You know what home is. For many years, you’ve tried to be a modest and eager watcher of the skies, and of the Earth, whose green anthem you love. Home is pigeon strutting like a petitioner in the courtyard in front of your house. Home is the law-abiding hickories out back. Home is the exquisite torment of love and all the lesser mayhems of the heart. But what you long for is to stand back and see it whole. You want to live out that age-old yearning, portrayed in myths and legends of every culture, to step above the Earth and see the whole world fidgeting and blooming below you. ~Diane Ackerman
the veils are thin this dark time of year……we are draped in color and tinsel and light, but…..we can also touch the mystery of our lives as we settle into night…….
inquiry for today~ what is home and how will you move into the winter solstice?
Don’t bother me.
The butterfly’s loping flight
carries it through the country of the leaves…
for long delicious moments it is perfect
lazy, riding motionless in the breeze on the soft stalk
of some ordinary flower.
The god of dirt
came up to me many times and said
so many wise and delectable things, I lay
on the grass listening
to his dog voice,
frog voice: now,
he said, and now.
and never once mentioned forever,
which has nevertheless always been,
like a sharp iron hoof,
at the center of my mind.
One or two things are all you need
to travel over the blue pond…
memory of pleasure, some cutting
knowledge of pain.
But to lift the hoof!
For that you need an idea.
For years and years I struggled
just to love my life. And then
rose, weightless, in the wind.
“don’t love your life
too much,” it said,
and vanished into the world.