Look to the trees

The world is literally on fire.

Daily, it seems as if the world is crumbling and we are destroying one another, tearing at each other's throats even as we tear ourselves apart. Is this the rest of life as we know it? Or is this a reality - and has always been a reality - that we only soberly realize and acknowledge the farther we edge into adulthood? That to grow old is to grow weary, to sink slowly into these tired bodies in this tired world.

When I grow weary, I find myself staring at trees. I need to go anywhere with greenery, with tall quiet trees that do nothing but stretch into the sky with their invisible roots anchoring them as they have done before I arrived and will continue to do long after I depart. I find solace in considering the trees. There they stand, silent and stoic except for the occasional gentle rustle with the right breeze.  Their branches bend with the wind, they sway in the storms, they shed all their leaves and stand naked for months only to push through the pain of growing buds and blossoms to be swathed in leaves when summer comes. Year after year, season after season, they endure. Even when the earth is scorched and they are burned, somehow, some of the trees persevere. And survive.

* * * * *

I wrote this poem a couple of years ago and revisit when I find myself worrying and overthinking everything.

And all the trees of the field will clap their hands

How do the trees know to grow with such grace

The way they splay and bend and stretch

Dancing to the pulse of unheard strains

In perfect time and syncopation

This is what we do

I wrote this poem on an Amtrak train at the start of this long weekend.... watching a mother of two dish out shares of lunch from their KFC family order - making sure her kids, her husband, and her parents were fed before she fed herself - and then getting a blanket out of an overhead suitcase halfway through the trip for one of her kids.... I was thinking of how much we women serve as caretakers - either because we're wired to or because we're taught....

This is what we do

We are born to gather—

driven by urges coded in DNA strands

twisting helixes that can’t help but intertwine and pull and connect.

We enter this world with mouths open, fingers grasping,

swallowing swathes of air and light and cries and song.

We are taught to be like Mama,

gifted aprons and dolls,

mimic the swaddling of babes, tilting the bottle just so

while we bake pies of air in plastic ovens.

We are taught to be soft,

soft even as we seek to know the sharpness of our edges,

developing a toughness not unlike the smooth shellac of a crab’s shell.

Beautiful and brittle,

hiding tenderness that spills out of cracks split open.

“Your body is meant to produce life.”

Bodies that become like vessels,

equipped to create and carry other sentient beings,

sowing and harvesting,

a storehouse without end,

Keeper of all things:

sandwiches, medicine, blankets, bandages, kisses, hugs, secrets, knowledge.

We are asked - again and again - to keep it together,

to pull taut the threads,

to pick up pieces even before they fall,

to turn the wheel as if to command the sun to rise -

again and again -

from his sleepy bed.

winter solstice

on this longest night of the year...a little reminder....


Prayer at Winter Solstice
- Dana Gioia

Blessed is the road that keeps us homeless.
Blessed is the mountain that blocks our way.

Blessed are hunger and thirst, loneliness and all forms of desire.
Blessed is the labor that exhausts us without end.

Blessed are the night and the darkness that blinds us.
Blessed is the cold that teaches us to feel.

Blessed are the cat, the child, the cricket, and the crow.
Blessed is the hawk devouring the hare.

Blessed are the saint and the sinner who redeem each other.
Blessed are the dead, calm in their perfection.

Blessed is the pain that humbles us.
Blessed is the distance that bars our joy.

Blessed is this shortest day that makes us long for light.
Blessed is the love that in losing we discover.


mood:  pensive

cups of coffee:  3

no such matter

Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing,

And like enough thou knowst thy estimate.

The Charter of thy worth gives thee releasing;

My bonds in thee are all determinate.

For how do I hold thee but by thy granting,

And for that riches where is my deserving?

The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting,

And so my patent back again is swerving.

Thy self thou gav’st, thy own worth then not knowing,

Or me, to whom thou gav’st is, else mistaking,

So thy great gift, upon misprision growing,

Comes home again, on better judgement making.

