A most amazing poem by David Whyte.
I dig
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’
There in the asylum, he forgot
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 …
A thought for Sunday, August 11
‘Joy and woe’
My friend, Shona Moonbeam, over at http://www.knomochoicius.com, shared a piece of a William Blake poem with me tonight. We were talking about a book I'm reading called "The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck" by Mark Manson. I'll write more about the book later, but for now it's enough to say ... wow. Seventy-eight …
Making a life, pt. 2
I'm propped up in my bed on Sunday morning, skittering around the Internet while hoping a panic episode subsides. It's a gorgeous day already, much like the one I wrote so happily about on Tuesday. But I'm not in that space now, and I'm wishing my dad was still alive to talk to about it. …
A thought for Saturday
Making a life
The fireflies have appeared and flowers on the trumpet vine have blossomed. (I know they're invasive, but they're so beautiful, and they're taking over the yard, and the blooms attract hummingbirds. Such is the yin and yang of life.) Monday morning it was a refreshing 55 degrees as I surveyed my wild green yard. What …
6:25 a.m., The Boathouse, Gun Lake
The water like glass Reflects rippled clouds, a golden streak of sunlight; The lake bottom is clear, small bits of white shells like baby teeth strewn about. Black bugs pirouette above, briefly land to touch their partners: their silhouettes. A fish disturbs the surface, leaving popples as it dips back beneath. Something small -- a …
YSM | ink 