Monday, January 15, 2018

when the male in charge is nothing like the one we need

Nietzsche says that opposition is necessary.

If that is true, we have what is necessary.

Opposition seems to be the political weapon of choice.

The content of our character, that which is beyond behavior, is our destiny.

In the United States, on this feast of Martin Luther King, our destiny currently feels to be crude, cynical, and cantankerous.

Help us, O spirit of courage and good words, to find the opposite of our current destiny!

Sunday, January 14, 2018


Here comes Monday!

One minute at a time, and it will go by.

Do nothing. Go nowhere.  Love each step!

ontology as erasure

bent back
      new yorker

louis menand
     piece, comment

words of the
     year, 8jan18

“fake” is now
     used to mean

“I deny
     your reality.”

It is a new year,
     a new fear

snow machine and hospice room

night belongs to groomers on mountain

and those that barely breathe in beds —

both laboring for smooth passage, one more

Saturday, January 13, 2018

fond transformation

Where does breath go when it ceases the body?

A woman at Friday evening conversation said it disperses the individual ego and becomes diffuse entropy insinuating itself throughout what has no known boundary.

If so, then, what is it dying individuals see nearing their moment of ceasing breath?

Perhaps the apparition of resembling form suddenly sketched by departing consciousness with brushstroke of  swirling spirit on passing page of fond transformation.

A sumie zen flash of inspired jotting, an ink-wash chiaroscuro of gratitude to guide us beyond.

A touch,

and go!

Friday, January 12, 2018

whenever a casual lie happens

 I’ve looked at the menu.

Not much seems appealing.
When all is said and done, I have more than one face. I don’t know which is laughing at which.  
Love is so excessive a feeling that I prop my head up in my hands. 
Arising from the passions, this realm of dreams isn’t fundamentally a domain of lies. In the end the face is dispersed. In the place where the fabric of things rips open - in the lacerating rip - nothing remains but a person introduced into the fabric’s texture.  
Layers of dead leaves aren’t steps ascending to a throne, and tugboat hoots disperse illusions of enchantment.  
Though still, what would correspond to the magnificence of the world if no one spoke to us and communicated a (no doubt indecipherable) message: ‘As to this fate that befalls you, this fate you consider yours (the fate of the human being you are) or that you consider the destiny of existence generally (of the immensity you form part of), nothing allows you to reduce it to the poverty of things that remain only what they are. On the contrary, whenever a casual lie happens, or whenever something is transfigured, don’t you hear an appeal which must be answered? You can’t claim you wished for the journey, only that you are it. And who would challenge the utter distance, the extremity, the desirability of the way? Desirability?! Am I the measure of mysteries? If, perceiving me, you hadn’t chosen an unreachable goal, you wouldn’t even have approached the mystery!’ 
--Georges Bataille, p95, The text appeared in translation as chapter 5 of the ‘February-April 1944’ section of On Nietzsche , tr. Bruce Boone (Paragon House, New York, 1992), pp. 68-71. 
One mystery we live with is the current president of the United States.

When folks wonder how the people of Germany could have allowed their leader to be so obscene and despicable, they will have to look at a different country currently with blinders about its leader.

Perhaps impotency is the new political chic.

Perhaps decadence is the new patriotism.

It is a meal that turns rancid and unappealing.

I resign from this table.

Check please!

Thursday, January 11, 2018


We in Maine feel Haitians and Africans are wonderful people and are welcome here. We also think that the president is mistaken in his attitudes toward those from away. Maine folk would rather sit on their front porch in a -2° blizzard than sit inside listening to dumb ignorance.

the hour is getting late

Where have we gone? We don’t seem to be at home. Certainly not at home with ourselves. More-so, not at home within ourselves. So, where are we? Where have we wandered? Have we gone so far from our true selves that we have become permanent refugees and nomads? Where do we begin to look for this lost and confused expatriate?

