Wednesday, October 26, 2016

"A little too abstract..."

A little too abstract, a little too wise,
It is time for us to kiss the earth again,
It is time to let the leaves rain from the sky,
Let the rich life run to the roots again.

From "Return" by Robinson Jeffers

Photo by BitterGrace

Saturday, November 2, 2013

Not grand

We're in the midst of a beautiful autumn here, all blue sky and bright leaves. It won't last long, and I got up this morning determined to get out and enjoy the splendid day. Just as I was headed out the door I felt a sort of mantle of resistance settle over me. My desire to go hiking became a desire to do something, anything else, and I considered opting instead for a morning at the computer. I kept moving, though, mostly from force of habit. All the way to the park I thought about how much I didn't want to go there. Turn around. You're sick of these walks. You need to take a break from them. Go home and make some other use of this day. But I pressed on, and once I got to the park it seemed stupid not to do at least a short turn down one of the trails. After about a half hour of steady walking, the pleasure kicked in. I knew it would. It always does. I call it pleasure, but I actually mean something much more intense than that word suggests. I'd call it bliss or joy, but those don't seem quite right either. It's a quiet surrender of the self that happens. There's no loss of the self, no transcendence — I am very much present and entirely *me* — but I feel connected and somehow permeable to everything around me. Even though I'm aware of a few annoyances and the handful of actual dangers, I feel at odds with nothing. I resent nothing. Maybe the word for this state is "undefended" — not a grand word, but there's nothing grand about the experience. It's extraordinary, but not grand.

Photo by Maria Browning. Click on the image to enlarge it

Thursday, October 10, 2013

This morning...

...I heard a noise in the leaves, and it turned out to be this cicada in its death throes, buzzing its last buzz. I feel horror when I see a dying creature—any creature, even a small, strange, absurd one. The sight of death accomplished can have a somber beauty, but dying, the transition from one existence to another, seems awful. There are moments when I find a sense of peace with it, even a love of the mystery, but most of the time I encounter it as a cruelty. That is a failure on my part, I think—a failure of both reason and imagination. I hope to walk beyond it someday.

*Photo by Maria Browning. Click on the image to enlarge it.

Tuesday, October 8, 2013

"Water is taught by thirst"

Water is taught by thirst;
Land, by the oceans passed;
Transport, by throe;
Peace, by its battles told;
Love, by memorial mould;
Birds, by the snow.

~ Emily Dickinson

Photo by Maria Browning. Click on the image to enlarge it.

Sunday, October 6, 2013


“Thus you can throw yourself flat on the ground, stretched out upon Mother Earth, with the certain conviction that you are one with her and she with you. You are as firmly established, as invulnerable as she, indeed a thousand times firmer and more invulnerable. As surely as she will engulf you tomorrow, so surely will she bring you forth anew to new striving and suffering. And not merely ‘some day’: now, today, every day she is bringing you forth, not once but thousands upon thousands of times, just as every day she engulfs you a thousand times over. For eternally and always there is only now, one and the same now; the present is the only thing that has no end.”

~ Erwin Schrödinger, from My View of the World

*I used this passage in another post, years ago. I can't think of one more suited to repeating.

Photo by Maria Browning. Click on the image to enlarge it.

Monday, September 30, 2013

"low-lidded soft sky"

No vulture is here, hardly a hawk, 
Could long wings or great eyes fly 
Under this low-lidded soft sky? 

From "The Low Sky" by Robinson Jeffers. The complete poem is here.

Photo by Maria Browning. Click on the image to enlarge it.

Sunday, September 29, 2013

Soul dwells in a swamp

Whitman understood:

In the swamp in secluded recesses,
A shy and hidden bird is warbling a song.
Solitary the thrush,
The hermit withdrawn to himself, avoiding the settlements,
Sings by himself a song.
Song of the bleeding throat,
Death’s outlet song of life, (for well dear brother I know,
If thou wast not granted to sing thou would’st surely die.)

Photo by Maria Browning. Click on the image to enlarge it.