   Thus have I had thee as a dream doth flatter:

   In sleep a king, but waking no such matter.

- Sonnet 87, William Shakespeare

cups of coffee: a lot

mood:  ...........

consider the lilies

Consider the lilies of the field,
the blue banks of camas
opening into acres of sky along the road.
Would the longing to lie down
and be washed by that beauty
abate if you knew their usefulness,
how the natives ground their bulbs
for flour, how the settlers' hogs
uprooted them, grunting in gleeful
oblivion as the flowers fell?

And you - what of your rushed
and useful life? Imagine setting it all down -
papers, plans, appointments, everything -
leaving only a note: "Gone
to the fields to be lovely. Be back
when I'm through with blooming."

Even now, unneeded and uneaten,
the camas lilies gaze out above the grass
from their tender blue eyes.
Even in sleep your life will shine.
Make no mistake. Of course
your work will always matter.

Yet Solomon in all his glory
was not arrayed like one of these.

- Lynn Ungar, Camas Lilies


transitions. new chapters. moving on and growing up. all the while, considering the lilies.


cups of coffee: 1 hot, 1 iced

mood:  content

thinking of scaffolds

SCAFFOLDING

Masons, when they start upon a building,
Are careful to test out the scaffolding;

Make sure that planks won't slip at busy points,
Secure all ladders, tighten bolted joints.

And yet all this comes down when the job's done
Showing off walls of sure and solid stone.

So if, my dear, there sometimes seems to be
Old bridges breaking between you and me

Never fear. We may let the scaffolds fall
Confident that we have built our wall.

- Seamus Heaney


cups of coffee:  1 1/2
mood:  happy

*hope*

this year, my final thesis draft week (aka crunch time aka crazy town) happens to coincide with holy week.

which makes this poem all the more appropriate.

“Hope” is the thing with feathers 

By Emily Dickinson

 

“Hope” is the thing with feathers -

That perches in the soul -

And sings the tune without the words -

And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -

And sore must be the storm -

That could abash the little Bird

That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -

And on the strangest Sea -

Yet - never - in Extremity,

It asked a crumb - of me.

 

 

march was quite a doozy....looking forward to april, where changes are in the air!

 

 

cups of coffee:  working on first

 

mood:  fatigued yet hopeful

blessed

my dear friend grace posted this poem on her blog - a much needed read and reminder during this present time of madness for me. i love dana gioia's work; he has such a way of bringing profound truths to life with simple words and lucid imagery.


Prayer at Winter Solstice
by Dana Gioia

Blessed is the road that keeps us homeless.
Blessed is the mountain that blocks our way.

Blessed are hunger and thirst, loneliness and all forms of desire.
Blessed is the labor that exhausts us without end.

Blessed are the night and the darkness that blinds us.
Blessed is the cold that teaches us to feel.

Blessed are the cat, the child, the cricket, and the crow.
Blessed is the hawk devouring the hare.

Blessed are the saint and the sinner who redeem each other.
Blessed are the dead calm in their perfection.

Blessed is the pain that humbles us.
Blessed is the distance that bars our joy.

Blessed is this shortest day that makes us long for light. 
Blessed is the love that in losing we discover.


cups of coffee:  1 so far

mood:  insane in the membrane
 

the world offers itself to your imagination....

a lovely poem to meditate on today....

Wild Geese
by Mary Oliver

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

******

a little over 3 weeks left of the semester. the weather is gorgeous. officially registered for my fall classes. meeting next week to kick off the arduous process of thesis researching and writing.

the light of summer vacation is blinking, steadily and ever less faintly, at the end of the tunnel....

please, brain, don't check out now.....


cups of coffee:  2 + 1 green tea

mood: ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh
 

a poem a day

april is national poetry month! celebrate by reading a poem a day with this handy dandy link:

http://www.poets.org/page.php/prmID/345

you can even get a mobile version for on-the-go:

http://www.poets.org/page.php/prmID/404

here's one of my personal favorites from good ol' yeats:

When You are Old
by W. B. Yeats

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.