Poet Gary Snyder suggests, at end, a task for us these days:
I came back to myself.
To the real work, to
“What is to be done.”
There is a corruption of identity that is profitable to those trafficking in dissemblance and intentional manipulation of ordinary and (perhaps) unaware populations -- (unfortunately, most of us).

Even, and perhaps (sorrowfully) mostly, the leaders of America during this misfortunate time.

I Went into The Maverick Bar  
                        --by Gary Snyder

I went into the Maverick Bar
In Farmington, New Mexico.
And drank double shots of bourbon
backed with beer.
My long hair was tucked up under a cap I’d left the earring in the car.
Two cowboys did horseplay by the pool tables,
A waitress asked us
where are you from? a country-and-western band began to play “We don’t smoke Marijuana in Muskokie” And with the next song, a couple began to dance.
They held each other like in High School dances in the fifties;
I recalled when I worked in the woods
and the bars of Madras, Oregon. That short-haired joy and roughness— America—your stupidity.
I could almost love you again.
We left—onto the freeway shoulders— under the tough old stars—
In the shadow of bluffs
I came back to myself.
To the real work, to
“What is to be done.”
(--from, Not Here YetBY |  Remarks by Gary Snyder on Buddhism, Ecology & the Poetics of Homelessness.        
There has been a three-card monte game dealt by sophisticated cons who deceive marks with promises of power while sucking away any residual rights the marks have in the name of bettering their lives and ridding them of others who do not have their interests at heart. It’s a double switch -- take away what is promised to you by giving it to those who are actually taking it away from you.  Enemies are fabricated. Belittling names are manufactured for those enemies. Phony outrage is displayed when anyone questions the cons’ motives or blatant hypocrisy.

It is a shadow of bluffs we are seeing as it envelopes the country.

Perhaps we are merely waking up.

The freeway beckons.

Bob Dylan helps:
“There must be some way out of here,” said the joker to the thief  
“There’s too much confusion, I can’t get no relief  
Businessmen, they drink my wine, plowmen dig my earth  
None of them along the line know what any of it is worth” 
(--from, All Along The Watchtower WRITTEN BY: BOB DYLAN) 
Dylan ends by telling us: “So let us not talk falsely now, the hour is getting late”.


It is. 

Wednesday, January 10, 2018


too tired

to sleep

off road

crossing prayer

before dawn

whispering train whistle

hints at approach

Tuesday, January 09, 2018

as we go by

An old friend’s house

Brief beach walk

Train whistle down hill

Monday, January 08, 2018

solitude empowers

To live a contemplative life is to allow long loving looking.

Just that.

Nothing else.

No-other mind.
In the 20th century, the idea of solitude formed the centre of Hannah Arendt’s thought. A German-Jewish émigré who fled Nazism and found refuge in the United States, Arendt spent much of her life studying the relationship between the individual and the polis. For her, freedom was tethered to both the private sphere – the vita contemplativa – and the public, political sphere – the vita activa. She understood that freedom entailed more than the human capacity to act spontaneously and creatively in public. It also entailed the capacity to think and to judge in private, where solitude empowers the individual to contemplate her actions and develop her conscience, to escape the cacophony of the crowd – to finally hear herself think.
(—from, Before you can be with others, first learn to be alone, by Jennifer Stitt, on Aeon, 11 July 2017).
 I sit with firebox in wohnkuche since 4am watching extra log put in at 3:20am doesn’t exceed its reach. It is a nervous instinct that worries about what to do if chimney fire jumps out of box constraint and screams freedom to a frozen sky. Radio station from Finland automatically goes on at 5am playing classical pieces.

Hot chocolate, oikos yogurt, and raspberry breakfast bar carry me into dawn.

Fresh inch of snow at first light.

Monday looks over mountain.

I suspect if we are to make it through this night, we have to carefully watch what is taking place.

And be ready, when necessary, to open mouth both to say something and partake in communion.



in a storm

you cry out

be prepared

to leave

that place

Sunday, January 07, 2018

en- + theos

Some write about the Holy Fool.

For example, Simeon.
Simeon the Holy Fool (Abba SimeonSaint Simeon Salos or Saint Simeon Salus, for ancient Greek Σάλος, “stir”) was a Christian monkhermit and saint of Byzantine-Syrian origin, who lived in the sixth century AD. He is venerated by the Eastern Orthodox Church and Roman Catholic Church as one of the first "yurodivy" ("fool for Christ").... 
The only person in Emesa with whom Simeon did not play a fool was deacon of the church in Emesa, his friend John. One time Simeon saved John from execution when he was falsely convicted. Shortly before his death Simeon, by the illustration of Leontios of Neapolis said to John:
I beg you, never disregard a single soul, especially when it happens to be a monk or a beggar. For Your Charity knows that His place is among the beggars, especially among the blind, people made as pure as the sun through their patience and distress. . . . [S]how love of your neighbor through almsgiving. For this virtue, above all, will help us on (the Day of Judgment).[4] 
I suppose there are fools and there are holy fools.
The fool for Christ, or Holy Fool, is similar to a biblical prophet, prescient, but more importantly able to reveal truths. As one church hymn has it, the yurodivy (holy fool in Russian) strives “with imaginary insanity to reveal the insanity of the world.” He not only fights the insanity of everyday sins but the crimes of the mighty as well.
Crazy is crazy.

If the presumption is that a God-imbued person is wandering the streets, and there are people willing to give benefit of doubt to the enthusiasm* experienced, something good is afoot.
*Origin and Etymology of enthusiasm, Greek enthousiasmos, from enthousiazein to be inspired, irregular from entheos inspired, from en- + theos god.      (Merriam-Webster)
My suspician is that to be full of God is the default state of being each being in existence dwells as.

That we deny this state and proceed to establish erroneous substitutes devoid of the perichoretic circumincessional interpenetrative inchoateness which is our origin and our originality — is our peculiar insane and destabilizing fate.

In short, we short-shrift authentic holiness for facsimile popularity masked as devotion.. This displays itself as fawning sycophantic opportunism, a loyalty of convenient reward, instead of real humility of unknowing fidelity to the emerging manifestation of sacred reality in everyday disclosure.

In Christian lore the Epiphany is seen as acknowledgement of God-imbued presence in the world.

It’s a crazy idea.

The idea of God.

Only a fool would accept such an idea as real.

And practice its presence.

ahead of you

Finding, among those who died in 2017, poet Joanne Kyger.

From her obituary:
“The shape of the day, the words of the moment, what’s happening around me in the world of interior and exterior space — these are my writing concerns,” Ms. Kyger explained in a statement to the Foundation for Contemporary Arts in New York in 2005.
In her “Night Palace,” from 2003, she wrote: 
“The best thing about the past
is that it’s over”
When you die.
you wake up
from a dream
that’s your life.
Then you grow up
and get to be post-human
in a past that keeps happening
ahead of you
“My own interest in Zen came about because I had been studying Wittgenstein and Heidegger in Santa Barbara,” Ms. Kyger told an interviewer. “Their philosophy just comes to an end saying you just have to practice the study of nothing.”
(- New York Times  Joanne Kyger, Zen-Infused Beat Generation Poet, Dies at 82A Buddhist and author and one of the few female members of the male-dominated post-World War II cultural movement. -  - Books - Print Headline: "Joanne Kyger, Zen-Infused Beat Generation Poet, 8)

cluck and moo

the egg farmer

at 96

retired last year —

chickens and


behind him

Saturday, January 06, 2018

as is

Epiphany is the contemplation of the word “as”.

“As” is the word used to embody “is”.

And so, today we see “as is” in a whole, new, light.

to visualize or interpret as, epiphany

    Epiphany as . . .

At times, words speak for themselves.

