than that.

…It’s easy to stay inside when the weather isn’t pleasant.  Sometimes convincing yourself to get out is the hardest part. And once you’re out, it’d easy to find an excuse to quit. But there are just some things you can’t see from the inside of your house. Some things you can’t feel and experience from the comfort of your warm home. Things your high definition TV can’t give justice to.

The woods are silent. And the water abandoned by the crowds who surrender to the cold. You fully appreciate the stream you fish, when you see it cycle through all its seasons. The dense thick green canopy is gone. And the stream runs crisp clean and bright. The sun touches water it only reaches a few month a year.

The pain of frozen extremities fades fast when you hook that first fish. And all of the sudden, it all seems worth it. You forget about all of your problems. You forget about the ice in your guides. The frozen hands. The problems at home. Troubles at work. It all fades.

At the end of a cold day of fishing you end up much more thankful than when began. Thankful for the motivation to get up and get out.  Thankful for the lessons of the day.  Thankful for the fish you may have been blessed with. And thankful to return home to the things outside of fishing.”


To come so far, to taste so good

woman-black and white-portrait-ponder

Often a sweetness comes
as if on loan,
stays just long enough
to make sense of what it means to be alive,
then returns to its dark source.
As for me,
I don’t care
where it’s been,
or what bitter road it’s traveled
to come so far,
to taste so good.

~ Stephen Dunn


Credits: Poem – Thank you The Sensual Starfish. Photo by Andrea Tomas via Journal of Nobody
More Stephen Dunn: Is that a Path or a Rut?


An invincible summer

photography

In the midst of winter,
I found there was,
within me,
an invincible summer.
And that makes me happy.
For it says
that no matter how hard
the world pushes against me,
within me,
there’s something stronger—
something better,
pushing right back.

— Albert Camus, from The Stranger


Credits: Photograph – thank you Carol @ Radiating Blossom. Poem: A Poet Reflects


Perhaps because the winter is so long

red-bird

Still, for whatever reason—
perhaps because the winter is so long
and the sky so black-blue,

or perhaps because the heart narrows
as often as it opens—
I am grateful

that red bird comes all winter
firing up the landscape
as nothing else can do.

Mary Oliver, closing lines to “Red Bird,” from Red Bird


Sources: Photograph – Thank you Carol for photo by Raja Daja. Poem - A Poet Reflects


We should like to stretch out

Alex-Buts-photography-woman-portrait-blue

Beauty is unbearable,
offering us for a minute
the glimpse of an eternity
that we should like to stretch out
over the whole of time.

~ Albert Camus


Credits: Photograph – Alex Buts. Poem – Thank you Rob @ The Hammock Papers

Running. Which way?

a-good-day-Erica-Hopper

It makes me wonder, Do we spend most of our days trying to remember or forget things? Do we spend most of our time running towards or away from our lives? I don’t know.

Markus Zusak


Painting by Erica Hopper via christinasanantonio.  Bio for Markus Zusak

With the sigh of a man who has seen all and been redeemed

raspberries
I eat these
wild red raspberries
still warm from the sun
and smelling faintly of jewelweed
in memory of my father

tucking the napkin
under his chin and bending
over an ironstone bowl
of the bright drupelets
awash in cream

my father
with the sigh of a man
who has seen all and been redeemed
said time after time
as he lifted his spoon

men kill for this.

~ Maxine Kumin, Appetite


Maxine Kumin (June 6, 1925 – February 6, 2014) was an American poet and author. Born Maxine Winokur in Philadelphia, the daughter of Jewish parents, she attended a Catholic kindergarten and primary school. She received her B.A. in 1946 and her M.A. in 1948 from Radcliffe College. From 1976 until her death in February 2014, she and her husband lived on a farm in Warner, New Hampshire, where they bred Arabian and quarter horses. Kumin’s many awards include the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry (1973) for Up Country: Poems of New England.


Credits: Watercolor painting by Peter Krobath (“Awe Raspberries II”, watercolor, 8″x7″) via The Sensual Starfish. Poem: Poem-Locker. Bio: Wiki.

Habits

photography

When I carefully consider the curious habits of dogs
I am compelled to conclude
That man is the superior animal.

