zena musings

Silly goats and a poem about JOY

Take hold of your own life.
See that the whole existence is celebrating.
These trees are not serious, these birds are not serious.
The rivers and the oceans are wild,
and everywhere there is fun,
everywhere there is joy and delight.
Watch existence,
listen to the existence and become part of it.

— Osho

This photo was taken at River's Wish Animal Sanctuary on the outskirts of Spokane. The best part? After I shot this photo, I got to hold a bottle. One of the sweetest and most fun things I've ever done!

The new is always present with the old, however hidden

I am a frayed and nibbled survivor in a fallen world, and I am getting along. I am aging and eaten and have done my share of eating too. I am not washed and beautiful, in control of a shining world in which everything fits, but instead am wandering awed about on a splintered wreck I've come to care for, whose gnawed trees breathe a delicate air, whose bloodied and scarred creatures are my dearest companions, and whose beauty bats and shines not in its imperfections but overwhelmingly in spite of them...

– Annie Dillard

(Photo taken during this afternoon's walk.)

The Lanyard by Billy Collins (in honor of Mother's Day)

The other day I was ricocheting slowly
off the blue walls of this room,
moving as if underwater from typewriter to piano,
from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,
when I found myself in the L section of the dictionary
where my eyes fell upon the word lanyard.

No cookie nibbled by a French novelist
could send one into the past more suddenly—
a past where I sat at a workbench at a camp
by a deep Adirondack lake
learning how to braid long thin plastic strips
into a lanyard, a gift for my mother.

I had never seen anyone use a lanyard
or wear one, if that’s what you did with them,
but that did not keep me from crossing
strand over strand again and again
until I had made a boxy
red and white lanyard for my mother.

She gave me life and milk from her breasts,
and I gave her a lanyard.
She nursed me in many a sick room,
lifted spoons of medicine to my lips,
laid cold face-cloths on my forehead,
and then led me out into the airy light

and taught me to walk and swim,
and I, in turn, presented her with a lanyard.
Here are thousands of meals, she said,
and here is clothing and a good education.
And here is your lanyard, I replied,
which I made with a little help from a counselor.

Here is a breathing body and a beating heart,
strong legs, bones and teeth,
and two clear eyes to read the world, she whispered,
and here, I said, is the lanyard I made at camp.
And here, I wish to say to her now,
is a smaller gift—not the worn truth

that you can never repay your mother,
but the rueful admission that when she took
the two-tone lanyard from my hand,
I was as sure as a boy could be
that this useless, worthless thing I wove
out of boredom would be enough to make us even.

Keeping Quiet

If we were not so single-minded
about keeping our lives moving
and for once could do nothing,
perhaps a huge silence
might interrupt this sadness
of never understanding ourselves
and of threatening ourselves with death.
Perhaps the world can teach us
as when everything seems dead
but later proves to be alive.

– Pablo Neruda

Sacred Life Sunday: Unstoppable Hope

 
Still, what I want in my life
is to be willing to be dazzled —
to cast aside the weight of facts

and maybe even
to float a little
above this difficult world.
I want to believe I am looking

into the white fire of a great mystery.
I want to believe that the imperfections are nothing —
that the light is everything — that it is more than the sum
of each flawed blossom rising and fading. And I do.

–Mary Oliver

Daily

 
These shriveled seeds we plant,
corn kernel, dried bean,
poke into loosened soil,
cover over with measured fingertips

These T-shirts we fold into
perfect white squares

These tortillas we slice and fry to crisp strips
This rich egg scrambled in a gray clay bowl

This bed whose covers I straighten
smoothing edges till blue quilt fits brown blanket
and nothing hangs out

This envelope I address
so the name balances like a cloud
in the center of sky

This page I type and retype
This table I dust till the scarred wood shines
This bundle of clothes I wash and hang and wash again
like flags we share, a country so close
no one needs to name it

The days are nouns: touch them
The hands are churches that worship the world

–Naomi Shihab Nye

Photo by algo.

You are exactly where you're supposed to be (I am too)

 
This place where you are right now
God circled on a map for you.
Wherever your eyes and arms and heart can move
Against the earth and sky,
The Beloved has bowed there—
Our Beloved has bowed there knowing
You were coming.

–Hafiz

Having Come This Far

I've been through what my through was to be
I did what I could and couldn't
I was never sure how I would get there

I nourished an ardor for thresholds
for stepping stones and for ladders
I discovered detour and ditch

I swam in the high tides of greed
I built sandcastles to house my dreams
I survived the sunburns of love

No longer do I hunt for targets
I've climbed all the summits I need to
and I've eaten my share of lotus

Now I give praise and thanks
for what could not be avoided
and for every foolhardy choice

I cherish my wounds and their cures
and the sweet enervations of bliss
My book is an open life

I wave goodbye to the absolutes
and send my regards to infinity
I'd rather be blithe than correct

Until something transcendent turns up
I splash in my poetry puddle
and try to keep God amused.

–James Broughton

(Photo by the amazing atomic turquoise.)

My favorite poet Maya Stein is (literally) in the house, and YOU are invited over

A poet sleeps in my guest room. She is an easy, delightful guest. Taller than I expected. Warm, freckled, smart, comfortable in her body, deep bright eyes that see more than most. You know the old question, who would you most like to have over for dinner? Last night was dream-come-truey in that regard. Two of my favorite writers, and one of my favorite minds (and a burlesque dancer to boot!), and me. My table sparkled with candlelight and conversation, as Maya wrote, real and relaxed and warm and joyous even, all of us engaged and eating together, like we'd been doing that for ages.

Tonight Maya Stein is giving a free writing workshop at my house. If you're in Spokane, whether you're a writer or not, you'd be nuts to miss this opportunity! The event info is on Facebook (please RSVP if you're coming) or email me.

On a not-necessarily-related note, this morning I read something that struck a chord:

"The barrage of demands and the voracious appetite of a culture that seeks to devour, rather than savor its sustenance undermine a quiet patient trust in God’s seasons of growth and harvest." –The Sanctuary Foundation for Prayer

In some ways I'm naturally a savorer, and in other ways I always want — those greedy, insatiable wants — more. Today I'm loosening my grip on the wants. Loosening my grip. Loosening.

By Inches

You want it here and now, a remedy for everything

gone wrong. A magic wand, perhaps, alighted

on your shoulders. An angel whispering

sweet nothings while you sleep so you wake benighted

with certainty that you are whole once again. You realize

your patience is diminishing, and yet what's required is the reverse.

This will not be some biblical miracle before your eyes,

a transformation of movie star proportions. No, healing is a slow nurse,

pausing bedside with drips of water, a hot cloth, a murmur of a touch.

By inches, a change sneaks into you, even if it doesn't look like much.

–Maya Stein

(Photo by atomic turquoise.)