Or Happy New year…to us all. May we all be who we are. May we all wish for nothing. May we all be at Peace. May we all be able to happily care for ourselves.
From our two friends: Psyche’s Call with Donna May and our lovely poet, Mary Oliver. How we appreciate and love them both.
Sometimes the days are so difficult. This election, these politics, this earth, and the animals that walk with us. Sometimes we just long for our children to be small and our lives, our selves—to be ignorant.
Too many people sick, too many people playing the end-games of their lives. And still, from our dear ones—Now. Just Now. Shsssssh…
“I have learned that if you must leave a place that you have lived in and loved and where all your yesteryears are buried deep, leave it any way except a slow way, leave it the fastest way you can. Never turn back and never believe that an hour you remember is a better hour because it is dead. Passed years seem safe ones, vanquished ones, while the future lives in a cloud, formidable from a distance. The cloud clears as you enter it. I have learned this, but like everyone, I learned it late.
“It’s a most painful thing, having to leave ‘home’. No matter where or what else it is to us, home is our haven, our safe place, our soul place, a place to refuel and launch into the world again and again. Home is something that we all always want to go back to; if we can’t go back, home is what we want to make again as quickly as we can, wherever we are.” Beryl Markham – West with the Night
Posted by Ravenous Butterflies
For today, as it looks as if our stay-at-home can be with us for some time, we need to remember our beliefs, our foundations, our self-work. The Dali Lama has words to remind us.
And Fear. Let us not forget Fear. And let us also remember that Fear stands for False Evidence Appearing Real. Fear is of the future, and the future never arrives. Of course we’re not talking about that flight or fight generated by the fear of a present danger. We’re talking about that fear that comes from sit-and-think about what can go wrong. The “what-if.” There is no what if. There is only now. The only real enemy is us. Remember Pogo!
- The problem with living in the now and with releasing the past (meditation, blank state and all that) is being a Reader. Reader, Writer, either—both. There it is in front of you, those dates, those times, those revolutions, those disappointments. Those misunderstandings. Those uglinesses and judgments (of self). And of course those flights when living inches off the ground, and equally the longing for them.
- To say nothing of seeing again the raising of the flag of protest and reaching for the wine bottle. Or vodka when all of it is considered.
- We found that if you don’t kneel to sacred cows you’ll be wiped out by them. We also found out the joke’s on us. That is, when it ends and you look around and no one’s there. There’s no one left standing as everyone grew up at the same time as they got older and then they became middle America.
- Terrible is an adjective that has become so limited by its use in the negative when it should not be so. Think of a terrible love, think of a belief of terrible strength. Think Terrible Glory! No, it should not be limited to the anthem of negativity. The same with awful—as in an Awful Beauty.
- The saddest thing about growing up is losing the dragons and angels and goldfish and secondary teeth without pay.
- Certain expressions are so lovely that it’s a pleasure to work them in. To put a fine point on it we could say somethings are worth repeating even though we could become a walking cliche of ourselves in the process.
- I personally wish people would stop saying they will give me a free gift for something. Number one and most egregious, that’s redundant. A gift is free by its very nature. Number two, we all know (or should) that it’s not free. The price is built into the cost of the item.
- Those giants of passion, of terrible knowledge or ability, so caught in the web of their visions, never stop. Never quit. Never say “my work is over.” Einstein was working out an equation on his deathbed, and so died. Schiele was making a drawing of his wife Edith Schiele on the day she died, October 28, 1918. He passed away three days later.
But isn’t it also glorious that there are those whose work is finished when it is finished? That there are those whose work in factories builds our cars, as well the butchers who carve our meat, the drivers who bring the buses through our streets—all of value. All of need. All of it to be mastered and answered the same: to what purpose am I?