Filmed in the Canadian and Greenlandic High Arctic
November 13, 2016 by 19 Comments
Filmed in the Canadian and Greenlandic High Arctic
November 2, 2016 by 12 Comments
So absolute, it is
no other than
happiness itself, a breathing
too quiet to hear.
September 8, 2016 by 10 Comments
in a loud
– Gabriel Gadfly, For This
- Poem Source: Thank you Sawsan at Last Tambourine.
- Photograph: Photo – “Breath” via Deviant Art by Paul Apal’kin Photography (Ukraine)
- Prior “Lightly child, lightly” Posts? Connect here.
- Post Title & Inspiration: Aldous Huxley: “It’s dark because you are trying too hard. Lightly child, lightly. Learn to do everything lightly. Yes, feel lightly even though you’re feeling deeply. Just lightly let things happen and lightly cope with them.”
July 30, 2016 by 24 Comments
We have forgotten the virtue of sitting, watching observing. Nothing much happens. This is the way of nature. We breathe together, simply this. For long periods of time, the meadow is still. We watch. We wait. We wonder. Our eyes find a resting place. And then, the slightest of breezes moves the grass. It can be heard as a whisper of prayer.
— Terry Tempest Williams, Finding Beauty in a Broken World
July 29, 2016 by 17 Comments
Meditation is old and honorable, so why should I
not sit, every morning of my life, on the hillside,
looking into the shining world? Because, properly
attended to, delight, as well as havoc, is suggestion.
Can one be passionate about the just, the
ideal, the sublime, and the holy, and yet commit
to no labor in its cause? I don’t think so.
All summations have a beginning, all effect has a
story, all kindness begins with the sown seed.
Thought buds toward radiance. The gospel of
light is the crossroads of — indolence, or action.
Be ignited, or be gone.
~ Mary Oliver, “What I Have Learned So Far” from New and Selected Poems Vol. 2
May 5, 2016 by 8 Comments
All of us, child or adult, need time to find our way to that heavenly gate, time to sit back and listen to the sounds outside, and to our own, half-formed thoughts, to attend to the call of the birds and the roar of the air conditioner, and to our own interior voices as well: to let silence spiral deeper into silence. Mary Oliver writes about this beautifully in her book, Winter Hours.
In the act of writing the poem, I am obedient, and submissive. Insofar as one can, I put aside ego and vanity, and even intention. I listen. What I hear is almost a voice, almost a language. It is a second ocean, rising, singing into one’s ear, or deep inside the ears, whispering in the recesses where one is less oneself than a part of some single indivisible community. Blake spoke of taking dictation. I am no Blake, yet I know the nature of what he meant.
The speedy modern reader may not realize it, but poetry comes to us like the holy infant, wrapped in swaddling bands of silence. There is silence, often, in the place where it is made, or at most, a slow heart beat. There is silence in the thought that greets particular words and phrases, and in the care with which they’re weighed and pondered, and again in their particular layout on the page. And finally there’s the silence that surrounds the reading of the poem, and in the quiet intake of breath with which, so often, the poem is received. For all the emphasis that is placed on words and imagery, poems need that silence, as a painting needs the naked canvas, or music needs the pause between the notes. Most poets know this, in however inchoate a way. They slow down, they listen, they learn to pay attention. They root themselves in what the Celtic bard Taliesen called “the cave of silence” from which all words are born.
~ Christian McEwen, World Enough & Time: On Creativity and Slowing Down
April 19, 2016 by 22 Comments
The way is not really a way.
It is a depth.
It is not a distance.
- Thank you Val Boyko for her inspirational post: Inspiration – Into the Deep and for Mooji quote.
- Photo: National Geographic – Whale of a Tail by Shane Gross: “A sperm whale “waves goodbye” to Shane Gross, who had traveled to Sri Lanka’s east coast hoping to photograph blue whales. “While we did have some success with the blues, it was the sperm whales that stole the show,” he writes. He captured this picture toward the end of the six-day expedition. “It was late in the day and the sun was low as this small pod swam toward me, and I did my best to keep quiet so as to not frighten them. This one started to dive and I free dove right after her, trying to get as close to that massive tail as possible. I knew she might be the last whale I’d encounter on the trip, and indeed, she was.”
April 17, 2016 by 23 Comments
Preparations started the night before. Running jacket, shoes, pants, shirt, socks, hat, watch, ear buds – all placed near the front door to minimize obstructions and maximize propulsion, Out-The-Door.
4:30 am. I trudge down the stairs. I step out the door, barefooted, in shorts and a short sleeved white tee-shirt. A soft wind carries the smell of a black and white, a skunk, pre-dawn smelling salts. I inhale to clear the lungs, 39° F bites.
The Tiger clutches the cymbals with both hands, opening his arms wide and slams. The noise, ear-splitting. He repeats and repeats. Crashing. Slamming. Piling on.
Stay at it. Slow it down. Breathe. Quiet the Mind. Chant.
Tiger separates from the body and ebbs higher, higher, and higher until reaching a crest. Salt kicks up in the mist where I stand, separate, still. The ebb makes its last gasp, the fight now gone, sighs and then releases. [Read more…]
February 9, 2016 by 36 Comments
The First train arrives at Grand Central. 5:55 am. I slide on my gloves and exit onto 48th.
The Streets are free of the morning rush. No horns. Light traffic. A handful of us are on the streets. One sneaks into a diner for a cup of coffee. Another stands huddled along the wall, ember glowing from his cigarette, stomping his feet to stay warm. Millions sleep in the hulking towers looming above.
NYC, my kind of town, pre 6 am.
There boils the paradox. The craving for quiet, for stillness. The Need for the warming salve of Solitude. And, yet, the wiring is to stay in Motion. A spinning top turning and turning and turning, only to teeter at dusk and collapse into bed. [Read more…]
February 9, 2016 by 14 Comments
Practice is not about being perfect.
It’s about being yourself.
It’s about getting past your lines of defense
to find the soft, chewy, sweet center.