Blue Scarf

The scarf grazes the air,

its shades of blue coloring the night.

It kisses the curtain, too.

Flutters gently as I breathe, then the lights go out.

Morning dawns;

the scarf blows still.

The mundane again is beautiful.

The Year Brought Teachers; The Year Brought Friends.

Another year passes us by, and within each of its seasons, I found there were encounters that captivated; lessons learned; people and things loved, floating adrift, only to be found again.

There were leaps and bounds along with cross-legged stay-still-where-you-are's. There were words and pictures, stories and silence, falsehoods and truths. There were fingers, toes, tears, laughter. There were promises and plans, some broken, some seen through. There were cups of tea we drank, and there were trees at which we stared, many mesmerized. There were stars and a blood moon. There were gusts of wind and warm breezes. There was blue, like the sky beneath which we all spent our days; there was green that fell to orange, and brown that fell to empty, and empty that was cloaked by white, snow that is, the fruit of winter; then there was yellow… yellow, yellow, like the sun and flowers. 

There were meetings with friends, old and new. There were meetings with strangers. There were, it seems, meetings with fate too. There was both solemnity and elation. There was what-to-do-now and ah-yes-that’s-just-what-I’ve-been-seeking.

 Then there was happiness for another year's arrival.

A cheerful New Year to everyone!

On Old Shawls and Wabi-Sabi

Illustration of Owl by Ernest Shepard

“Kanga was down below trying the things on, and calling out to Owl, ‘You won’t want this dirty old dish-cloth any more, will you, and what about this carpet, it’s all in holes,’ and Owl was calling back indignantly, ‘Of course I do! It’s just a question of arranging furniture properly, and it isn’t a dish-cloth, it’s my shawl.’”

Recent days have found me reading Benjamin Hoff’s The Te of Piglet. While quite a lovely book in countless ways, I do have one other point of interest to raise here (admittedly a rambling, but nonetheless worthwhile, I think).

Towards the end of the book, the above scene from the Pooh tales is recounted, this is to say, the scene where Owl is moving his belongings from one home to another. Hoff notes that Owl and the state of his dwelling place and belongings are perhaps analogous to the dilapidation of modern society.

I derived from the story something different than this. To the contrary, I was decidedly delighted and captivated by the quip. Why? Perhaps it is simply because I find the image of Owl in a tattered shawl to be an endearing one. But perhaps it is because this one little statement, “it isn’t a dish-cloth, it’s my shawl” evokes what to me is a very Taoist ideal: wabi-sabi, which is variably defined as something along the lines of “the beauty inherent in imperfection.”

Who is to say a shabby, shaggy shawl isn’t even more desirable than one that is still crisp and new? After all, its holes are reflective of its wear and usefulness through the days and years of one’s life. Oftentimes, articles of clothing become even softer with wear. Why turn in the old and threadbare’s trustiness for something new, so long as it still serves its purpose well enough? Furthermore, why not acknowledge that we often recognize a sweet charm anyway in that which has been an earnest part of days gone by?

So may such standards be swept away once again by the delight of tattered dish-cloth shawls.

Image obtained from https://alteredbits.wordpress.com/2013/06/09/blog-hop-and-book-review-give-away-wabi-sabi-art-workshop-by-serena-barton/

Of This and Other Worlds (A Dose of Observation and Optimism)

Summer Greenery in Brooklyn, New York

We often describe experiences that fill us with awe as “other-worldly.”

The layers of golden orange in the sky, the feeling of vast love for other people that washes upon us at the most unexpected of moments, the reflection of the moon in a lake and the ripples that blur together the murkiness of the water and the clarity of the heavens. All of these things, we often remark, it is as though they are of another time and place.

But these things, we would do well to remember, are our world. They do exist all around us; we are even engulfed in them. 

So though our troubles are many and great, may we sometimes pause and remember that beauty still exists, and love’s forms are all around us.

Oranges in Spain

Flora in Massachusetts

On Love

Life is wrought with mysteries; you have long been mine.

Here I avow only that circles do not cease, and neither does defenseless love, of which we are all so often victims.  

And I have wondered, futile though this wondering may be, why; how; still?

I grant this is elusive, yet l pursue it with fervor, nonetheless.

And I now know this:

It seems I loved you after all, still do.

"Let the lover be disgraceful, crazy, absent-minded. Someone sober will worry about events going badly. Let the lover be." ~Rumi

On (Un)Originality

Image from http://celebriot.com/dean-inge-quotes.

This is how it goes: I am infinitely indebted to my predecessors, my contemporaries, and the world's potentialities. Any word I could possibly form, any phrase, any story, any thought, is inevitably derived from some previous source. Thus originality ceases as a concept and is replaced quite simply, or quite complexly, by an amalgamation of various prior and present encounters. Write, speak, create not because you are saying, speaking, creating something new, but instead because you are compelled to put pen to paper, words to air, intrigue to life. This is all that we can hope to do.

On Not Writing

Those who have read my blog in the past may note that this post follows a quite extensive period of time during which I did not share any writing. Here, I break the spell, but only to muse on what I have learned during this time.

For quite awhile I believed writing was an essential part of who I am as a person. To separate myself from the pursuit of writing even temporarily, it seemed, was to separate myself from my own essence. Like many individuals who find that they are seemingly unable to express themselves artistically or verbally in the way they used to (or quite as prolifically in the way they used to), I felt that I had wavered in my own worth. To not be able to do the thing that is my very heart and passion, that must be a shortcoming or something over which to worry. But this, I have learned, is simply not true. For I am, at the end of the day, more than the words I write. I, and everyone else who lives, is also someone who is occupied with complexities of existence, curiosity towards people and surroundings, striving for that which lies ahead and reflecting on that which rests in our past. We are metaphysical and material; we are tension and dogged certainty.

To speak to and understand others, to walk outside by the moonlight, to read about ideas, to think without having to express, to lay down and dream, to have a crowded or empty mind, these are all endeavors equally important to that of writing. They develop something different within us and make us certain of the other pieces of our life.

I have learned, am learning, the toughest lesson of all: that I was not intended to experience only the one certain thing of my life, but rather many that I do not yet know.