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

31 March 2010

 "pagan pacifist witch hippie"


“Love itself is what is left over when being in love has burned away, and this is both an art and a fortunate accident...we had roots that grew towards each other underground, and when all the pretty blossoms had fallen from our branches we found that we were one tree and not two." 
  this place is crows, woods and water.  even with the struggle you manage to be soft, and keep a little space for me. i water plants and wash the floor, i make the bed and take the call.  all i am is belief and wishful thinking, blood and patience and prayer.  you brought me bright stones and a wand, you brought me flowers, made a nest of your flesh for me to rest in.  you ask for all of me, for everything ive lost, asphyxiated, neglected, dragged to death behind me.  you ask for nothing less than resurrection.  but can we really imagine augusts garden in february?  you ask me to believe in my own Becoming.  you ask me to believe in something other than anything besides myself.  and it reminds me that im here indeed for a reason other than to hold the door.


for me.
 




 the song that saved my life today


like this?  try "Dream a Little Dream"




Happy Birthday, Brother Al.  i thought this could be applied to anything and be useful. 

"Pathwalker, there is no path.  You must make the path as you walk."

these reflection photos are like batik, and when i looked at them in the gallery i noticed that i had completely unconsciously done them all in a white light spectrum of sorts.   i love how the eye slides around, diving and resurfacing like a seal underwater.  that one sketch of eschers, with the fish.  the ruby in the dust palette, listening to GDlive'72 and thinking my quiet forest thoughts, your hand over the edge of the boat in the water.



birthday of Octavio Paz


"...a crystal willow, a poplar of water,
a tall fountain the wind arches over,
a tree deep-rooted yet dancing still,
a course of a river that turns, moves on,
doubles back, and comes full circle,
forever arriving..."


branches veins little buds ready to breathe the water softens everything for receiving.  my world made ready for reclaiming and emergence.  gentle and present are my aspirations, joyful, peaceful, of service.  these are my vernal resolutions, the seeds i plant in the good giving ground rising from rest around me, open hungry mouths of sprouts, frosthaw and rainwater collecting in thimbles of unfurling, the happy spangled hems of ladys mantle, the strong pale swords of what will grow to roadside lily.  this season of emergence, becoming, sacred earth and holy water

what Sanctuary would look like:
                                                                                                     thanks to Blessed Wild Apple Girl




ten for today:

1.   donovan
2.   singing with T. before the bus comes
3.   walking
4.   morning
5.   the wisdom of Guy de Maupassant, who "hated the [eiffel] tower so much that he started eating in its    restaurant every day, because, he said, "It is the only place in Paris where I don't have to see it."
6.   carl spackler...so i have that going for me.
7.   red wine, caramelized onions and balsamic vinegar
8.   a good long stretch
9.   Thich Nhat Hanh
10.  the Heroines Journey

(one of my favorite moments from the Woodstock film)

song sent to me that took me completely by surprise and its gonna carry me a long while.



today mostly pictures.  not much to say out loud, very active and internal.  the weather should turn soon, bring a fresh frame of mind, let some air in.  the earth could have fed, the air filled my sail, the fire fed me, kept me warm.  but i brought out the worst in them all it seems, and stand now before this iceberg, 1/100 of its humming immensity above the surface of the infinite ocean of Love and Time, holding my heart out in my hand, hoping for miraculous transubstantiation of my bodys life into Light.  my breath my body my Being braided into prayer that after the last task is past i will walk through my own open door.

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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)