On the Line

I wander about whenever I can, taking photos of things in the natural world that grab my attention: the light in the trees, summer grasses dappled with dew, the creek in the woods singing as it rambles downhill, cedar rail fences, flocks of geese, herons and loons, wild orchids, fallen leaves, mountains and rivers, sunsets and sunrises, full moons and starry nights, winter snowdrifts as high as the Himalayas.

Closer to home, there are the artfully arranged clothes on my neighbor's line (coordinated by colour) and her brightly colored plastic clothespins, sunlight coming through the kitchen window, leaning piles of books, beakers of espresso and mugs of tea, song birds, bumbles and butterflies in the garden, the Beech Mother (and her comely daughters), sweet Beau who lights up my world and my life.

There is (of course) the pesky business of finding words to accompany the images, but I am getting better at letting them speak for themselves. Most of the time, they don't need my clumsy tinkering and feeble attempts at description anyhow. 

The gathering goes on and on like a wild litany, like the pearls of dew on a spider web or the beads on a very long mala. There is always something to see if I have the presence of mind to pay attention to the wonders around me. As Beau and I potter along, I give thanks to the Old Wild Mother (Earth) for all the fine stuff she is dishing out. I have always done that, but these days, my thanks to her have particular urgency in the light of what is happening in the great wide world. 

Why am I mentioning all this stuff this morning? I need a reminder, and this is it.

Sunday, Saying Yes to the World

That, I think, is the power of ceremony: it marries the mundane to the sacred. The water turns to wine, the coffee to a prayer. The material and the spiritual mingle like grounds mixed with humus, transformed like steam rising from a mug into the morning mist.

What else can you offer the earth, which has everything? What else can you give but something of yourself? A homemade ceremony, ceremony that makes a home.

Robin Wall Kimmerer

Sequestered, Week 225 (CCXXV)

One wanders around taking pictures of anything that grabs her attention: light in the trees, summer grasses dappled with dew, the creek in the woods singing as it flows downhill, cedar rail fences, flocks of geese, herons and loons, fallen leaves, wild orchids, full moons and starry nights, snowdrifts as high as the Himalayas.

Closer to home, there are the clothes on my neighbor's line and her collection of brightly colored clothespins, tiny beakers of espresso and mugs of tea, sunlight coming through the kitchen window, birds, bumbles and butterflies, the Beech Mother (and her daughters), darling Beau who lights up my world and my life. 

There is (of course) the pesky business of finding words to accompany the images, but I am getting better at letting them speak for themselves. Most of the time, they don't need my inept tinkering and feeble attempts at description anyway. 

The gathering of small wonders goes on and on like a litany or the beads on a very long mala. There is always something astonishing to see if one has a little imagination and the presence of mind to pay attention to what is going on around her.  As we (Beau and I) potter along, I say thanks to the Old Wild Mother (Earth) for all the fine stuff she is dishing out. I have always done it, so that is nothing new. 

Why mention all this stuff here on a Monday morning? For some reason, I am feeling a little down and I need a reminder. This is it.

Sunday, Saying Yes to the World

I cannot pretend I am without fear. But my predominant feeling is one of gratitude. I have loved and been loved; I have been given much and I have given something in return; I have read and traveled and thought and written. I have had an intercourse with the world, the special intercourse of writers and readers.

Above all, I have been a sentient being, a thinking animal, on this beautiful planet, and that in itself has been an enormous privilege and adventure.

 Oliver Sacks, Gratitude

Sunday, Saying Yes to the World

That, I think, is the power of ceremony: it marries the mundane to the sacred. The water turns to wine, the coffee to a prayer. The material and the spiritual mingle like grounds mixed with humus, transformed like steam rising from a mug into the morning mist. 

What else can you offer the earth, which has everything? What else can you give but something of yourself? A homemade ceremony, ceremony that makes a home.

Robin Wall Kimmerer, Braiding Sweetgrass: Indigenous Wisdom,

Scientific Knowledge, and the Teachings of Plants