"but one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, and loved the sorrows of your changing face...." that is how i'd like to be loved....


cups of coffee:  2

mood:  busy busy 

lenten poem

lovely and true words to start the day, via mockingbird:

A gracious Sabbath stood here while they stood
Who gave our rest a haven.
Now fallen, they are given
To labor and distress.
These times we know much evil, little good
To steady us in faith
And comfort when our losses press
Hard on us, and we choose,
In panic or despair or both,
To keep what we will lose.

For we are fallen like the trees, our peace
Broken, and so we must
Love where we cannot trust,
Trust where we cannot know,
And must await the wayward-coming grace
That joins living and dead,
Taking us where we would not go–
Into the boundless dark.
When what was made has been unmade
The Maker comes to His work.

- Sabbaths, II
Wendell Berry


cups of coffee:  1, so far

mood:  spring-ing!

things that disappear

we held our final SHAC exhibit at our studio space yesterday. by the end of this week, all the tenants of 696 wei hai road will be evicted and the buildings will be razed down or renovated to sparkling newness for whatever bars, cafes and boutique shops will occupy their spaces.

to mourn this loss, our last exhibition was appropriately titled "things that disappear", and all selected pieces wrestled with the reality of insistent disappearing in our lives - from buildings to people, memories to relationships. special attention was given to installations that embodied an act of disappearing; most works were scratched, painted, carved into the walls with maximum use of negative space and intentionally designed to remain in the studio and disappear with the building when it is demolished.

i debuted as an installation artist, collaborating with a couple of other friends to create a "confessional tent." draped in black cloth to form a black box-like room, the confessional tent served as an installation the prompted participants to release the burdens they carried inside: grief, bitterness, regrets, heartaches. the tent was dark inside except for a shaft of light that fell through a hole cut at the top to illuminate a paper shredder, painted black and suspended from the ceiling. the walls were bare and dark except for one quote scrawled in white chalk on one long wall:"when i kept silent, my bones grew old through groaning all the day long."

participants were invited to write their burdens on pieces of white paper with charcoal pencils or publicly declare their burdens by writing it in chalk on the walls. if they wrote on the paper, they would then step up to the lighted shredder and put their paper through the shredder. pieces would fall directly to the floor beneath - a pile of white, shredded confessions.

i also collaborated on another piece, one that was much more personal. at our 'urbanity project' opening, my friend glen had come to show his support. a photograph was taken of him in deep conversation with our friend oli, amid the art and other attendants. as glen recently passed, it seemed an appropriate memorial to pay honor to him somehow in this exhibition.

my friend faith, a very talented artist, reproduced the photo onto the very same wall where glen and oli had leaned. using ink and actually removing pieces of plaster from the wall, she created an exact life-size replicate of the photograph. with layers of the plaster and wire beneath the walls showing through, the whole reproduction had an eerie feel to it - glen as the only fully drawn person in a sea of negative space.

original photo

reproduction

 

faith asked if i would write a poem in lieu of an artist's statement. i agreed but it was much harder than i'd anticipated. i had to remember. i had to think about details - his voice, his face, the way he carried himself. i had to force my mind back into his presence - or his presence back into my mind. i had to wrestle with the undercurrent of grief and the continued aftershock. i had to consider how i think about death. and i had to do it all under time constraint for the exhibition.

the process was both painful and cathartic. in writing it, i was trying to force some sort of closure by the poem's end - more so because i feel like i should have closure, not because there was any real sense of closure. it was good to receive feedback from friends and come to terms with not having closure, with letting questions remain unanswered.

anyway. here it is.

Letter to the Dead

You occupied this space, once. Your voice carried as a warrior’s call, clear and brassy. Your speech – clipped and precise, a rapier slicing the air. Your endless spouting on politics, on love, on how tea ought to be drunk. Your hands – strong, athletic – never shaky, never fumbling. Space widened around you, aura rippling like a golden globule of oil in water. Every ounce of you, grounded.

