tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14729844820273252462024-03-05T04:53:30.390-05:00being silently drawn...let yourself be silently drawn by the stronger pull of what you really love...
rumimovingstillnesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12272282880789563087noreply@blogger.comBlogger616125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1472984482027325246.post-38119470815715667692024-01-01T00:00:00.001-05:002024-01-01T00:00:00.139-05:00the dance <div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhfQvr_4YutOxeIR9tKXSpWl7UbL_1cCMmQXs_Kbq4us2U42fZyux3kebEOGOXvf_rZpZwJ9hNh9XjbSI69GMOjiErdl0-Vb4ut_a3rXfKA21BV5o90Nqh6DlML-Iv_Dokn5KvzYTis_S2vWSkY9LWPoRKzgjdLHy9ZJ-B2cmVHtobjeUQjWdopwRHLVj1/s1066/64930DB6-976A-471B-9FE9-08B453762E8B_1_105_c.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="714" data-original-width="1066" height="428" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhfQvr_4YutOxeIR9tKXSpWl7UbL_1cCMmQXs_Kbq4us2U42fZyux3kebEOGOXvf_rZpZwJ9hNh9XjbSI69GMOjiErdl0-Vb4ut_a3rXfKA21BV5o90Nqh6DlML-Iv_Dokn5KvzYTis_S2vWSkY9LWPoRKzgjdLHy9ZJ-B2cmVHtobjeUQjWdopwRHLVj1/w640-h428/64930DB6-976A-471B-9FE9-08B453762E8B_1_105_c.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">At the still point of the turning world.</div><div style="text-align: center;">Neither flesh nor fleshless;</div><div style="text-align: center;">Neither from nor towards;</div><div style="text-align: center;">At the still point, there the dance is,</div><div style="text-align: center;">But neither arrest nor movement.</div><div style="text-align: center;">And do not call it fixity,</div><div style="text-align: center;">Where past and future are gathered.</div><div style="text-align: center;">Neither movement from nor towards,</div><div style="text-align: center;">Neither ascent nor decline.</div><div style="text-align: center;">Except for the point, the still point,</div><div style="text-align: center;">There would be no dance,</div><div style="text-align: center;">And there is only the dance.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">T. S. Eliot</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">...we clasp the hands of those who go before us, and the hands of those who come after us;</div><div style="text-align: center;">we enter the little circle of each other's arms,</div><div style="text-align: center;">and the larger circle of lovers whose hands are joined in a dance,</div><div style="text-align: center;">and the larger circle of all creatures, passing in and out of life, who move also in a dance, to a music so subtle and vast that no ear hears it except in fragments.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Wendell Berry</div><div style="text-align: center;">excerpt: Healing</div><div style="text-align: center;">Photo: Peter Bowers</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>movingstillnesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12272282880789563087noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1472984482027325246.post-47905784597897358132023-12-31T10:50:00.000-05:002023-12-31T10:50:31.355-05:00lute music<div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6ExyBOKF4m8DTEwNgTvuNDwd31H9tSTxxe86K07lXNZuLZUg-HZJFD-jr379chqGAc85hYidwes33c3HSNGIIotBEvCOdvmUQ6H8nBVupNsrXggRdqE7ERsyfnBpjfmFKYTgyJXMEYQiPHJ18rgi_SN324NNShyphenhyphenro4tr5JgBrNPZZtNeFB3WBXvTy77Vr/s1000/7FC37708-A556-46CD-A866-015BE65FA2F2_1_105_c.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="665" data-original-width="1000" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6ExyBOKF4m8DTEwNgTvuNDwd31H9tSTxxe86K07lXNZuLZUg-HZJFD-jr379chqGAc85hYidwes33c3HSNGIIotBEvCOdvmUQ6H8nBVupNsrXggRdqE7ERsyfnBpjfmFKYTgyJXMEYQiPHJ18rgi_SN324NNShyphenhyphenro4tr5JgBrNPZZtNeFB3WBXvTy77Vr/w640-h426/7FC37708-A556-46CD-A866-015BE65FA2F2_1_105_c.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div>The Earth will be going on a long time</div><div>Before it finally freezes;</div><div>Men will be on it; they will take names,</div><div>Give their deeds reasons.</div><div>We will be here only</div><div>As chemical constituents—</div><div>A small franchise indeed.</div><div>Right now we have lives,</div><div>Corpuscles, Ambitions, Caresses,</div><div>Like everybody had once—</div><div><br /></div><div>Here at the year’s end, at the feast</div><div>Of birth, let us bring to each other</div><div>The gifts brought once west through deserts—</div><div>The precious metal of our mingled hair,</div><div>The frankincense of enraptured arms and legs,</div><div>The myrrh of desperate, invincible kisses—</div><div>Let us celebrate the daily</div><div>Recurrent nativity of love,</div><div>The endless epiphany of our fluent selves,</div><div>While the earth rolls away under us</div><div>Into unknown snows and summers,</div><div>Into untraveled spaces of the stars.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Kenneth Rexroth</div><div>Photo: Peter Bowers</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>movingstillnesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12272282880789563087noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1472984482027325246.post-54536643046973600902023-12-28T15:06:00.001-05:002023-12-29T12:41:27.205-05:00precious gift<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVRmPghxYU6GQcgGxmh7xVao4kwG2GM_PBUKl5prPWnVWwkTETeONzZo6LATB0pplX7oq1snBd9dVcqrU-DI82KmWPlY5QQwQ39grvDRbH2grklNDIUFgZzbzqCjsPwk5Q1zCQi6_f4xn3bzURIn7VwaE81DAgQsEVAXLhX_1dZur9vwnU5dirTFImgvt6/s1000/F9E1FC4A-59CF-412E-8071-472E6B86F924_1_105_c.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="665" data-original-width="1000" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVRmPghxYU6GQcgGxmh7xVao4kwG2GM_PBUKl5prPWnVWwkTETeONzZo6LATB0pplX7oq1snBd9dVcqrU-DI82KmWPlY5QQwQ39grvDRbH2grklNDIUFgZzbzqCjsPwk5Q1zCQi6_f4xn3bzURIn7VwaE81DAgQsEVAXLhX_1dZur9vwnU5dirTFImgvt6/w640-h426/F9E1FC4A-59CF-412E-8071-472E6B86F924_1_105_c.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p><div style="text-align: center;">No, I was not busy when you came!</div><div style="text-align: center;">I was not preparing to be busy.</div><div style="text-align: center;">That's the armour everyone puts on</div><div style="text-align: center;">to pretend they had a purpose in the world. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Naomi Shihab Nye</div><div style="text-align: center;">excerpt: Red Brocade</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">The most precious gift you can give</div><div style="text-align: center;">to the one you love is your true presence. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Do you have enough time to love?</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">My dear, I am here for you. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Thich Nhat Hanh</div><div style="text-align: center;">True Love </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">... Why not become the one who lives</div><div style="text-align: center;">with the full moon in each eye</div><div style="text-align: center;">that is always saying</div><div style="text-align: center;">with that sweet moon language </div><div style="text-align: center;">what every other eye in this</div><div style="text-align: center;">world is dying to hear.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Hafiz</div><div style="text-align: center;">Photo: Peter Bowers</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>movingstillnesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12272282880789563087noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1472984482027325246.post-6083879131021790642023-12-19T09:53:00.000-05:002023-12-19T09:53:45.594-05:00between going and staying <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc_5RSNSQOiz6KQKDLvctbooR3DUR4Q5P2cdA2c1eeKmEimBNCrZPXu4SFXpYVyzykqfsaznrMep5wC1ZTduvNMWmPPgwneKObL4TICEocvGHTHH_o4-qsv0-eNCkfMbRK2zyLnEfJVcEATMl0Fs5FOCdHQQwZrJYwOFRMEpd0q4eofX_WCirLbE13zg/s1200/FFD3721F-E848-4D6F-901F-11D2D04CA70B.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="801" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc_5RSNSQOiz6KQKDLvctbooR3DUR4Q5P2cdA2c1eeKmEimBNCrZPXu4SFXpYVyzykqfsaznrMep5wC1ZTduvNMWmPPgwneKObL4TICEocvGHTHH_o4-qsv0-eNCkfMbRK2zyLnEfJVcEATMl0Fs5FOCdHQQwZrJYwOFRMEpd0q4eofX_WCirLbE13zg/w428-h640/FFD3721F-E848-4D6F-901F-11D2D04CA70B.jpeg" width="428" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: center;" trbidi="on">Between going and staying</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: center;" trbidi="on">the day wavers,</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: center;" trbidi="on">in love with its own transparency.</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: center;" trbidi="on">The circular afternoon is now a bay</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: center;" trbidi="on">where the world in stillness rocks.</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: center;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: center;" trbidi="on">All is visible and all elusive,</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: center;" trbidi="on">all is near and can't be touched.</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: center;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: center;" trbidi="on">Paper, book, pencil, glass,</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: center;" trbidi="on">rest in the shade of their names.</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: center;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: center;" trbidi="on">Time throbbing in my temples repeats</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: center;" trbidi="on">the same unchanging syllable of blood.</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: center;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: center;" trbidi="on">The light turns the indifferent wall</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: center;" trbidi="on">into a ghostly theater of reflections.</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: center;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: center;" trbidi="on">I find myself in the middle of an eye,</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: center;" trbidi="on">watching myself in its blank stare.</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: center;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: center;" trbidi="on">The moment scatters. Motionless,</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: center;" trbidi="on">I stay and go: I am a pause.</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: center;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: center;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: center;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: center;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: center;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: center;" trbidi="on">Octavio Paz</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: center;" trbidi="on">Translated by Eliot Weinberger</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: center;" trbidi="on">Photo: Peter Bowers</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: center;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: center;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: center;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: center;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: center;" trbidi="on"> </div></div>
movingstillnesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12272282880789563087noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1472984482027325246.post-56755386358422722272023-12-12T10:25:00.002-05:002023-12-12T11:23:47.323-05:00the last verse<div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj62HFE75IzC2fqrbA9ugt0FGcPPIWsCiT6HJzHNVBdN-pzdRN-9ilqH0cYBXhZDiFQ4Sfyj1NYZJSRIZ3tixHDx1KxBicsmG-6Zz8kzaPjipddC_GXLkkHuCeyVFEizLsoMVsfE2n-VzVaTnwLgjVqNRNIrxbAD-6N3DAzEwaXnn8Ov1_sMuegKY9qB1fY/s1200/30D7E740-3CFB-4EAC-A0CA-CCA0EE5CEEFB.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="713" data-original-width="1200" height="380" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj62HFE75IzC2fqrbA9ugt0FGcPPIWsCiT6HJzHNVBdN-pzdRN-9ilqH0cYBXhZDiFQ4Sfyj1NYZJSRIZ3tixHDx1KxBicsmG-6Zz8kzaPjipddC_GXLkkHuCeyVFEizLsoMVsfE2n-VzVaTnwLgjVqNRNIrxbAD-6N3DAzEwaXnn8Ov1_sMuegKY9qB1fY/w640-h380/30D7E740-3CFB-4EAC-A0CA-CCA0EE5CEEFB.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div>not pretending to know</div><div>not pretending to not know</div><div>with no place to stand</div><div>she steps into her shoes</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>tushti</div><div>photo: Peter Bowers</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>movingstillnesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12272282880789563087noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1472984482027325246.post-67918836037536822322023-12-12T10:24:00.003-05:002023-12-12T10:24:43.115-05:00recognition<div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNizBKnlzyFTa7SJTzieDthqRwefAc27FBwjcwbuIOarDLArl1qtwi7mh0ctpXdNZ5GbPtfHR_kxmBF1O6h-7GpSQ5Kndza3BLj9JrjmO0hTuvqNl1gciwFipoK66XkUSDlBTpSMB5K3m_Iunwls_XfwiikabW6qxoens4laBHI6qtOOsLMiWxL9JfDKuP/s1000/8E9D4BF1-65B2-42A2-B4D3-F10A3C7D7863_1_105_c.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1000" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNizBKnlzyFTa7SJTzieDthqRwefAc27FBwjcwbuIOarDLArl1qtwi7mh0ctpXdNZ5GbPtfHR_kxmBF1O6h-7GpSQ5Kndza3BLj9JrjmO0hTuvqNl1gciwFipoK66XkUSDlBTpSMB5K3m_Iunwls_XfwiikabW6qxoens4laBHI6qtOOsLMiWxL9JfDKuP/w640-h426/8E9D4BF1-65B2-42A2-B4D3-F10A3C7D7863_1_105_c.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>They were like two mirrors facing each other. </div><div>Who sees, who is seen?</div><div>Seeing each other like this, </div><div>they experienced the recognition everyone craves - </div><div>to be seen exactly as we are, </div><div>nothing more, </div><div>and nothing less.</div><div>Seen like this, </div><div>all the many forms in the world </div><div>are the same </div><div>as one's own hand,</div><div>one's own face.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>the iron grinder, Liu Tiemo (780-859)</div><div>Women of the Way</div><div> Sallie Tisdale</div><div><br /></div><div>Photo: Peter Bowers</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>movingstillnesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12272282880789563087noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1472984482027325246.post-92188270952586855752023-10-07T10:36:00.000-04:002023-10-07T10:36:10.398-04:00transition<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixKg5I-BnhPdilBWMw_EG5ZrHcGgTfEMYQSfezVzh-cIfRWgcLRPYagMcT9hFkfsMRHbvfhd-r5p3v-g_q_PLgEEJHxGRpX-7EROr8Pc8RhAxSacDV-uSY4QMJeOn9NF0gQXQoPk9-hrYChJPePcMR8j_Fh3h5LufLYYlDBsptxCpFDrNoBvdQcVuosaTx/s3072/CIMG8491.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2304" data-original-width="3072" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixKg5I-BnhPdilBWMw_EG5ZrHcGgTfEMYQSfezVzh-cIfRWgcLRPYagMcT9hFkfsMRHbvfhd-r5p3v-g_q_PLgEEJHxGRpX-7EROr8Pc8RhAxSacDV-uSY4QMJeOn9NF0gQXQoPk9-hrYChJPePcMR8j_Fh3h5LufLYYlDBsptxCpFDrNoBvdQcVuosaTx/w640-h480/CIMG8491.JPG" width="640" /></a></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">for WCW</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I wish I understood the beauty</div><div style="text-align: left;">in leaves falling. To whom</div><div style="text-align: left;">are we beautiful</div><div style="text-align: left;">as we go?</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I lie in the field</div><div style="text-align: left;">still, absorbing the stars</div><div style="text-align: left;">and silently throwing off</div><div style="text-align: left;">their presence. Silently</div><div style="text-align: left;">I breathe and die</div><div style="text-align: left;">by turns.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">He was ripe </div><div style="text-align: left;">and fell to the ground</div><div style="text-align: left;">from a bough</div><div style="text-align: left;">out where the wind</div><div style="text-align: left;">is free</div><div style="text-align: left;">of the branches</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">David Ignatow</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">---</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Attempting to answer David Ignatow's question</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I wish I understood the beauty</div><div style="text-align: left;">in leaves falling. To whom </div><div style="text-align: left;">are we beautiful</div><div style="text-align: left;">as we go?</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">We are beautiful to the Mother as we go.</div><div style="text-align: left;">There are mysterious roads in jade that</div><div style="text-align: left;">Old men follow,</div><div style="text-align: left;">Routes that migratory birds walk on,</div><div style="text-align: left;">The circle dances</div><div style="text-align: left;">Iron filings do,</div><div style="text-align: left;">The things we cannot say.</div><div style="text-align: left;">Salmon find their way to old beds;</div><div style="text-align: left;">Sleeping bodies are not alone.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Robert Bly</div><div>thank you beauty we love </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>movingstillnesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12272282880789563087noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1472984482027325246.post-16092395192853958542023-09-19T13:20:00.000-04:002023-09-19T13:20:38.352-04:00whatever happens<div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIfxt-jytMa9q5Gs3O4aTtm-cptRnYTXjkGaQo_9w9WGW2Qmmoc4imNawnAe83JmL3sPCHlw0esGkFxEWeHaZrtxyNuYvjEYkTJ6VZAgrfSKKjsGiERPNeHk_ITpxCDYMLoC9iNxdwfXQvyFZPiC9k7x3CNFdvmPccCNNpkLcu1enaLvXCXW38--edov_x/s2499/FCD3F4AE-F908-4CF3-AD13-ABE836E1FF45.heic" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2499" data-original-width="1874" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIfxt-jytMa9q5Gs3O4aTtm-cptRnYTXjkGaQo_9w9WGW2Qmmoc4imNawnAe83JmL3sPCHlw0esGkFxEWeHaZrtxyNuYvjEYkTJ6VZAgrfSKKjsGiERPNeHk_ITpxCDYMLoC9iNxdwfXQvyFZPiC9k7x3CNFdvmPccCNNpkLcu1enaLvXCXW38--edov_x/s320/FCD3F4AE-F908-4CF3-AD13-ABE836E1FF45.heic" width="240" /></a></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxxkLIAjMyPEMP76cA8rfhBb6ARdqHAYpHUYh1lL_d97j1x0a4AsxaomKES9pUUl2Y9XUI1qGn3uJ0RotIuM7_1xvtI06pOp0Ci893sjlnSOdXoiuHLrUcID9LTXMInHRlqOD-Qm-HVVSngefF3roaQMTL_s4J_P19cyOwW0sYmbTkCDwVKndsP83NGOYN/s2936/F3FF9083-429F-4BD7-863C-2E945A0943FE.heic" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2936" data-original-width="2202" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxxkLIAjMyPEMP76cA8rfhBb6ARdqHAYpHUYh1lL_d97j1x0a4AsxaomKES9pUUl2Y9XUI1qGn3uJ0RotIuM7_1xvtI06pOp0Ci893sjlnSOdXoiuHLrUcID9LTXMInHRlqOD-Qm-HVVSngefF3roaQMTL_s4J_P19cyOwW0sYmbTkCDwVKndsP83NGOYN/s320/F3FF9083-429F-4BD7-863C-2E945A0943FE.heic" width="240" /></a></div> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div><div style="text-align: center;">Whatever happens. Whatever</div><div style="text-align: center;">what is is is what</div><div style="text-align: center;">I want. Only that. But that.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Galway Kinnell</div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5Z5ubTFjuWTaHxPMSUfBhKu9p-FHswldz07iZIEqpMyfh1hbimS0tBfoOB1XMPorlF399S4xK7Jw9AdvdtMab6yqFeT3HaytdkAVMoJphZeuSAYzHUiH-VZ_-ypHxK7SN3_vJ8wsG1tIBaoopMeZmwuDkYuSYQBs3SrV_MtumOfMEVLmeY1cyddYOSQuH/s1930/54690092-6608-458C-B8FC-3B7B6B981AEE.heic" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1930" data-original-width="1447" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5Z5ubTFjuWTaHxPMSUfBhKu9p-FHswldz07iZIEqpMyfh1hbimS0tBfoOB1XMPorlF399S4xK7Jw9AdvdtMab6yqFeT3HaytdkAVMoJphZeuSAYzHUiH-VZ_-ypHxK7SN3_vJ8wsG1tIBaoopMeZmwuDkYuSYQBs3SrV_MtumOfMEVLmeY1cyddYOSQuH/s320/54690092-6608-458C-B8FC-3B7B6B981AEE.heic" width="240" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><div><br /></div></div></div>movingstillnesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12272282880789563087noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1472984482027325246.post-26938357921269868712023-09-05T10:50:00.002-04:002023-09-05T10:57:00.567-04:00a song on the end of the world <div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNM5ev9xfm1Z-Ea_sikZ7Na3IUHxbF8042yUQbqiqxYJYH7HTpys_YDmv_xCqcxnZ2u9_A6-BVm24IahD2cZCAgMUgeEsMdqPVVsQ3gGuNYuVHyk7KpUR6WTUuWTSmpQo1jxQdJbAPnCsqTew_dAbmBIIfVeEvBXY9Wkn6KD1xe9eFfQZW2ycS_gSlropx/s3765/307FDAB6-0CF5-45B4-8501-FAC1EA0533A5.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1858" data-original-width="3765" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNM5ev9xfm1Z-Ea_sikZ7Na3IUHxbF8042yUQbqiqxYJYH7HTpys_YDmv_xCqcxnZ2u9_A6-BVm24IahD2cZCAgMUgeEsMdqPVVsQ3gGuNYuVHyk7KpUR6WTUuWTSmpQo1jxQdJbAPnCsqTew_dAbmBIIfVeEvBXY9Wkn6KD1xe9eFfQZW2ycS_gSlropx/w640-h316/307FDAB6-0CF5-45B4-8501-FAC1EA0533A5.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>On the day the world ends</div><div>A bee circles a clover,</div><div>A fisherman mends a glimmering net.</div><div>Happy porpoises jump in the sea,</div><div>By the rainspout young sparrows are playing</div><div>And the snake is gold-skinned as it should always be.</div><div><br /></div><div>On the day the world ends</div><div>Women walk through the fields under their umbrellas,</div><div>A drunkard grows sleepy at the edge of a lawn,</div><div>Vegetable peddlers shout in the street</div><div>And a yellow-sailed boat comes nearer the island,</div><div>The voice of a violin lasts in the air</div><div>And leads into a starry night.</div><div><br /></div><div>And those who expected lightning and thunder</div><div>Are disappointed.</div><div>And those who expected signs and archangels’ trumps</div><div>Do not believe it is happening now.</div><div>As long as the sun and the moon are above,</div><div>As long as the bumblebee visits a rose,</div><div>As long as rosy infants are born</div><div>No one believes it is happening now...</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Czeslaw Milosz</div><div>The Collected Poems 1931-1987</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>movingstillnesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12272282880789563087noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1472984482027325246.post-11243027498281956872023-07-20T14:51:00.000-04:002023-07-20T14:51:25.145-04:00the life of a day<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMLWxnl0gVGEEYBgaHErKhIa8OLDsSYuNNyiT30bN1a-fjg3i7aq3vE4UVrSbnaQaknsFH4DI6BbU220nzUKt-7uZGFooA7iW7Y3oI-6QvDSJYLuQO8dcVPUlkAm7nsNqciuZDQyTrct3KHzCGEXgef9MU68zM81LDTjgwXNRATY4U6n3x-aK-GPVeiRuu/s1000/791AC0C4-33F3-40E6-9BC0-49842613480D_1_105_c.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="729" data-original-width="1000" height="466" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMLWxnl0gVGEEYBgaHErKhIa8OLDsSYuNNyiT30bN1a-fjg3i7aq3vE4UVrSbnaQaknsFH4DI6BbU220nzUKt-7uZGFooA7iW7Y3oI-6QvDSJYLuQO8dcVPUlkAm7nsNqciuZDQyTrct3KHzCGEXgef9MU68zM81LDTjgwXNRATY4U6n3x-aK-GPVeiRuu/w640-h466/791AC0C4-33F3-40E6-9BC0-49842613480D_1_105_c.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><div>Like people or dogs, each day is unique and has its own personality quirks which can easily be seen if you look closely. But there are so few days as compared to people, not to mention dogs, that it would be surprising if a day were not a hundred times more interesting than most people. But usually they just pass, mostly unnoticed, unless they are wildly nice, like autumn ones full of red maple trees and hazy sunlight, or if they are grimly awful ones in a winter blizzard that kills the lost traveler and bunches of cattle. For some reason we like to see days pass, even though most of us claim we don’t want to reach our last one for a long time. We examine each day before us with barely a glance and say, no, this isn’t one I’ve been looking for, and wait in a bored sort of way for the next, when we are convinced, our lives will start for real. Meanwhile, this day is going by perfectly well-adjusted, as some days are, with the right amounts of sunlight and shade, and a light breeze scented with a perfume made from the mixture of fallen apples, corn stubble, dry oak leaves, and the faint odor of last night’s meandering skunk.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Tom Hennen</div><div>from Darkness Sticks to Everything:</div><div>Collected and New Poems</div></div><div>Photo: Peter Bowers</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div>movingstillnesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12272282880789563087noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1472984482027325246.post-39391447814034779142023-07-20T13:15:00.001-04:002023-07-20T13:15:08.373-04:00barriers<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Rumi</div>
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Photo: Peter Bowers</div>
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movingstillnesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12272282880789563087noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1472984482027325246.post-83315975557458828162023-04-07T10:34:00.000-04:002023-04-07T10:34:56.220-04:00everything that happens<div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEdzGwH6IpklufZgGCK9jdLilsuE_Me4aW2lcQXJoW5mpkrKrUuWO72eddn5qYNI9F-LwVQXR-v7N54SFjtbmJ2rdaH3aAWU2nzloScIKaf6bDxO8zG68qAWYqRWNEoDV8FNPIJ4XXcxlPSpS6bytjaljunp_P5LuCJNS4pEwKd0arDVllVE9UU5veMw/s1000/49C3D4FA-8F27-45C8-A0C2-2FAEEDAB9F48.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="750" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEdzGwH6IpklufZgGCK9jdLilsuE_Me4aW2lcQXJoW5mpkrKrUuWO72eddn5qYNI9F-LwVQXR-v7N54SFjtbmJ2rdaH3aAWU2nzloScIKaf6bDxO8zG68qAWYqRWNEoDV8FNPIJ4XXcxlPSpS6bytjaljunp_P5LuCJNS4pEwKd0arDVllVE9UU5veMw/w480-h640/49C3D4FA-8F27-45C8-A0C2-2FAEEDAB9F48.jpeg" width="480" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Everything that happens is the message:</div><div style="text-align: center;">you read an event and be one and wait,</div><div style="text-align: center;">like breasting a wave, all the while knowing</div><div style="text-align: center;">by living, though not knowing how to live.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Or workers built an antenna - a dish</div><div style="text-align: center;">aimed at stars - and they themselves are its message, </div><div style="text-align: center;">crawling in and out, being worlds that loom, </div><div style="text-align: center;">dot-dash, and sirens, and sustaining beams.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">And sometimes no one is calling but we turn up</div><div style="text-align: center;">eye and ear - suddenly we fall into</div><div style="text-align: center;">sound before it begins, the breathing</div><div style="text-align: center;">so still it waits there under the breath - </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">And then the green of leaves calls out, hills</div><div style="text-align: center;">where they wait or turn, clouds in their frenzied</div><div style="text-align: center;">stillness unfolding their careful words:</div><div style="text-align: center;">"Everything counts. The message is the world."</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">William Stafford</div><div style="text-align: center;">Photo: Peter Bowers </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>movingstillnesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12272282880789563087noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1472984482027325246.post-9492554055964789452022-12-07T15:32:00.000-05:002022-12-07T15:32:03.183-05:00deep innerness of all things<div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFpHHIhMKxSK5fkEdxtgo3UAK9Pm-uFCj48wl7Ja5dfjzRZvRP6bWgkmFsow15x2Tctf390MGc7Jf0EsLgk-TcjeS099lvTlNhBQ0W4pnXvmKQLg-EzCGkarzMm4fzdCUJdcOdJFRzr5baORIhDqwDIABWVSemxT0qZ9NnyNi9MZG-I5h6lRLpBc07kg/s1066/DSC_0083ST1v1.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="730" data-original-width="1066" height="438" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFpHHIhMKxSK5fkEdxtgo3UAK9Pm-uFCj48wl7Ja5dfjzRZvRP6bWgkmFsow15x2Tctf390MGc7Jf0EsLgk-TcjeS099lvTlNhBQ0W4pnXvmKQLg-EzCGkarzMm4fzdCUJdcOdJFRzr5baORIhDqwDIABWVSemxT0qZ9NnyNi9MZG-I5h6lRLpBc07kg/w640-h438/DSC_0083ST1v1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">You are the future, </div><div style="text-align: left;">the red sky before sunrise</div><div style="text-align: left;">over the fields of time.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">You are the cock's crow when night is done,</div><div style="text-align: left;">you are the dew and the bells of matins,</div><div style="text-align: left;">maiden, stranger, mother, death.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">You create yourself in ever-changing shapes</div><div style="text-align: left;">that rise from the stuff of our days -</div><div style="text-align: left;">unsung, unmourned, undescribed,</div><div style="text-align: left;">like a forest we never know.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">You are the deep innerness of all things,</div><div style="text-align: left;">the last word that can never be spoken.</div><div style="text-align: left;">To each of us you reveal yourself differently:</div><div style="text-align: left;">to the ship as coastline, to the shore as a ship.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Rainer Maria Rilke</div><div style="text-align: left;">Book of Hours, II.22</div><div style="text-align: left;">Translated by Anita Barrows and Joanna Macy</div><div style="text-align: left;">photo: Peter Bowers</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>movingstillnesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12272282880789563087noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1472984482027325246.post-75104851538032585832022-12-07T11:43:00.000-05:002022-12-07T14:32:48.079-05:00its own beauty <div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD-2nXhL5ioI6U-WMzy17MGIFtmlxueLDVTIqSvrzgf2OcTmnLTC11fKPg2zhlAlAiSeTzuERWafudy_4WNfI5lbksilwAj9Y2l9ddLl7irBQHMjwkVNEhowDKPuZLWRLQXMNveWjnLNUmyR2Zq3IJhUL_v4vTtDYYIL5I7HcmGd6BpvXWapxv_lRONw/s976/SkateTO%20290%20.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="650" data-original-width="976" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD-2nXhL5ioI6U-WMzy17MGIFtmlxueLDVTIqSvrzgf2OcTmnLTC11fKPg2zhlAlAiSeTzuERWafudy_4WNfI5lbksilwAj9Y2l9ddLl7irBQHMjwkVNEhowDKPuZLWRLQXMNveWjnLNUmyR2Zq3IJhUL_v4vTtDYYIL5I7HcmGd6BpvXWapxv_lRONw/w640-h426/SkateTO%20290%20.jpg" width="640" /></a></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">The world is no more than the Beloved's single face;</div><div style="text-align: center;">In the desire of the One to know its own beauty, we exist.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Each place, each moment, sings its particular song of not-being and being.</div><div style="text-align: center;">Without reason, the clear glass equally mirrors wisdom and madness.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Those who claim knowledge are wrong; prayer just leads to trance;</div><div style="text-align: center;">Appearance and faith are mere lees in the Unknowing Wine.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Wherever the Footprint is found,</div><div style="text-align: center;">the handful of dust holds the oneness of worlds. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">This earth, burnished by hearing the Name, is so certain of Love</div><div style="text-align: center;">That the sky bends unceasingly down, to greet its own light.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Ghalib</div><div style="text-align: center;">Translated by Jane Hirshfield</div><div style="text-align: center;">Photo: Peter Bowers</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></div>movingstillnesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12272282880789563087noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1472984482027325246.post-22903071818536622082022-11-23T09:27:00.002-05:002022-11-23T10:41:22.761-05:00gift<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTuQiiKShMduR23stdM2t8P4P3IdYH9Ze98Qy0lXoVO_lpnEKH2w7DH4SuvJVIhzlf62rvzr0Z-cZmjk_QMYMOQ-DBlPIhwHFC-I9K-XwX_FHHcDyprw-UV_I4kVyzmlUtPgsnCbZ_JIXS8piXulsHeQWYzQBoZnfshcXgDr7apMINiQo0ZpRAKrNRyw/s800/BE80D12A-C8FE-4FE9-8A81-157F758977BD_1_105_c.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="534" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTuQiiKShMduR23stdM2t8P4P3IdYH9Ze98Qy0lXoVO_lpnEKH2w7DH4SuvJVIhzlf62rvzr0Z-cZmjk_QMYMOQ-DBlPIhwHFC-I9K-XwX_FHHcDyprw-UV_I4kVyzmlUtPgsnCbZ_JIXS8piXulsHeQWYzQBoZnfshcXgDr7apMINiQo0ZpRAKrNRyw/w428-h640/BE80D12A-C8FE-4FE9-8A81-157F758977BD_1_105_c.jpeg" width="428" /></a></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">When the heart rises to the insight<br />that everything is gift,</div><div style="text-align: center;">when it makes this discovery,<br />human beings no longer invent themselves. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />They cease to pretend.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />They no longer need to imagine <br />what they might be.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />Finally they are. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />They acquire the substantial solidity <br />which is displayed before their eyes<br />by the stars. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Luigi Giussani</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">I am a man: little do I last</div><div style="text-align: center;">and the night is enormous.</div><div style="text-align: center;">But I look up:</div><div style="text-align: center;">the stars write.</div><div style="text-align: center;">Unknowing I understand:</div><div style="text-align: center;">I too am written,</div><div style="text-align: center;">and at this very moment</div><div style="text-align: center;">someone spells me out.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Octavio Paz</div><div style="text-align: center;">Photo: Peter Bowers</div><div style="text-align: center;">with thanks: love is a place</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>movingstillnesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12272282880789563087noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1472984482027325246.post-62669086473077885022022-11-22T12:06:00.000-05:002022-11-22T12:06:43.731-05:00between what i see and what i say <div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDYbPj3QxvONxBqqUmm6Ja3pVMsFpnBZqqnJIJUa54iyfy3XQ7wc1C1eD1niahFjTbktvCVWr47JzEIvsC2UUOjVGrfXye_YJ4jW_hVDAmVPsQ8oTJUgV1Q7OUTUYG94Jml5hu7butn64S5YBwJMDnifKShE4ksmir-f3vuRj9K04RMSvgRyEC4Nrgzw/s1200/6AEC0684-9AED-497F-8FCF-1F0C512FBD60.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="801" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDYbPj3QxvONxBqqUmm6Ja3pVMsFpnBZqqnJIJUa54iyfy3XQ7wc1C1eD1niahFjTbktvCVWr47JzEIvsC2UUOjVGrfXye_YJ4jW_hVDAmVPsQ8oTJUgV1Q7OUTUYG94Jml5hu7butn64S5YBwJMDnifKShE4ksmir-f3vuRj9K04RMSvgRyEC4Nrgzw/w428-h640/6AEC0684-9AED-497F-8FCF-1F0C512FBD60.jpeg" width="428" /></a></div><br /></div><div>for Roman Jakobson</div><div><br /></div><div>1</div><div><br /></div><div>Between what I see and what I say,</div><div>Between what I say and what I keep silent,</div><div>Between what I keep silent and what I dream,</div><div>Between what I dream and what I forget:</div><div>poetry.</div><div> It slips</div><div>between yes and no,</div><div> says</div><div>what I keep silent,</div><div> keeps silent</div><div>what I say,</div><div> dreams</div><div>what I forget.</div><div> It is not speech:</div><div>it is an act.</div><div> It is an act</div><div>of speech.</div><div> Poetry</div><div>speaks and listens:</div><div> it is real.</div><div>And as soon as I say</div><div> <i>it is real,</i></div><div>it vanishes.</div><div> Is it then more real?</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>2</div><div><br /></div><div>Tangible idea,</div><div> intangible</div><div>word:</div><div> poetry</div><div>comes and goes</div><div> between what is</div><div>and what is not.</div><div> It weaves</div><div>and unweaves reflections.</div><div> Poetry</div><div>scatters eyes on a page,</div><div>scatters words on our eyes.</div><div>Eyes speak,</div><div> words look,</div><div>looks think.</div><div> To hear</div><div>thoughts,</div><div> see</div><div>what we say,</div><div> touch</div><div>the body of an idea.</div><div> Eyes close,</div><div>the words open.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Octavio Paz </div><div>A Tree Within</div><div>Translated by Eliot Weinberger</div><div>Photo: Peter Bowers</div><div><br /></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>movingstillnesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12272282880789563087noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1472984482027325246.post-10245468992838841822022-11-16T10:57:00.002-05:002022-11-16T10:58:51.670-05:00i would like to describe<div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1AXvz_S4MiZkuPF5pcyGu5397W_2t_aVFuBOdNdnaMEb_ZPxSE7t2jyerWRNfmT4ZHpqOXWhtLBF3pixMnDP7GgaK2A4evX_84MC0FKKne9V1w_JQlTR_MdPFGqoe3_xY0xjhzzK2axx3j570Yd5L-aDKV5jrXb5IHhOCDx5wkRErzFQPh7CvVS23zQ/s1000/96C58DFF-7390-4376-93E6-5429249BA9CE_1_105_c.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="732" data-original-width="1000" height="468" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1AXvz_S4MiZkuPF5pcyGu5397W_2t_aVFuBOdNdnaMEb_ZPxSE7t2jyerWRNfmT4ZHpqOXWhtLBF3pixMnDP7GgaK2A4evX_84MC0FKKne9V1w_JQlTR_MdPFGqoe3_xY0xjhzzK2axx3j570Yd5L-aDKV5jrXb5IHhOCDx5wkRErzFQPh7CvVS23zQ/w640-h468/96C58DFF-7390-4376-93E6-5429249BA9CE_1_105_c.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>I would like to describe the simplest emotion</div><div>joy or sadness</div><div>but not as others do</div><div>reaching for shafts of rain or sun</div><div><br /></div><div>I would like to describe a light</div><div>which is being born in me</div><div>but I know it does not resemble</div><div>any star</div><div>for it is not so bright</div><div>not so pure</div><div>and is uncertain</div><div><br /></div><div>I would like to describe courage</div><div>without dragging behind me a dusty lion</div><div>and also anxiety</div><div>without shaking a glass full of water</div><div><br /></div><div>to put it another way</div><div>I would give all metaphors</div><div>in return for one word</div><div>drawn out of my breast like a rib</div><div>for one word</div><div>contained within the boundaries</div><div>of my skin</div><div><br /></div><div>but apparently this is not possible</div><div><br /></div><div>and just to say - I love</div><div>I run around like mad</div><div>picking up handfuls of birds</div><div>and my tenderness</div><div>which after all is not made of water</div><div>asks the water for a face</div><div><br /></div><div>and anger</div><div>different from fire</div><div>borrows from it</div><div>a loquacious tongue</div><div><br /></div><div>so is blurred</div><div>so is blurred</div><div>in me</div><div>what white-haired gentlemen</div><div>separated once and for all</div><div>and said</div><div>this is the subject</div><div>and this is the object</div><div><br /></div><div>we fall asleep</div><div>with one hand under our head</div><div>and with the other in a mound of planets</div><div><br /></div><div>our feet abandon us</div><div>and taste the earth</div><div>with their tiny roots</div><div>which next morning</div><div>we tear out painfully</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Zbigniew Herbert</div><div>Photo: Peter Bowers</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>movingstillnesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12272282880789563087noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1472984482027325246.post-67246456674063267292022-11-13T08:59:00.000-05:002022-11-13T08:59:01.348-05:00taste of morning <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPLu3pz-hYx4-auXVn5mvEJo8eL923ZsEvOGyuCUqvB4AvOt-ZVdbQiG0UkjYhyphenhyphenozT5O8kIZ1FAirl8VCue8vjtFLKJ8HEvDi39vX9tSbhnHmaqdRvOwWM-TZHXCL_H15-jgP_4OF0H8xy/s2048/IMG_0344.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPLu3pz-hYx4-auXVn5mvEJo8eL923ZsEvOGyuCUqvB4AvOt-ZVdbQiG0UkjYhyphenhyphenozT5O8kIZ1FAirl8VCue8vjtFLKJ8HEvDi39vX9tSbhnHmaqdRvOwWM-TZHXCL_H15-jgP_4OF0H8xy/w640-h480/IMG_0344.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Time's knife slides from the sheath,</div><div style="text-align: center;">as fish from where it swims.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Being closer and closer is the desire </div><div style="text-align: center;">of the body. Don't wish for union!</div></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">There's a closeness beyond that. Why </div><div style="text-align: center;">would God want a second God? Fall in </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">love in such a way that it frees you </div><div style="text-align: center;">from any connecting. Love is the soul's </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">light, the taste of morning, no <i>me</i>, no</div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>we</i>, no claim of <i>being</i>. These words </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">are the smoke the fire gives off as it</div><div style="text-align: center;">absolves its defects, as eyes in silence,</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">tears, face. Love cannot be said.</div></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Rumi</div><div style="text-align: center;">Translation: Coleman Barks</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>
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movingstillnesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12272282880789563087noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1472984482027325246.post-53713978777778776932022-11-09T10:34:00.001-05:002022-11-22T13:15:08.890-05:00seeing each other <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSCDCE0u2WK3-jnWAQrddvuucwzAkPuQY0a-wfGAk_mQmISywBYH2R6vrPFg3riEiCbeGZ94_QhjYeBimK9BQcDZ-hsweUjpQJyl0t7b7gxQQDyFlOnKG9i7t2FUKtUb5Es5ydUYMBIPl_TcIQGj3nwlxhxTR_Fjc6nQ3e51OtXMCbTDNyNF4m08kDiw/s4032/DF02B9F3-73EB-4AA1-859A-462701C52CDB.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSCDCE0u2WK3-jnWAQrddvuucwzAkPuQY0a-wfGAk_mQmISywBYH2R6vrPFg3riEiCbeGZ94_QhjYeBimK9BQcDZ-hsweUjpQJyl0t7b7gxQQDyFlOnKG9i7t2FUKtUb5Es5ydUYMBIPl_TcIQGj3nwlxhxTR_Fjc6nQ3e51OtXMCbTDNyNF4m08kDiw/w400-h300/DF02B9F3-73EB-4AA1-859A-462701C52CDB.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">They were like two mirrors facing each other. </div><div style="text-align: center;">Who sees, who is seen?</div><div style="text-align: center;">Seeing each other like this, </div><div style="text-align: center;">they experienced the recognition everyone craves - </div><div style="text-align: center;">to be seen exactly as we are, </div><div style="text-align: center;">nothing more, </div><div style="text-align: center;">and nothing less.</div><div style="text-align: center;">Seen like this, </div><div style="text-align: center;">all the many forms in the world </div><div style="text-align: center;">are the same </div><div style="text-align: center;">as one's own hand,</div><div style="text-align: center;">one's own face.