From Merriam-Webster Dictionary:

Definition of epiphanyplural epiphanies1capitalized  January 6 observed as a church festival in commemoration of the coming of the Magi as the first manifestation of Christ to the Gentiles or in the Eastern Church in commemoration of the baptism of Christ 2an appearance or manifestation especially of a divine being  
3(1) a usually sudden manifestation or perception of the essential nature or meaning of something  
(2an intuitive grasp of reality through something (such as an event) usually simple and striking  
(3an illuminating discovery, realization, or disclosure

b a revealing scene or moment 
Origin and Etymology of epiphany
Middle English epiphanie, from Anglo-French, from Late Latin epiphania, from Late Greek, plural, probably alteration of Greek epiphaneiaappearance, manifestation, from epiphainein to manifest, from epi- + phainein to show — more at fancy
Definition of fancyfanciedfancyingtransitive verb1to have a fancy (see 2fancy 1) for like  
  • He's all right, I suppose, but I can't say that I fancy him.
2to form a conception of imagine  
  • fancyour embarrassment
  • Just fancy my surprise when I heard that he was getting married.
3a to believe mistakenly or without evidence 
b to believe without being certain  
  • she fancied she had met him before
  • real or fancied wrongs
4to visualize or interpret as  
  • fancied myself a child again

Friday, January 05, 2018






to dwell as what we are

We make of nihility one more thing to conquer, substitute for, or use as means for profit.
From Keiji Nishitani's perspective a culture of self-centeredness has developed out of the inability of many people to move beyond a sense of nihilism in their lives.
(—in, Keiji Nishitani and Karl Rahner: A Response to Nihility, by Heidi Ann Russell)
Nishitani would have us consider falling through relative nihility into absolute nihility where we’d come to dwell in nothing other than what is itself.

Instrumentality, substitutive retrieving, and mechanistic manipulations would be set aside in favor of abandoning ourselves through the empty fullness of coming to dwell as what we are — nothing other.

Imagine; nothing other!

Thursday, January 04, 2018

res ipsa loquitur — listening to what is taking place

 It is a tense time for the republic of America.
res ipsa loquitur, (rayz ip-sah loh-quit-her) n. Latin for "the thing speaks for itself," a doctrine of law that one is presumed to be negligent if he/she/it had exclusive control of whatever caused the injury even though there is no specific evidence of an act of negligence, and without negligence the accident would not have happened. Examples: a) a load of bricks on the roof of a building being constructed by Highrise Construction Co. falls and injures Paul Pedestrian below, and Highrise is liable for Pedestrian's injury even though no one saw the load fall. b) While under anesthetic, Isabel Patient's nerve in her arm is damaged although it was not part of the surgical procedure, and she is unaware of which of a dozen medical people in the room caused the damage. Under res ipsa loquitur all those connected with the operation are liable for negligence. Lawyers often shorten the doctrine to "res ips," and find it a handy shorthand for a complex doctrine. 
It is the time of bricks and nerves.

They are falling and fraying.

Be careful!

wording trump

Words matter.

What’s the matter with Trump?

No words about him come near truth.

No words by him appear to have any stability.

His words don’t matter.

They are less than noiseless phantasm.

They are anti-matter.

“Stable antimatter does not appear to exist in our universe.” (New Oxford American Dictionary)

I can’t hear what he is...

(just) saying...

I can’t hear him.

Wednesday, January 03, 2018

jitai, じたい

Absolute nihility, according to Keiji Nishitani, is when everything is empty of anything other than itself.

I have nowhere to go with this.
copied  Russell, Heidi Ann. “Keiji Nishitani and Karl Rahner: A Response to Nihility.” Buddhist-Christian Studies, vol. 28, 2008, pp. 27–41. JSTOR, JSTOR,

Tuesday, January 02, 2018

and then it is tuesday

What is alone?