When I consider the curious habits of man
I confess, my friend, I am puzzled.

— Ezra Pound


Ezra Weston Loomis Pound (1885 – 1972) was born in Hailey, Idaho and was an American expatriate poet. During his stay in London in the early 20th century as foreign editor of several American literary magazines, he helped discover and shape the work of contemporaries such as T. S. Eliot, James Joyce, Robert Frost and Ernest Hemingway. His political views ensure that his work remains controversial; in 1933 Time magazine called him “a cat that walks by himself, tenaciously unhousebroken and very unsafe for children.” Hemingway nevertheless wrote: “The best of Pound’s writing – and it is in the Cantos – will last as long as there is any literature.”

I resolved that at 30 I would know more about poetry than any man living, that I would know what was accounted poetry everywhere, what part of poetry was “indestructible,” what part could not be lost by translation and – scarcely less important – what effects were obtainable in one language only and were utterly incapable of being translated. In this search I learned more or less of nine foreign languages, I read Oriental stuff in translations, I fought every University regulation and every professor who tried to make me learn anything except this, or who bothered me with “requirements for degrees.”


Sources: Photograph – Thank you Carol @ Radiating Blossom via Etsy.com. Poem: Journal of Nobody


They are stronger than I am. They are me.

woman-portrait-hair

Age is truly a time of heroic helplessness. One is confronted by one’s own incorrigibility. I am always saying to myself, “Look at you, and after a lifetime of trying.” I still have the vices that I have known and struggled with— well it seems like since birth. Many of them are modified , but not much. I can neither order nor command the hubbub of my mind. Or is it my nervous sensibility? This is not the effect of age; age only defines one’s boundaries. Life has changed me greatly, it has improved me greatly, but it has also left me practically the same. I cannot spell, I am over critical, egocentric and vulnerable. I cannot be simple. In my effort to be clear I become complicated. I know my faults so well that I pay them small heed. They are stronger than I am. They are me.

~ Florida Scott-Maxwell, Measure of My Days 


Related Post:

  • Florida Scott-Maxwell quote and bio @ I kept calling to you, and you did not come
  • Image Credit: Mme Scherzo.  Portrait is NOT Florida Scott-Maxwell but loved her hair and she seemed to be a peace with her vices. :) And who would she be? Someone important that I should know?

Running. On S-Sunday.

photography,black and white,dog,trail,Connecticut,

Sunday
Sleep in
Sabbath
Sunrise
S(z)eke
Snow
Scenery*
Six Mile run. Sixty-two minutes.
Shower
Siesta
Snackin’. Salsa
Superbowl. Seattle!
Sleep


*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.

Sounds Like Nature


And this post was inspired by this “List of Nice Sounds

nice-sounds


Better to be dusty than polished

woman,face,hands,neck

We get a little further from perfection,
each year on the road,
I guess that’s what they call character,
I guess that’s just the way it goes,
better to be dusty than polished,
like some store window mannequin,
why don’t you touch me where i’m rusty,
let me stain your hands.

Ani DiFranco

 


Photograph: Eric Rose. Poem: Fables of the Reconstruction. Ani DiFranco Bio: Wiki

And than, and than, and than

photography,doubts,close-up,woman,grief,hurt,remorse

“A moment later,
I was filled with doubts,
and the next moment after that
I began to doubt those doubts.
To think one thought
meant thinking the opposite thought,
and no sooner did that second thought destroy the first thought
than a third thought rose up to destroy the second.”

Paul Auster, from The Book of Illusions


Photograph: Eric Rose via Your Eyes Blaze Out. Quote: A Poet Reflects. Paul Auster: Book of Illusions


It is simply the chattering of the fallen mind

painting, art,woman,portrait, close-up

Today we have more time to dwell on our problems than our ancestors ever did. Our free time is dominated by a hundred and one distractions. Thus, when we do get a free moment, the thoughts in our heads think that nothing is happening and want to move quickly to something more pressing. This leaves us with a feeling of “lack of fulfillment” which some people actually mistake for life itself, when in fact it is simply the chattering of the fallen mind. It is not more life itself than the exhaust of a bus is the bus itself.

~Archimandrite Meletios Webber


References/Credits: