In a world with so much conflict, let there be small rays of hope we can each feel and share.
Monthly Archives: July 2014
I enjoy indigenous myths and legends. They connect humans in the world they live in and attempt to make sense of the natural phenomena occurring around us. Science is not able to provide full explanations and good scientists acknowledge this. Sedna was a story I shared with students when I taught. It provided considerable food for thought, particularly for those students who held science as being absolute. Stories are the human way of making sense of the world and its natural phenomena.
We live in a world of strictly held ideologies. I know some might argue the ideologies are theologies, but I wonder about theologies allowing and promoting killing each other. Several years ago in a conversation, my mother questioned a point I made about a conflict. I responded I was not on anyone’s side, but I am opposed to war in general.
I oppose war and killing, but it does not mean life is easy. It is not an unreal ideal. It suggests I come to terms with a world fraught with failure and difference holding promises of alliances of hope and love. I think it is not so much coming to terms with, but coming to terms in the world. Coming to terms with proposes I live outside humane relationships. Living in the world is alliances and relationships forming beginning in me.
Maya Stein’s poem suggests these alliances require courage and used brave. Brave comes from a word meaning valiant, courageous, untamed. Courage comes from the same word as heart. In this heart and in this world, I search and research attempting beauty and hope. I wend my way in the moment-to-moment journey seeking answers to Mary Oliver’s question: “what is it you plan to do [in] your one wild and precious life?” This suggests a quality in life and alliances which is not tameable, but perhaps I do not want to tame it. It is in wildness it offers more,
“You have to make an alliance with your anguish,” he said,
“not wage war against it.” And I thought of all the fists
I had shaken at misfortune: games lost
because the shot clock ran out,
a good meal scorched in a forgotten oven,
money dropped on a dress worn only once,
the bully in 6th grade, the math test in 9th,
the wrong outfit at Halloween.
But of course, this isn’t what he meant.
If I were brave enough, I’d tell you how my heart
has raged for love, stretched thin as a high wire.
If I were brave enough, I’d tell you
how my body has been fighting to stay upright
on every precipitous downhill the city
throws at it. If I were brave enough,
I’d climb into your lap and weep with longing.
All I can say is that any attempt at beauty and hope
is land-mined with failure.
And so the perilous track-making begins.
Wending our way through,
there are possible clutches at sunlight, at windows, at yes.
We are each of us inches from death.
We are each of us inches from life.
We are each of us inches from one another.
I listened to the Blues early in life and developed a love for the blues in its many forms. I saw Willie Dixon and John Lee Hooker in concert very early and they were thrilling experiences. Willie Dixon was supposed to have said that the Blues is the roots and the rest is the fruits. I find the Blues embedded in much of the music I listen to today.
Originally posted on alien ecologies:
“Blues is not a dream. Blues is truth.”
Soul Down and Mashed
My daddy used
to do it,
my uncle too.
Sing the blues
in that way:
slow beat to throat
moving like a ghost,
a woman riding night,
a man right beside;
soul down and mashed,
touching more than
is a face to tell. A light
touch sparks that
an ear awakens, hears –
a jackdaw’s screech,
clear and crisp: stops
and listens to this old
man on the bayou
sing and play the delta blues.
Knowing and Doing
We lived down
back in the big green,
where there ain’t
but a few ole coons,
or two; but let
me tell you, there’s something
like no other place:
with a certain
and heavy, a living
from knowing and doing,
View original 47 more words
The Camus quote pointed out the paradox we live with without always being aware of it. Is the world indifferent? Or is it different? Perhaps, it is our indifference to the world that causes the world’s indifference? There are usually more question than answers.
I am not sure which Mary Gray wrote this poem. I found it, enjoyed it, and wanted to share it with others.
The poem has a Mary Oliver quality to it. Something speaks to us when we give it time and space. When we listen carefully, the wind blows through the grass giving its a voice we hear when we slow down resting our head on the ground. Humbling ourselves, we are closer to the voices of small things, the dankness of humus (the root word for human and humility), and the friendliness of weeds in our life.
As children, we often forgot our names losing ourselves in precious moments in a world larger than we were. It enveloped us and everything it revealed was wondrous. We recall running with outreached hands into the world, its silence, its disarray, and the inviting of small things in the grass which were more at our level. I remember the ladybugs, spiders, ants, etc. which were smaller than I was, entranced by them and by all that was immense. It was in those moments I was wise as I listened in ways that sometimes escape me as an adult.
When I am wise in the speech of the grass,
I forget the sound of words
and walk into the bottomland
and lie with my head on the ground
and listen to what grass tells me
and small places for wind to sing,
about the labor of insects,
about shadows dank with spice,
and the friendliness of weeds.
When I am wise in the dance of grass,
I forget my name and run
into the rippling bottomland
and lean against the silence which flows
out of the crumpled mountains
and rises through slick blades, pods,
wheat stems, and curly shoots,
and is carried by wind for miles
from my outstretched hands.
We each have our own path and need to work on what that means in each present moment. A journey is without actual destination. It is a graceful dance where we move forward and arrive in each particular moment.
Originally posted on Known is a drop, Unknown is an Ocean:
My path is the path of stopping, the path of enjoying the present moment. It is a path where every step brings me back to my true home. It is a path that leads nowhere. I am on my way home. I arrive at every step…
~ Thich Nhat Hanh