Is God the Alone?
“Bells are meant to remind us that God alone is good,”  (-Thomas Merton, Thoughts in Solitude) 
That God, alone, is good.

No wonder so many fear God!

Who wants to be alone?

Who wants to be with the alone?


I do. 

Monday, January 01, 2018

new year night

moonlight on

clear white snow

squeaks stepping cold

start again

New Year’s Day!

                                 by Leonard Cohen

The birds they sang
at the break of day
Start again
I heard them say
Don't dwell on what
has passed away
or what is yet to be.
Ah the wars they will
be fought again
The holy dove
She will be caught again
bought and sold
and bought again
the dove is never free.

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

We asked for signs
the signs were sent:
the birth betrayed
the marriage spent
Yeah the widowhood
of every government --
signs for all to see.

I can't run no more
with that lawless crowd
while the killers in high places
say their prayers out loud.
But they've summoned, they've summoned up
a thundercloud
and they're going to hear from me.

Ring the bells that still can ring ...

You can add up the parts
but you won’t have the sum
You can strike up the march,
there is no drum
Every heart, every heart
to love will come
but like a refugee.

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

Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack, 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.

Then, like some Zen master, Christian mystic, or Tibetan Rinpoche insinuating reincarnation, rebirth, or resurrection, the artist poet Leonard Cohan says to the assembled: “Thank you so much for your kind attention! We’ll be back in a few minutes.”

And so

it is ...

what is


goes on

Sunday, December 31, 2017

to, with, as

At hospital

as patient visitor

this afternoon

Each one

speaks the here

of their being there.

From book tonight at practice:

Creation is the voice of God!
The crisis of the Word is a crisis of theology -- literally -- “God talk.” We have lost a Christian theology that adequately conveys the idea that creation is God speaking to us.”
  (--p.9, Care For Creation, [a franciscan spirituality of the earth], by Ilia Delio, Keith Douglass Warner, and Pamela Wood
We grow despondent as

a people, not knowing

what we are to be


to, with, as

saturday night


That’s what she sipped.
Ice water too.

Did I want coffee, she asks?
No, thanks, I say

Just someone rounding eights,
Warming her hands in mine

In hospice room

Saturday, December 30, 2017

coldest before dawn

Wood fire went out by time I come down at 4:50AM 

Two hours to practice.

Citta steals a sit on lap.

Red glow from brown wood-stove.

It, too, practices.

Friday, December 29, 2017

without ideals or violence

Two car batteries frozen at -4°F this morning. 

AAA arrives. He says I’ll be needing a new battery, rather than his returning daily this cold snap.  (He didn’t say that last thing, I did.)

You wonder how the trees stand it.
Winter Trees
     by, William Carlos Williams1883 - 1963 
All the complicated details
of the attiring and
the disattiring are completed!
A liquid moon
moves gently among
the long branches.
Thus having prepared their buds
against a sure winter
the wise trees
stand sleeping in the cold.

Couldn’t go into prison today, nor did I plan to, but couldn’t if I wanted to. A vacation day. Submitted three change-of-grades for last spring’s students yesterday. Felt like I did something. Read a bunch of papers that reminded me how students make the best of questionable teaching.

The slim cat is bored. She jumps on my stretched legs. Her throwing up exercise is over. The dog won’t play with her. The cellar door is closed.  The porch is now at 6° and is off limits except for the tree with white lights standing stiffly.

End of year nears. The post Christmas feasts I used to note carefully (Stephen, John, Innocents, Becket) arrive and depart with cold appraisal. Faces and artwork of deceased compañeros glance desultorily onto the room. From dining room repeated beep of voiceless message perseverates its meaningless notification.

I’ve been up since before dawn. I learn the drug war is endlessly promulgating itself, the political do-si-do spins tirelessly across landscape, and song birds seem grateful for sunflower seeds on bitter days at foot of mountain.

