Longing, we say, because desire is full
of endless distances.”

29 July 2008


Bright Idea #61: The Heart is a Muscle.
"If you want to build a ship, don't herd people together to collect wood and don't assign them tasks and work but rather, teach them to long for the endless immensity of the sea." Woke just full of flow, everything easy water and air through me blue sky green garden grateful for this day the man in the ground and i walk drawing breath smelling of wayside flowers and hay. the bees are in the sunflowers i liberate roses and lavender from strangling vines and pigweed, volunteer army of tomato plants. everything is green. the quality of light changes mellowing just ever so into august pumpkins and tomatoes are green he brought me a green bean and a rock like a hand "happy mothers day." we took a walk and saw blue pool tassled corn mother with baby. i wear less and less until its a dorothy lamour desert island fantasia theyre in the creek excavating for autumns hearthstone dinner cooking he said vacuum i said roller coaster but its better overall today and its just staying in the saddle keeping an eye on the horizon that may never arrive but will always be beautiful. end of day pruning snips flesh wound sat in the shade hand over heart watching him play the beautiful waves mathematically perfect nautilus in space beyond the blue is black and stars that are larger than our sun and they gift a light they may no longer enjoy themselves. i surrender to gravity and time and am so happy and thankful i made it this far.
"And if the question were asked: What is more real, the mundane or the sublime? most would hesitate before they gave an answer. On the one side, details: say, the aftermath of a breakfast, dirty chipped plates in the sink, their rims encrusted with egg yolk. Against this, the unnameable: small aching heart with boasts, what can you know? Outside the cage of everything we ever heard or saw, beyond, outside, above, there lies the real, hiding as long as we shall live, there stretch and trail the millions of names of God burning across the eons. When all through this our end will come before we even know the names of us.

For many the egg yolk prevails." -L.M.

"Love many things, for therein lies the true strength, and whosoever loves much performs much, and can accomplish much, and what is done in love is done well."
-V.V.G.

"The perfection of the Absolute where all Becoming stops and pure Being, immutable, timeless, unchanging, hangs forever like a ripe peach upon the bough." -E.A.

"...and the whole incident was incredibly frazzling and angst-rod and filled almost a whole mead notebook and is here recounted in only its barest psycho-skeletal outline." -D.F.W.

"At the top of the mountain, we are all snow leopards." -H.S.T.

"Only when we are no longer afraid do we begin to live." -D.T.
"Cometh a voice: My children, hear; From the crowded street and the close-packed mart I call you back with my message clear, back to my lap and my loving heart. Long have ye left me, journeying on by range and river and grassy plain, to the teeming towns where the rest have gone - come back, come back to my arms again. So shall ye lose the foolish needs that gnaw your souls; and my touch shall serve to heal the fretted nerve. Treading the turf that ye once loved well, instead of the stones of the city's street, ye shall hear nor din nor drunken yell, but the wind that croons in the ripening wheat. I that am old have seen long since ruin of palaces made with hands for the soldier-king and the priest and prince whose cities crumble in desert sands. But still the furrow in many a clime yields softly under the ploughman's feet; still there is seeding and harvest time, and the wind still croons in the ripening wheat. The works of man are but little worth; for a time they stand, for a space endure; but turn once more to your mother - Earth, my gifts are gracious, my works are sure. Instead of the strife and pain I give you peace, with its blessing sweet. Come back, come back to my arms again, for the wind still croons in the ripening wheat."
-John Sandes, The Earth-Mother (excerpt, 1918)