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This post reminded me of two things. First, Easter is just around the corner. We had Easter Lilies when I was growing up. They did not always bloom on time, but they were part of who we were growing up. Second, is reminiscing about the Beatles and John Lennon. He had a simple way with […]
International Women’s Day recently passed. It is important to remember those who give birth and nurture life. Educating girls promises an enlightened future of a community. They are the ones who will raise the children.
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Yes, I remember it,
the day I’ll die, I broadcast the crimson,
so long ago of that sky, its spread air,
its rushing dyes, and a piece of earth
bleeding, apart from the shore, as we went.
On the day I’ll die, past the guards, and he,
keeper of the world’s last saffron, rowed me
on an island the size of a grave. On
two yards he rowed me into the sunset,
past all pain. On everyone’s lips was news
of my death but only that beloved couplet,
broken, on his:
“If there is a paradise on earth
It is this, it is this, it is this.”
I love Henri Nouwen’s writing and story. Passion and (com) passion share a common root. There is a certain amount of suffering we have to endure to find (com) passion. It is nice to have people share that journey with us without saying a word and offering advice.
“When we honestly ask ourselves which person in our lives means the most to us, we often find that it is those who, instead of giving advice, solutions, or cures, have chosen rather to share our pain and touch our wounds with a warm and tender hand.” ~ Henri Nouwen
Even when we are out of gas,there is still something that keeps us going. This is a wonderful old tractor accompanied by a beautiful short poem.
I love Langston Hughes poetry. I used to use it in my teaching. I shifted between poem and modified a unit on the poetry of the Harlem Renaissance which brought in other poets, the blues, hip-hop. etc. Hughes’ metaphors are so powerful and life-like. The students enjoyed Mother to Son.
Octavio Paz wrote this short poem which despite its length I read it in several ways. The poem raises more questions than it answers. Perhaps, he wrote about sleep, a lover, or night itself? Whatever it is, this friendship embraces without being named.
Maybe in sleep this friendship arrives only to be brushed aside as we awake in the morning. Or, is it the waiting for this friendship that makes it more worthwhile? When we are mindful and attentive in living, it pokes through and rewards us with momentary glimpses that are so rewarding.
It is the awaited hour
Over the table falls
Interminably
The lamp’s spread hair
Night turns the window to immensity
There is no one here
Presence without name surrounds me
This post sat waiting for today to be re-blogged. Being grateful, rising with grace, and thanking the World for its presence is living fully.
This is a wonderful excerpt and image. There are magical and spiritual places where we can find Truth, Love, and Peace. Or, perhaps it is more apt to say they find us.
Once in the dream of a night I stood
Lone in the light of a magical wood,
Soul-deep in visions that poppy-like sprang;
And spirits of Truth were the birds that sang,
And spirits of Love were the stars that glowed,
And spirits of Peace were the streams that flowed
In that magical wood in the land of sleep.
Excerpt from: Song of a Dream
Sarojini Naidu
The image and poem work together so well. It is what we, as adults, give our children: time, a kind ear, and support.
The linked poem uses the word nature in an ambiguous and lovely way. Perhaps, we want to know our nature? Or, is it that we wait for nature to reveal itself more fully to us?
When we wait quietly and listen deeply, we hear the questions which are essential to dialogue. It is in the quiet we hear.
ivonprefontaine
Teacher as Transformer 