A four-line stanza attributed to the founder of Chinese Zen, Bodhidharma (6th century A.D.),  tells of Zen:
A special transmission outside the scriptures
No dependence upon words and letters;
Direct pointing at the soul of man;
Seeing into one’s own nature and the attainment of Buddha-hood.  
Merton, in Mystics and Zen Masters, tells:
A disciple once asked a Zen master: “I wish to read the sutras, and what would you advise me to do about it?” The master replied: “Do you think a merchant who deals in millions would bother about making a few pennies?” (p.220) 
When I think of current tax legislation and the millionaires authoring it, there’s not much confidence they care about the nickel and dime constituents to whom they pander, but rather, seek their own gold-bar relief and that of their patrons dealing from the top of the deck with Kings, Queens, Jacks, and Aces.
My love she speaks like silence / Without ideals or violence                                                                                (--from, Love Minus Zero/No Limit,WRITTEN BY: BOB DYLAN)
That’s closer to it.

Maybe Satchmo Armstrong playing blues. He’s got a right to sing the blues. Like the men and women selling and shooting heroin in Baltimore and Oakland, the ones preying and praying on each other. The off-rhythm of our lives.

What do you think we’d see once direct pointing at the soul realized its aim?

Woodpile diminishes.

Thursday, December 28, 2017

from Greek, monos, alone

Political, the word, is rooted in Greek polisa Greek city-state;  broadly  a state or society especially when characterized by a sense of community. (Dictionary)

When used as a derogatory epithet, is it because someone is attempting to speak for a particular segment of the community and not the particular segment of community someone else wishes to represent? 

And who speaks for the community as a whole?

We are not attentive to the whole.

Fragments are easier to attend to. It is easier to fragment than it is to whole.

The first line in John Fowle’s novel, Daniel Martin, is WHOLE SIGHT; OR ALL THE REST IS DESOLATION. It has been a koan for me. 


In Daniel Martin Fowles explores the concept of “whole sight” in a variety of ways. Sometimes he uses direct discourse. At one point the character Anthony tells Daniel,

"I'm still defeated by the conundrum of God. But I have the Devil clear."
"And what's he?"
"Not seeing whole."

From this we might infer that “seeing whole” can be linked to God, godliness, or the divine


If such an interpretation is valid, it could be argued that the majority of people might not be interested in seeing things whole. We might not be interested, therefore, in God. God as wholeness. Not the “God” appropriated and trademarked by established religions as mandated focus of fragmented doctrine and moral positioning.

E. M. Forester in Howard’s End is quoted:

  • She might yet be able to help him to the building of the rainbow bridge that should connect the prose in us with the passion. Without it we are meaningless fragments, half monks, half beasts, unconnected arches that have never joined into a man. With it love is born, and alights on the highest curve, glowing against the grey, sober against the fire. Happy the man who sees from either aspect the glory of these outspread wings. The roads of his soul lie clear, and he and his friends shall find easy-going.

    • Ch. 22
    • Only connect! That was the whole of her sermon. Only connect the prose and the passion, and both will be exalted, and human love will be seen at its height. Live in fragments no longer. Only connect, and the beast and the monk, robbed of the isolation that is life to either, will die.
    • Ch. 22
    • In these English farms, if anywhere, one might see life steadily and see it whole, group in one vision its transitoriness and its eternal youth, connect — connect without bitterness until all men are brothers.
    Mono, in Greek, means one. (From Greek, monos, alone).

    It is a choice, some say, to be alone. Alone by oneself, alone with others, alone with the Alone.

    At meetingbrook the descriptive we use is “monastics of no other.

    Perhaps we should add: alone with all the fragmented.

    Wednesday, December 27, 2017


    Obama: Made America Greet Again

    Hillary: Meets America’s Groans Again

    Trump: Makes America Grate Again

    if you must weep

    Then there are the days the bear eats you.

    Not often, but sometimes, it feels like something large and unstoppable fills the trail ahead.

