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

06 August 2009



today beautiful
quiet peaceful sun heart life
light on fragrant grass



feet feeling gentle
strength of blessed earth mother
hands brushed blue with sky



all things reaching out
from the center of itself
love love love love love



how blessed am i
to be preparing supper
for my family



death is not falling
from the open august sky
our flesh on our bones



breathe in be alive
listen to the love song your
heart sings to the world.



a quiet day, cool and dry, bushwhacked through the tomato vines, walked the bean rows sampling. purging enormous quantities of hoarde from the attic, reorganizing the cookware, moving the plants around. empty headed, hunkered down in heavy reading, my shoulders feel mummified, ossified from time and constraint. trauma cat getting braver, on my belly in the big chair while the dogs are elsewhere. the rain hasnt come, its been safe to hang laundry, and the moon was fire white just over the hillside across the valley, floating up into sibilant branches and over the quiet house last night i slept in that blessed reflection and had no dreams. today just breeze and birdsong books and a bowl of ice cream, coffee for when the cowboy comes home. summer supper, maybe a walk in the evening, the dusk, the gloaming, the smell of summer up from the earth, corn tassels way over my head glory against the blue sky and everything waiting to be found, seen, loved, taken in through the body of light sheathed in a parchment of skin, hungry for understanding.

36 of 365

1. brown basmati rice
2. sitting outside in the white wooden chair reading Three Cups of Tea
3. #4's boundless imagination
4. sane conversation with the cowboy about anything
5. sleep
6. cultivating an inner calm
7. accepting and honoring my innate sensitivity
8. my garden grows
9. being present, looking forward
10. greg mortenson

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"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)