[I'm sharing this post because I found it incredible useful in this brain-numbing time of the coronavirus pandemic. Enjoy! ~ Karen] A post by Leo Babauta over at Zen Habits I’ve talked with several people lately who have tasks lists from the floor to the ceiling, and it just overwhelms them. They’re not alone — …
A wise teacher once told me that, by continuing to read about and study a particular topic — with the idea that, only when I thoroughly understood that topic could I take action on it — I was stalling. Take this blog post, which I promised myself I’d write weeks ago. I’ve written plenty of …
I found this in my drafts, and have idea whether I shared it before. I couldn't locate it so what the heck, I'll post it, maybe again. When the lilac dawn crawls up blood-red brick over white painted steel like a bruise, its silver shadows fall first on the tall broad-faced sunflowers. Even in prison, …
I dig I am an archeologist excavating Brushing away what isn't To expose what is Discovery: Metaphorical bricks and mortar The foundation laid by My mother and father Their mothers and fathers And so on White middle class siding, black Rooftop shingles above Contain what is below A water table of war, famine, alcohol When …
Children need art and stories and poems and music as much as they need love and food and fresh air and play. If you don’t give a child food, the damage quickly becomes visible. If you don’t let a child have fresh air and play, the damage is also visible, but not so quickly. If you don’t give a child love, the damage might not be seen for some years, but it’s permanent.
But if you don’t give a child art and stories and poems and music, the damage is not so easy to see. It’s there, though. Their bodies are healthy enough; they can run and jump and swim and eat hungrily and make lots of noise, as children have always done, but something is missing.
It’s true that some people grow up never encountering…
For my dad. There, in the asylum of dementia, he forgot. The meaning of suffering. The toll his life had taken on him. And on everyone he once professed To love. And hate. He lived for this moment. Only. Not by choice. By chance. That's all he had left. The disease had swept clean the …
