Oh, how I love Sunday morning! The town is quiet, none of the bustle of neighbors driving off to work, no children on their way to school. I took our doggie out for her walk, the long tired shadows of the approaching night reversed to the tall hopeful shadows of the morning as we walked along the sidewalk.
Usually our morning walks begin at the school yard, complete with a tennis ball and plastic baggie (yes, I do pick up after her, because in MY world, it would be MY kid coming home with the poop shoe). I limit our time here as to not run into too many school kids. Today, though, I let Roxi explore. As she sniffed the perimeter of the playground fence, I took my time walking on the frosty grass.
The sun was rising, warming the earth, and I watched as the grass awakened from its sleepy white to its lively green. I watched the trees boast their newly bloomed leaves in the gentle wind, crested by the birds crossing overhead. Pairs of ducks, noisy geese, and the high flying seagulls. I looked back and saw the path of my footprints in the dewy grass.
I read once that kabballists believe that every single blade of grass has a soul, and that fairies and gnomes dance among them. And indeed, I felt compelled to thank the grass for providing a soft base beneath my feet, and ask forgiveness for any unkindness my trodding inflicted. Now, if I start seeing the fairies and gnomes, please adjust my medication, folks.
And now I am back, with the expanse of the day before me filled with possibilities. I am blessed, with the warmth of the sun and the warmth of my family. I look forward to a day working in my backyard, my developing sanctuary.
I think back many years to my first feeble attempts at gardening in our home in California (unsuccessful I may add!), remembering how I knew, KNEW, that a garden spot was to become very important in my life. I could not explain why or where, how or when, but something in me KNEW that there would come a time and place where I would create a garden, and find peace there. I am filled with excitement and energy as I now build it, watch with some strange detached amazement that it is coming to pass.
It has become my place of worship, my Sunday morning blessing.
Wildly Enthusiastic Writing
Your little will can't do anything. It takes Great Determination. Great Determination doesn't mean just you making an effort. It means the whole universe is behind you and with you - the birds, trees, sky, moon and ten directions.
Until one is committed,
there is hesitancy,
the chance to draw back,
always ineffectiveness.
Concerning all acts of initiative
there is one elementary truth,
the ignorance of which kills
countless ideas and endless plans:
That the moment one definitely commits oneself, then providence moves too.
All sorts of things occur to help one
that would never otherwise have occurred.
A whole stream of events issues from the decision,
raising in one's favor all manner of
unforeseen incidents and meetings and
material assistance which no man
could have dreamed would come his way.
there is hesitancy,
the chance to draw back,
always ineffectiveness.
Concerning all acts of initiative
there is one elementary truth,
the ignorance of which kills
countless ideas and endless plans:
That the moment one definitely commits oneself, then providence moves too.
All sorts of things occur to help one
that would never otherwise have occurred.
A whole stream of events issues from the decision,
raising in one's favor all manner of
unforeseen incidents and meetings and
material assistance which no man
could have dreamed would come his way.
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West Jordan Moon Rise
taken from our front yard
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Poetic Liberation
This poem found itself to me in the most amazing circumstance. I was at a restless point in my life, feeling my inner poet clammering for richer expression. My husband and I were painting a home and there were papers scattered everywhere that we were using to tape off the windows and cabinets. I looked down, and the following poem was printed in the paper. It was the winning poem in a local high school poetry contest. It was written by Grace Reitz, from Viewmont High School, whom I've never met, but would guess is on to great things by this time. Thank you Grace.
Give poetry free will.
Do not organize it by category or length
Do not force it into rows if it is unwilling
Do not amputate its limbs to make it fit
Let poetry stretch all of its sinews and syllables
Let it heave and writhe and roll off the table if it wants to
Don't read it monotone, robotic, or cold metallic
Let it breathe
Don't polish until it does not offend
Let poetry be vulgar
Encourage it to be impolite
Give it reason to hate, and ability to love
Let it slog and drool and make your skin crawl
Don't let ignorant eyes push it around
Stand up for it, fight for it, cherish it
Give it freedom to take form
Let it roll over your subconscious
Let it mosey, or gallop if it wants
Digest it, crave it, become addicted
Don't trust those whose knowledge
comes from dissecting poetic cadavers
Find a live specimen and just observe
Let it be your religion, your language, your soul
Give poetry free will.
Do not organize it by category or length
Do not force it into rows if it is unwilling
Do not amputate its limbs to make it fit
Let poetry stretch all of its sinews and syllables
Let it heave and writhe and roll off the table if it wants to
Don't read it monotone, robotic, or cold metallic
Let it breathe
Don't polish until it does not offend
Let poetry be vulgar
Encourage it to be impolite
Give it reason to hate, and ability to love
Let it slog and drool and make your skin crawl
Don't let ignorant eyes push it around
Stand up for it, fight for it, cherish it
Give it freedom to take form
Let it roll over your subconscious
Let it mosey, or gallop if it wants
Digest it, crave it, become addicted
Don't trust those whose knowledge
comes from dissecting poetic cadavers
Find a live specimen and just observe
Let it be your religion, your language, your soul
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