Tag: patience

a single sheet of notepaper, on which Charlie had boiled 109 years into an operating code of life

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Among Charlie’s things after he was gone, his family found a single sheet of notepaper, on which Charlie had boiled 109 years into an operating code of life. He filled the sheet front and back in flowing ballpoint pen, writing in definitive commands. Among them:

Think freely. Practice patience. Smile often. Forgive and seek forgiveness.

Feel deeply. Tell loved ones how you feel.

Be soft sometimes. Cry when you need to. Observe miracles.

— David Von Drehle, “My neighbor lived to be 109. This is what I learned from him.” From The Washington Post · May 22, 2023.  This essay was adapted from “The Book of Charlie: Wisdom from the Remarkable American Life of a 109-Year-Old Man,” by David Von Drehle

I encourage you to read the entire essay here.

Monday Morning Wake Up Call

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I lived when simply waiting was a large part of ordinary life: when we waited, gathered around a crackling radio, to hear the infinitely far-away voice of the king of England… I live now when we fuss if our computer can’t bring us everything we want instantly. We deny time.

We don’t want to do anything with it, we want to erase it, deny that it passes. What is time in cyberspace? And if you deny time you deny space. After all, it’s a continuum—which separates us.

So we talk on a cell phone to people in Indiana while jogging on the beach without seeing the beach, and gather on social media into huge separation-denying disembodied groups while ignoring the people around us.

​I find this virtual existence weird, and as a way of life, absurd. This could be because I am eighty-four years old. It could also be because it is weird, an absurd way to live.”

— Ursula K. LeGuin, Interview by Heather Davis. “Stories from wide open, wild country: An Interview with Ursula K. Le Guin” Hobo Magazine 16: 130-131. (2014)

Notes:

Walking. With Greg Louganis.

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4:50 a.m. 817 consecutive (almost) days on my daybreak walk at Cove Island Park. 816 days, like in a row.

I walk.

You know the formula for a great photo day-break:

  1. Low Tide.
  2. Clouds.
  3. No Humans.

And today, a Trifecta Miss = Poor shooting day on all three counts. (Shooting, meaning not assault weapons, but with a Canon. Sorry, assault weapons are top of mind.)

Yet, there’s a consolation prize. It’s the end of July. Humidity is low, it’s 63° F and breezy. What’s better than that?

But even with the magical weather, I’m restless, uninspired. I plod around the park, itching to get back into the car and do Something. And I’m apparently not alone, with Seán Hewitt, in All Down Darkness Wide, “Even in these quiet moments I was afraid of purposelessness.”

I turn back thinking I’ll get a stalker silhouette shot with some kids on the break wall. And at that moment, Something, makes me stop and look out onto Long Island Sound. There, in the sky, an osprey prowls in a tight circle overhead. Being a sh*tty measure of distance, I couldn’t tell you whether he was 100 feet or 100 yards up, but let’s just say he was high.

First miracle of the morning. I actually stop and see if anything will happen. He widens his arc overhead, and continues to circle. Just wait DK, just wait another bloody minute. If he can circle and wait for food, so can you. Just wait, damn it.

Continue reading “Walking. With Greg Louganis.” →

Lightly Child, Lightly.

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I am trying to teach my mind
to bear the long, slow growth
of the fields, and to sing
of its passing while it waits.

The farm must be made a form,
endlessly bringing together
heaven and earth, light
and rain building back again
the shapes and actions of the ground.

~ Wendell Berry, from “From The Crest” in “Quest for Place. The Poetry of Gary Snyder and Wendell Berry.”

Notes:

  • Quote: Thank you Make Believe Boutique
  • Photo: Aleksander Kanizaj via Expressions-of-Nature
  • 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.”

Absolute Patience

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quiet-still-patience

An absolute
patience.

[…]

So absolute, it is
no other than
happiness itself, a breathing
too quiet to hear.

– Denise Levertov, from “The Breathing” in Poems: 1960 – 1967; “O’ Taste and See”

 

Notes: