Driving I-95 S. With Nacre.

spencer-tunick-sunrise

Milner suggests that you select bead memories, and write about the most important thing that happened yesterday. What simple instructions! What a Herculean task. There wasn’t a single gleaming pearl, no, but layer upon layer of nacre, various moments wrapped in a montage of the day. And these moments, they aren’t lustrous, they are insignificant, ordinary really. There I stand watching me, buffeted by winds, griping a rail, they pass suspended.

4:36 am. T.G.I.F. Yes, an Ungodly hour to be on I-95 heading to work. Yet, some force propels one on, amped up on achievement dopamine, a member of the Walking Dead at this hour – hulking Truckers, tail lights of Insomniacs, and Me.

The highway fuel stop.  Mobil Oil. The attendant takes the credit card, rings up the charges and hands the patron his pack of Lucky Strikes – he watches him shuffle out. His shoulders are slumped, his face expressionless, he’s anchored in the fifth hour of his graveyard shift. He breathes ever so slowly, sipping oxygen and his black coffee, teetering on the edge of Thoreau’s zone of quiet desperation. The television overhead breaks news, a warhead hits a hospital in Aleppo. [Read more…]

T.G.I.F.: 5:00 PM Bell!

hippo-cute-run-tgif


Notes:

T.G.I.F.: It’s been a long week

woodpecker


The woodpecker is capable of repeatedly pecking the wood of a tree, suffering deceleration in the order of 10,000 m/s.  Read more at @ The Hammock Papers. (Thank you Rob.)

It’s been a long day

fly-wind-free

One day I’ll fly away
Leave all this to yesterday

~ Moulin Rouge! (2001), dir. Baz Luhrmann


Notes:

Charles Osgood

charles-osgood

LC: …You are now widely considered among one of the legends, certainly were to me growing up.

Charles: That has its advantages and disadvantages. There’s no joy in winding this up. But there has been a lot of joy in it. There has been a lot of happy memories associated with it.  And they all have to do with the people you work with. And also has to do with the people who are watching, because you really feel it’s all for them.

LC: Do you feel satisfied with this long career?

Charles: No. (laughing). Well, it’s just one of those things that if you enjoy something, you want to keep doing it, and you don’t want it to ever end, ever.  Most people find it hard to imagine that you regard this as work. It’s not really work, it is really a joy.

Charles Osgood, 83, retires from CBS Sunday Morning after 22 years.

And here’s Charles Osgood singing on his 80th birthday


T.G.I.F.: It’s Been A Long Week

tree-frog-funny-cute-tgif-t-g-i-f


Source: “Waiting” by Andri Priyadi. (Be sure to check out his other shots at 500px)

It’s been a long day

hair-red

Beyond ambition,
beyond attainment,
is home.

Contentment,
without content;

peace,
uncaused.

—A.H. Almaas, Ripening of the Soul


Notes:

Monday Morning Wake-Up Call: Get up, get out, go to your work

22208_linn-ullmann2

My father was a very disciplined and punctual man; it was a prerequisite for his creativity. There was a time for everything: for work, for talk, for solitude, for rest. No matter what time you get out of bed, go for a walk and then work, he’d say, because the demons hate it when you get out of bed, demons hate fresh air. So when I make up excuses not to work, I hear his voice in my head: Get up, get out, go to your work.

~ Linn Ullmann on her father, Ingmar Bergman in Linn Ullmann Discusses Her New Novel The Cold Song

 


Notes: Quote Source: Austin Kleon. Image Source.

On what grounds did I fast from the daily bread of birdsong and starlight?

barbara-brown-taylor

Sixty-hour weeks were normal, hovering closer to eighty during the holidays. Since my job involved visiting parishioners in hospitals and nursing homes on top of a heavy administrative load, the to-do list was never done. More often, I simply abandoned it when I felt my mind begin to coast like a car out of gas. Walking outside of whatever building I had been in, I was often surprised by how warm the night was, or how cold.

I was so immersed in indoor human dramas that I regularly lost track of the seasons. When a fresh breeze lifted the hairs on my neck, I had to stop and think, Does that wind signal the end of spring or the beginning of autumn? What month is this? What year, for that matter? In the ICU, nurses wrote details like these on blackboards to help their dazed patients hang on to reality. Most days I could name the president of the United States, but my daily contact with creation had shrunk to the distance between my front door and the driveway. The rest of my life took place inside: inside the car, inside the church, inside my own head.

On the nights when Ed and I walked, I sometimes talked with my eyes fixed on the moving pavement for more than a mile before an owl’s cry or a chorus of cicadas brought me, literally, to my senses. Only then did I smell the honeysuckle that had been there all along or notice the ghostly blossoms on the magnolia trees that deepened the shadows on more than one front lawn. The effect was immediate, like a shot of adrenaline straight to the heart. All these earthly goods were medicine for what ailed me, evidence that the same God who had breathed the world into being was still breathing. There was so much life springing up all around me that the runoff alone was enough to revive me. When it did, I could not imagine why I had stayed away so long. Why did I seal myself off from all this freshness? On what grounds did I fast from the daily bread of birdsong and starlight?

~ Barbara Brown Taylor, Leaving Church. A Memoir of Faith.


Image Source: RNS

Saturday Morning

roberto-gioli-boots-reflection

The way I’d like to go on living in this world
wouldn’t hurt anything, I’d just go on
walking uphill and downhill, looking around,
and so what if half the time I don’t know
what for —

~ Mary Oliver, excerpt from 1945-1985: Poem for the Anniversary from Dream Work

 


Notes:

%d bloggers like this: