February 4, 2023
Good morning.
First day of my Sabbath Project
I’m a beginner. A believer? Not yet. A faithful? Oh, no. Far from it.
What is the sudden reversal?
The mystical women of the Middle Ages. I’ll start with St. Clare of Assisi and Mechthild of Magdeburg.
What’s Sabbath Project? Getting up at 8am. Meditation for half hour.
at sunrise
a bird leaves
its perch
a tree painted blue
a wind chime hangs from a branch
a bird sings from faraway
a mother looks at her child
imagines colors of her voice
the sun recedes behind the mountains
she adjusts the aperture
takes all the photos
a long story begins
yesterday
a snowstorm
a child was born
A man measures the distance between the trees
The distance of the trees from the path
The distance of the trees from the river
He looks at the sky
His mind can roam infinitely
“Leaving behind unilateral view of things”
Man is not the root of all things
He is not the measure of all things
He finishes his work
Returns home where he tends goats
And bees and grows a garden
He is the village philosopher.
Mother’s attentive presence
he, like a flower,
blooms
Opening your school yearbook after so many years
memory are like high places we cling to
revelations can pain your heart
you want to resist but rawness is hard to hide
like a cry of a sparrow
eyes and face can reveal so easily
what is to inhabit bleakness of a future
or emotional existence when tethering from ordinary
but youthful exploits can ripen into awareness
mistakes can be forgiven
contradictions can come to resolutions
you can rise again after a wicked plunge
new leaf, new lines of relationships
can bloom in extraordinary clarity
you are a survivor.
Clattering sound of falling kitchen pans brushes aside her reverie
Her eyes fix on the sea
Fog distorts perception of distance, silence ushers thinking confidently
She adjusts herself in the writing table
With a new ambition
She writes, her fingers trembling with words.
Evening crickets will summon her to sleep
The rooster will wake her before dawn
Seldom she considers to stray outside these boundaries
Her stories wanting to be heard
Like mute feelings suddenly freed from captivity
How to express the river’s yearnings
The delicate exposure of what is hidden
Abundant play before learning the alphabets
The forest changes, weather comes with seasons
She feels fresh facing open spaces, the deep and simple questions, enhancement and pruning
The mysteries of truth and moments of need
Finding her way in intricacies of language
If she has nothing to say, she stays silent.
She may play her violin in front of the llamas
Or she may hold the cat close to her chest
Hum a melody to its ear
Don’t let desire turn to dreaming and fades
Even when distance dims
She has to consider the end
What is meaningful to her
To flourish the goodness life
And encourage herself to cultivate
Habits of the heart.
A thought
awaken you from velleity
a summon to bear fruit
you lace your shoes
you start walking, an ancient habit
fresh persuasion of open air,
feelings of space and seeing
the outdoors, vast and hospitable,
slopping hills
you bravely ascend steps,
carefully accelerate descent
blistered heels and suffering knees,
and muscle burns
temporary distractions,
hesitation gradually fades
one step at a time, the trodden way
strength prospers and optimism lifts
exhilaration and healthy elements
you huddle a new circle, your kindred:
sway of stride, unhurried banter,
their voices twinkle in greetings
you don’t have to
but you keep a journal
the notches, tiny achievements
nourishing pastoral scenes,
joy of jotting experiences
the long walks
you observe the olympians,
their constancy
you wonder how they do it
the focus, the intensity
the magnitude of sacrifices
you weigh yours in gratitude
you try to understand,
is there time to exult or console
you are in your eighties
you dare to disturb life expectancy
in full measure.
Should I haiku
my way to you
light bends
The apple falls
flowers attract butterflies
bees circle around
Mothers wonder
children run to sounds of a waterfall
does enthusiasm measure distances
The kite laughs with the wind
free and unafraid
a boy watches
Inquisitive, often in motion
a bird moves from from to branch
to opening spaces
I decide to be better
procrastination flirts
catches my curiosity
The splendor of order
my thoughts and a nightingale singing
a pebble and thunder
The swan’s wings sweep the air
clouds coalesce like a quilt
the pond and I mirror the scene
The swan, lovely and silent
unruffled by wakes of passing boats
somewhere, a monk in contemplation.
Unafraid, swelling with confidence, she prays
the snow falls on top of trees
first week of December
My strength begins
paddles breaks the water
the ducks glide
The bell’s sounds of angelus
a moment of remembrance
farmers stand silent on the field
With darkening sky
poetic storm enters her vision
sharp and exhausting
Bowls and fields catch raindrops
seasons of need
umbrellas cover workers’ heads
Life is not a simple flow of time
A lived experience
a taste of beauty
then taken away
Is there enjoyment in being immortal
though everything you touch is not permanent
a statue, a stone, unlike a snowflake
everyone will pass away
and you remain
immortal, you,alone
with all your elaborate memories.
Can we still ask
and live life’s hard question
or remain submerged in modern angst?
Or are we waiting like a jar
to fall into fragments on the floor?
Or do we bloom for each other on virtual reality?
In the reddening sun
we should not be content
just to be alive.
note: I finished reading the book, Paris in the Present Tense by Mark Helprin. About time, art and life and love.
Wet clothes hang on a line suspended on two poles
On windy days wave like captive souls
A passerby pauses as if trying to recall a forgotten task
A boy walking the opposite way
Tries to understand between fascination and true insight
He remembers he should get home before Angelus
Clouds darkening hurriedly in the horizon.
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