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Women of the Way</div><div style="text-align: center;">the iron grinder, <i>Liu Tiemo</i> (780-859)</div><div style="text-align: center;"> Sallie Tisdale</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>movingstillnesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12272282880789563087noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1472984482027325246.post-14613879660337787132022-09-27T10:36:00.000-04:002022-09-27T10:36:10.261-04:00an ordinary day<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmRAz9GICOpI0haNjJ-ocsatqTvwCsHPnVr9HnllkH5ukrszU7zghUbQcxEOz9bHqIC_Ksqx4xUbktNb-nk-XvJAerkdtNp4JUkthCEpfJRRKGdgD8fTyRqwrxYyArTqPqGkNAN21rufdNkXJvNxezdRjJ7z_SLJmUwaw_czvXDd9SbSoUPXqhIWz0oQ/s1600/32F029C4-94DD-4716-A4A5-CE9346219F73.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1152" data-original-width="1600" height="460" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmRAz9GICOpI0haNjJ-ocsatqTvwCsHPnVr9HnllkH5ukrszU7zghUbQcxEOz9bHqIC_Ksqx4xUbktNb-nk-XvJAerkdtNp4JUkthCEpfJRRKGdgD8fTyRqwrxYyArTqPqGkNAN21rufdNkXJvNxezdRjJ7z_SLJmUwaw_czvXDd9SbSoUPXqhIWz0oQ/w640-h460/32F029C4-94DD-4716-A4A5-CE9346219F73.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I believe in the ordinary day</div><div style="text-align: left;">that is here at this moment and is me</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I do not see it going its own way</div><div style="text-align: left;">but I never saw how it came to me</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div>it extends beyond whatever I may</div><div>think I know and all that is real to me</div><div><br /></div><div><div>it is the present that it bears away</div><div>where has it gone when it has gone from me</div></div><div><br /></div><div><div>there is no place I know outside today</div><div>except for the unknown all around me</div></div><div><br /></div><div><div>the only presence that appears to stay</div><div>everything that I call mine it lent me</div></div><div><br /></div><div><div>even the way that I believe the day</div><div>for as long as it is here and is me</div></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>W.S. Merwin</div><div>"A Momentary Creed"</div><div>The Shadow of Sirius</div><div>Photo: Peter Bowers</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>movingstillnesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12272282880789563087noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1472984482027325246.post-49355341180976113932022-09-25T10:43:00.000-04:002022-09-25T10:43:10.703-04:00lost<div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuI3MHiXmVdAcX2FqDlRKxUnzBujR7m8-MJ8prHd_87UurFp9_l17mPHdciFMVDajhYJ6fIsJTXB_7SPTazbl20LpZYW_LmobpN9LJxwnZea1VFt3P3AA-X849Xrhzr1PMQ-9Bq0V50dX2jDNaNB-_xbckcW8JD_pihLJ9WudIuKO8tS8wFNhVO1r6kA/s1000/C1DE11F0-26C5-4537-9ECD-C27E741B90B4_1_105_c.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1000" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuI3MHiXmVdAcX2FqDlRKxUnzBujR7m8-MJ8prHd_87UurFp9_l17mPHdciFMVDajhYJ6fIsJTXB_7SPTazbl20LpZYW_LmobpN9LJxwnZea1VFt3P3AA-X849Xrhzr1PMQ-9Bq0V50dX2jDNaNB-_xbckcW8JD_pihLJ9WudIuKO8tS8wFNhVO1r6kA/w640-h426/C1DE11F0-26C5-4537-9ECD-C27E741B90B4_1_105_c.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div></div><div><br /></div><div>Stand still. The trees ahead and bushes beside you </div><div>Are not lost. Wherever you are is called Here,</div><div>And you must treat it as a powerful stranger,</div><div>Must ask permission to know it and be known.</div><div>The forest breathes. Listen. It answers,</div><div>I have made this place around you,</div><div>If you leave it you may come back again saying Here.</div><div>No two trees are the same to Raven.</div><div>No two branches are the same to Wren.</div><div>If what a tree or bush does is lost on you,</div><div>You are surely lost. Stand still. The forest knows</div><div>Where you are. You must let it find you.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>David Wagoner</div><div>Photo: Peter Bowers</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>movingstillnesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12272282880789563087noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1472984482027325246.post-18378261597649394792022-06-24T09:47:00.002-04:002022-06-24T10:02:58.194-04:00happiness <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgnJm3MxjL9BAyHxvMhXnqOKbf_4HrbyC-J4kp1Tgk6EWlPOXb3XpkqJ31Axqj5FXIArzNxhig70q3hjYiFo6c5ou3w4zVRYzRnO7o64Y_7y41RzHlAaobUzJbubuJdMf7vRhaSAy5FK5HsFj03E-69ot2m2R-EAoeXghievJ54dM7F94_P9Akpea9SpQ=s1066" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="709" data-original-width="1066" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgnJm3MxjL9BAyHxvMhXnqOKbf_4HrbyC-J4kp1Tgk6EWlPOXb3XpkqJ31Axqj5FXIArzNxhig70q3hjYiFo6c5ou3w4zVRYzRnO7o64Y_7y41RzHlAaobUzJbubuJdMf7vRhaSAy5FK5HsFj03E-69ot2m2R-EAoeXghievJ54dM7F94_P9Akpea9SpQ=w640-h426" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">What we really want to do is serve happiness.</div><div style="text-align: left;">We want everyone to be happy, never unhappy even for a moment.</div><div style="text-align: left;">We want the animals to be happy. The happiness of every living thing is what we want.</div><div style="text-align: left;">We want it very much but we cannot bring it about.</div><div style="text-align: left;">We cannot make even one individual happy.</div><div style="text-align: left;">It seems that this thing that we want most of all is out of our reach.</div><div style="text-align: left;">But we were born to serve happiness and we do serve it.</div><div style="text-align: left;">The confusion is due to our lack of awareness of real happiness. </div><div style="text-align: left;">Happiness is pervasive.</div><div style="text-align: left;">It is everywhere. And everywhere the same.</div><div style="text-align: left;">And it is forever.</div><div style="text-align: left;">When people are really happy they say: 'This will last forever even after death', and that is true.</div><div style="text-align: left;">When we are unhappy it is because something is covering our minds and we are not able to be aware of happiness. When the difficulty is past we find happiness again.</div><div style="text-align: left;">It is not that happiness is all around us. That is not it at all. </div><div style="text-align: left;">It is not this or that or in this or that.</div><div style="text-align: left;">It is an abstract thing.</div><div style="text-align: left;">Happiness is unattached. Always the same. It does not appear and disappear. It is not sometimes more and sometimes less. It is our awareness of happiness that goes up and down.</div><div style="text-align: left;">Happiness is our real condition.</div><div style="text-align: left;">It is reality.</div><div style="text-align: left;">It is life.</div><div style="text-align: left;">…</div><div style="text-align: left;">When we see life we call it beauty. It is magnificent - wonderful.</div><div style="text-align: left;">We may be looking at the ocean when we are aware of beauty but it is not the ocean. We may be in the desert and we say that we are aware of the 'living desert' but it is not the desert.</div><div style="text-align: left;">Life is ever present in the desert and everywhere, forever.</div><div style="text-align: left;">By awareness of life we are inspired to live.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><p>Life is consciousness of life itself.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><div style="text-align: left;">Agnes Martin</div><div style="text-align: left;">prepared for a lecture at the University of New Mexico, Santa Fe 1979</div><div style="text-align: left;">Agnes Martin, <i>Paintings, Writings, Remembrances</i>, Arne Glimcher</div><div style="text-align: left;">Photo: Peter Bowers</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>movingstillnesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12272282880789563087noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1472984482027325246.post-35405198188971667822022-06-24T09:41:00.002-04:002022-06-24T09:56:33.808-04:00between each word<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAPdQXxiqOK2hvgykFycDu_Zv6xK3sUok85GoWTmMZpi6QImSzEBTCVgpDVDVAOpNO2-CQsSGSMe_drvqRAPp4KkH0MRGKuMX3JG7HGKWtULwPv3KPg1E0yVZoHRC7I2X2AabIfEorYlv76E2mbtEI3lWMKSB-IKcop01DrRIbwEehwMnDr58y1NxQZg/s1066/Quebec05-093finaltif.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="709" data-original-width="1066" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAPdQXxiqOK2hvgykFycDu_Zv6xK3sUok85GoWTmMZpi6QImSzEBTCVgpDVDVAOpNO2-CQsSGSMe_drvqRAPp4KkH0MRGKuMX3JG7HGKWtULwPv3KPg1E0yVZoHRC7I2X2AabIfEorYlv76E2mbtEI3lWMKSB-IKcop01DrRIbwEehwMnDr58y1NxQZg/w640-h426/Quebec05-093finaltif.jpg" width="640" /></a></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">A poem written three thousand years ago</div>
<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">about a man who walks among horses</div><div style="text-align: center;">grazing on a hill under the small stars</div>
<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">comes to life on a page in a book</div>
<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">and the woman reading the poem</div><div style="text-align: center;">in her kitchen filled with a gold metallic light</div>
<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">finds the experience of living in that moment</div>
<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">so vividly described as to make her feel known</div><div style="text-align: center;">to another, until the woman and the poet share</div>
<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">not only their souls but the exact silence</div>
<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">between each word. And every time the poem is read,</div><div style="text-align: center;">no matter her situation or her age,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">this is more or less what happens.</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Jason Shinder</div><div style="text-align: center;">Photo: Peter Bowers</div>
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movingstillnesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12272282880789563087noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1472984482027325246.post-58668041616935967892022-06-06T11:30:00.002-04:002022-06-06T20:16:59.789-04:00unforeseen <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpAS3mGB5uf2UJM1YNM3kFN1_fXGnmeoylNad7ZevoZxyIxSONQK4XdIjTvLAHl53IYKbtfMMw-g4DyPITx9a2FF3q4DYOe_Zz6Qsn92utPX4gTvvwYT-mDUiQ7MsPKWovG8vTXXhmnMm_C5ZQJDRLXUf0iAp3wKSprK55gMpwSAhFxxl7qAyS5Rz3vA/s1000/03E5D5D2-215D-4247-B99F-B93983F05A20_1_105_c.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="651" data-original-width="1000" height="416" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpAS3mGB5uf2UJM1YNM3kFN1_fXGnmeoylNad7ZevoZxyIxSONQK4XdIjTvLAHl53IYKbtfMMw-g4DyPITx9a2FF3q4DYOe_Zz6Qsn92utPX4gTvvwYT-mDUiQ7MsPKWovG8vTXXhmnMm_C5ZQJDRLXUf0iAp3wKSprK55gMpwSAhFxxl7qAyS5Rz3vA/w640-h416/03E5D5D2-215D-4247-B99F-B93983F05A20_1_105_c.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Always in big woods when you leave familiar ground and step off <br />alone into a new place there will be, </div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">along with the feelings of curiosity and excitement, a little nagging of dread. </div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">It is the ancient fear of the unknown, and it is your first bond </div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">with the wilderness you are going into.</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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You are undertaking the first experience, not of the place,<br />
but of yourself in that place. It is an experience of our essential loneliness,<br />for nobody can discover the world for anybody else.<br />
It is only after we have discovered it for ourselves<br />
that it becomes a common ground and a common bond,<br />
and we cease to be alone.<br />
<br />
And the world cannot be discovered by a journey of miles,<br />
no matter how long, but only by a spiritual journey,<br />
a journey of one inch, very arduous and humbling and joyful,<br />
by which we arrive at the ground at our feet,<br />
and learn to be at home.<br />
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Wendell Berry<br />The Unforeseen Wilderness: Kentucky’s Red River Gorge<br />
photo: Peter Bowers<br />
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movingstillnesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12272282880789563087noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1472984482027325246.post-42110077977425216032022-06-06T11:25:00.001-04:002022-06-06T11:27:32.380-04:00travel <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiNHSZ-P70eo4zsbkaG9KyQiAiPCODFsRZnv73F3Re0-u9xqda-FiXW3Rvx7JcFEwg0Gf3uKlveZjOvQzH4fE1RSQiYwSdGMW4JxfvZ7eoUWSzLkgrJHKApXWR3JOKOJS1sLcoynSmGxVIdcmKdj7Y5j2YJxVzcAxFul58T4Ha93Uwj7IdPTnlSwkgjQ/s3765/307FDAB6-0CF5-45B4-8501-FAC1EA0533A5.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1858" data-original-width="3765" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiNHSZ-P70eo4zsbkaG9KyQiAiPCODFsRZnv73F3Re0-u9xqda-FiXW3Rvx7JcFEwg0Gf3uKlveZjOvQzH4fE1RSQiYwSdGMW4JxfvZ7eoUWSzLkgrJHKApXWR3JOKOJS1sLcoynSmGxVIdcmKdj7Y5j2YJxVzcAxFul58T4Ha93Uwj7IdPTnlSwkgjQ/w640-h316/307FDAB6-0CF5-45B4-8501-FAC1EA0533A5.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Mercy, there have been revelations.<br />
Grace, there has been realization. Still, you must<br />
travel the path of time and circumstance.<br />
<br />
The further you go, the more it comes back to paying attention.<br />
The rough skin of the tallowwood, the trade routes of lorikeets, a sky lifting<br />
behind afternoon clouds. Staying close to the texture of things.<br />
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People can go before you and talk all they want,<br />
but only one thing makes sense: the way the world enters<br />
and finds its voice in you: the place you are free.<br />
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Andrew Colliver</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">with thanks: <a href="https://www.poetry-chaikhana.com/Poets/C/ColliverAndr/index.html" target="_blank">Poetry Chaikhana</a><br /><br />
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