In the night, when the owl is less than exquisitely swift and perfect, the scream of the rabbit is terrible. But the scream of the owl, which is not of pain and hopelessness and the fear of being plucked out of the world, but of the sheer rollicking glory of the death-bringer, is more terrible still.

When I hear it resounding through the woods, and then the five black pellets of its song dropping like stones into the air, I know I am standing at the edge of the mystery, in which terror is naturally and abundantly part of life, part of even the most becalmed, intelligent, sunny life — as, for example, my own.

The world where the owl is endlessly hungry and endlessly on the hunt is the world in which I live too. There is only one world.

~Mary Oliver

how to love is the most pressing question….

inquiry for today~ not why to love, but how to love….

come hear me

Meanwhile, flowers still bloom.

The moon rises, and the sun.

Babies smile and somewhere,

Against all the odds,

Two people are falling in love.

Strangers share cigarettes and jokes.

Light plays on the surface of water.

Grace occurs on unlikely streets

And we hold each other fast

Against entropy, the fires and the flood.

Life leans towards living

And, while death claims all things at the end,

There were such precious times between,

In which everything was radiant

And we loved, again, this world.

~Tom Hirons