    The blustering and mendacious president and his obsequious opportunistic Republican Congress feel like looming bear who’s caught scent of traveler in middle of forest as last daylight looks to crawl behind darkening trees.

    Night arrives. Whiff of fear like cold weather carbon monoxide spreads.

    He is, it appears, a rapacious devouring golemesque anomaly. His devotees fill the public square with smug menace. Names like Hannity, Limbaugh, Beck, Hatch, Pence, Nunes, McConnell, Bannon, and other voices make you want to follow Lao Tzu out gate of despondency into obscurity.

    A poem by Stanley Kunitz offers sanctuary:

    God banish from your house
    The fly, the roach, the mouse 
    That riots in the walls
    Until the plaster falls; 
    Admonish from your door
    The hypocrite and liar; 
    No shy, soft, tigrish fear
    Permit upon your stair, 
    Nor agents of your doubt.
    God drive them whistling out. 
    Let nothing touched with evil,
    Let nothing that can shrivel 
    Heart's tenderest frond, intrude
    Upon your still, deep blood. 
    Against the drip of night
    God keep all windows tight, 
    Protect your mirrors from
    Surprise, delirium, 
    Admit no trailing wind
    Into your shuttered mind 
    To plume the lake of sleep
    With dreams. If you must weep 
    God give you tears, but leave
    You secrecy to grieve, 
    And islands for your pride,
    And love to nest in your side. 
    --Stanley Kunitz, “Benediction” from The Collected Poems of Stanley Kunitz.Copyright © 2002
    Suddenly, after long meandering, again listening to David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest this morning. 

    He cheers.

    The gritty Boston AA descriptive, prose raw and melodic, a hand on slumping shoulder, balm to terrible time. 

    Tuesday, December 26, 2017

    don't mind me

    It is the inner, contained, space for which we have no name.
    Eventually I came to understand that the Runa do not have vocabulary for the edges that we perceive separating one element from another. This reflects their social structure and their perceptions of the physical world and even their political status. (from novel, The Sparrow, by Mary Doria Russell page 233)
    We know edges, and we traverse edges. Walls, ceilings, floors -- these we name and dwell between. Gates, borders, property boundaries -- these we guard and protect with fierce determination.

    It seems to be how we are. It seems our vocabulary shapes our mental and physical space.

    Now that there is nothing left to say, perhaps everything will disappear.

    Where did I leave my mind?

    Monday, December 25, 2017

    what is between silence and poetry

    When words become real they are known as acts.

    If words sound true enough they likely become facts.

    Ultimately for a word to become a body it must be what it attracts.

    When it is time to create and realize what it means to be human, God, with silence and poetry, interacts.

    one body at a time through now into here.

    The one who is to come is the one that is here. Source moving forward and beyond what we can think.
    Let me seek, then, the gift of silence, and poverty, and solitude, where everything I touch is turned into a prayer: where the sky is my prayer, the birds are my prayer, the wind in the trees is my prayer, for God is all in all.   ~ from THOUGHTS IN SOLITUDE  by Thomas Merton"  

    At Sunday Evening Practice last night, after video excerpt from Ilia Delio, Catholicity, Cosmology and Consciousness: Why Wholeness Matters, followed by fish and linguini, and chocolate lovers torte, someone caught the thread of conversation with the observation — “We are source looking back at itself.”

    In Maine, snow.

    We wonder about this incarnation.

    With gratefulness.

    As wood stove needs feeding and coffee heating, white dog jumping up to abandoned bed.

    And from the future God draws us forward one body at a time through now into here.

    in quiet silence

    Just about now.
    14] For while all things were in quiet silence, and the night was in the midst of her course, [15] Thy almighty word leapt down from heaven from thy royal throne, as a fierce conqueror into the midst of the land of destruction.  
    (—Book of Wisdom, Chapter 18).
    Here and here and here.

    So it is.

    So it goes.

    So are we . . . in the midst.