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

03 November 2008



Bright Idea #107: "I expect to pass through this world but once. Any good thing, therefore, that I can do or any kindness I can show to any fellow creature, let me do it now. Let me not defer or neglect it for I shall not pass this way again."

Blustery warm cat-stretch under the duvet. going room to room making small adjustments, giving the green plants a good drink, dusting the dressers, avoiding the gravitational pull of sock knitting and snacks. i watched the missionary stand at the edge of the invisible fence, testing his faith. i caught his eye, and said, no. he said, no. then the dogs came inside and had biscuits. O. needs a bath, my hands are dry and covered in tiny cuts, i missed his call, and im in that awful state that is simultaneously torpid and restless. the afternoon doldrums burnt off, i made chili and finished a sock listening to npr. we sat down for supper and #4 discussed democracy, culture and lunchtime then suggested a moonwalk so the two of us and B2 and Z. ventured into the cool spiced night where the stars were many but the neighbors wet leaf smoke lay over the houses like a high cloth. he drew symbols in the dirt and i am grateful for these simple times together. i am also grateful that i have the air in my lungs to make the walk up and over and down. i am grateful i get to vote and hope it gets counted. i am grateful i get to work at a place i love. i am grateful for my family and my home. i am grateful for clean water and a safe bed. i am grateful that somehow i figured out how to knit socks and perform the amazing kitchener stitch. i am grateful that i can cook and bake for my family and they enjoy it and are nourished body and soul. i am grateful for the opportunities this world affords me to love and grow and share my Light. i am grateful for the Light.
"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)