Ponderings
Tuesday, October 15, 2024
Focusing
Friday, October 11, 2024
Only This and More
I have been thinking of this beautiful poem all week. I woke this morning thinking of this photograph that I believe was taken from our campsite on the western side of the summit of Sonora Pass.Tyler is not sure of the location. I do know it was taken on the day before we drove home because the eye phone keeps track of dates. If you look to the right just below the peak, you will see a patch of snow. If you look lower and to the left, you can see falling water, more than likely runoff from the snow. This is not a gentle, rolling hills sort of land.
This Only
A valley and above it forests in autumn colors.
A voyager arrives, a map led him here.
Or perhaps memory. Once, long ago, in the sun,
When the first snow fell, riding this way
He felt joy, strong, without reason,
Joy of the eyes. Everything was the rhythm
Of shifting trees, of a bird in flight,
Of a train on the viaduct, a feast of motion.
He returns years later, has no demands.
He wants only one, most precious thing:
To see, purely and simply, without name,
Without expectations, fears, or hopes,
At the edge where there is no I or not-I.
~ Czesław Milosz
From Wikipedia: Czesław Miłosz was a Polish-American poet, prose writer, translator, anddiplomat. He primarily wrote his poetry in Polish. Regarded as one of the great poets of the 20th century, he won the 1980 Nobel Prize in Literature.
Friday, October 4, 2024
On to the Desert, Part 2
After a day of exploring the Tablelands, we settled on a campsite. It was located a little closer to Bishop than we intended, but that really was not a distraction, especially since later, another camper drove past our site and parked at a slightly higher elevation. He was a paraglider, and his rig included a beautiful yellow wing. It was soothing to watch him soar and dip as the day came to a close.
Where does my help come from?
It comes from you
Maker of heaven and earth
Who holds my foot on the path up
Who's constantly present
Everywhere aware"
from Psalm 121, Opening to You, Zen Inspired translations of the Psalms, Norman Fischer
Thursday, October 3, 2024
On to the Desert, Part 1
Tyler and I spent our first two nights of our trip across the Sierra on the western side of the Sonora pass. I gradually began to feel unwell and I could not get warm. On the second morning, I told Tyler I was not doing well with the cold and that I needed to get out of the trees. He wisely replied, "It is not the trees, it is the altitude. We need to go lower." We packed up without breakfast and crossed the summit and descended. We actually spent that night in a motel in Bishop so we could clean up and get our bearings. The next day we headed out to explore and camp in the Volcanic Tablelands outside of Bishop. While in Bishop I also bought a warm cap for the trip back. I had packed two lighter weight caps and a goose down jacket, but still underestimated how cold the nights can get among the trees close to the summit. I was reminded that I have lived close to sea level (56 feet) for a long time.
and streams in the desert.
The burning sand will become a pool,
the thirsty ground bubbling springs.
In the haunts where jackals once lay,
grass and reeds and papyrus will grow.
And a highway will be there;
it will be called the Way of Holiness;
it will be for those who walk on that Way."
Tuesday, October 1, 2024
Earthing
“Knowing that you love the earth changes you, activates you to defend and protect and celebrate. But when you feel that the earth loves you in return, that feeling transforms the relationship from a one-way street into a sacred bond.”
—Robin Wall KimmererFriday, September 13, 2024
Service Station
I received this poem back in August. I find it beautiful. The images are so clear to me, probably because I remember when there really were gas station attendants with whom we actually interacted. I also love it for the reminder that Jesus does walk among us, doing what seems to be routine tasks in profound ways, while casually reaching out to someone with a few kind words of greeting or encouragement. May we not fear to be that simple, that profound.
pulled into the 76 off Ashby Avenue.
We never knew why. She didn’t ask
and he didn’t explain. My brother and I
would look at each other sideways
in the back seat, eyebrows raised—
though, lord knows, we’d lived in Berkeley
long enough. He smiled when he said it,
then wiped the windows and pumped the gas.
I liked the little ritual. Always the same
order of events. Same lack of discussion.
Could he sense something? Attune to an absence
of vitamin C? Or was it just a kind of flirting—
a way of tossing her an apple, a peach?
It’s true my mother had a hidden ailment
of which she seldom spoke, and true
she never thought herself a beauty,
since in those days, you had to choose
between smart and beautiful, and beauty
was not the obvious choice for a skinny
bookish girl, especially in Barbados.
No wonder she became devout,
forsaking nearly everything but God
and science. And later she suffered
at the hands of my father, whom she loved,
and who’d somehow lost control
of his right fist and his conscience.
Whose sister was she, then? Sister
of the Early Rise, the Five-O’Clock Commute,
the Centrifuge? Sister of Burnt Dreams?
But didn’t her savior speak in parables?
Isn’t that the language of the holy?
Why wouldn’t he come to her like this,
with a kind face and dark, grease-smeared arms,
to lean over the windshield of her silver Ford sedan,
and bring tidings of her unclaimed loveliness,
as he filled the car with fuel, and told her—
as a brother—to go ahead,
partake of the garden, and eat of it.
~ Danusha Lameris
Monday, September 9, 2024
Key of A
I spent some time today watering plants and doing some trimming,
waving at the mail carrier, saying hello to a couple
of neighbors, and giving thanks