Until to the ground you fell. Body flat, a forgotten plank. Gravity.

You disappeared without trumpets or kisses. No last glance from a twinkling eye, no wave from the closing elevator door. No letters, no cards, no sentences scribbled in haste on the back of some ripped note. Just sudden vacuum.

How does space become negative? How does nothingness become so unbearable?

We pressed our Sunday best. We spoke in measured tones and weighed words, dishing comfort like winter’s stew. We shuffled down corridors, fear dressed as sorrow. All the while muffling wails that would quiet a banshee.

Do we pay penitence now or are they coins too meager and too late?

Memories of you burst like sudden light - aurora borealis. Flash of brilliance, then pitch black.

Are you the dust and we the breath, or is the other way around? Perhaps you are here, waiting quietly in the dark. Are you touching the walls, pacing the floors, reaching out to brush our skin, missing bodies once warm and familiar?

Perhaps you tread with ghosts, drinking bowls of wine, pouring libations to the living. The silly, silly living. Perhaps the eyes of the dead see so much more than what the living will ever know or comprehend.

Or perhaps we squint, through darkened glass, searching for dappled sun to guide our trembling steps.  

In memory: 

Glen Camille El-Hayek

February 7, 1978 – March 22, 2011

cups of coffee: 1

mood:  thankful

sitting shiva

So much of what we live goes on inside–
The diaries of grief, the tongue-tied aches
Of unacknowledged love are no less real
For having passed unsaid. What we conceal
Is always more than what we dare confide.
Think of the letters that we write our dead.

- "Unsaid", Dana Gioia

grief and joy both require the participation of others. joy is made more full when shared, grief more bearable.

in jewish tradition, shiva is the week-long period of grief and mourning for the seven first-degree relatives: father, mother, son, daughter, brother, sister and spouse. it's essential to the bereavement process, time set apart specifically to grieve.

beneath all the layers of law, i think shiva is a beautiful and rich practice. there is something right and true about mourning fully - we are acknowledging how the world is not supposed to be. death is not okay. losing loved ones is not okay. even as we cry in grief, we cry for the world that ought to be. we long not just for the loved one lost but for a paradise lost.

but we who believe in a God who redeems also weep for the world to come. we cry not out of despair but out of desperation. "o Lord," we cry, "come and make all things right."

How long, O Lord? Will you forget me forever?
How long will you hide your face from me?
How long must I take counsel in my soul 
and have sorrow in my heart all the day?
How long shall my enemy be exalted over me?

Consider and answer me, O Lord my God;
light up my eyes, lest I sleep the sleep of death,
lest my enemy say, "I have prevailed over him,"
lest my foes rejoice because I am shaken.

But I have trusted in your steadfast love;
my heart shall rejoice in your salvation.
I will sing to the Lord,
because he has dealt bountifully with me.

- Psalm 13


cups of coffee:  2

mood:  grief

potpourri

for your enjoyment, a mishmash of current musings and fixes:

- my current timewaster is the rachel zoe project. yes, i realize it's already completed season 3 in the states. yes, i still live in china so i blame my disconnectedness with pop culture on geography. yes, there are better things i can and should be doing. but when you have that much fashion and drama and over-the-top characters....well, hard to resist.

- it's cold this week. blisteringly cold. did winter really arrive this week, fast and furious--a cold punch in the face? and does this mean i can start listening to christmas music?

- i admit it: i love halloween. love halloween! it's my second favorite holiday (next to thanksgiving). anything that involves candy, costumes and parties--count me in! this year, some friends and i are planning on hitting up a "heaven or hell" party at a lounge on shanghai's famed "bund". partygoers are supposed to dress up either as a heavenly creature or one from down below. since i don't look good in horns, i've decided to opt for a heavenly being. but where do you find angel wings in china? upon a friend's recommendation, i tracked down a costume/party supplies store surprisingly not far from where i live. what a treasure trove! they had everything - even a pair of beautiful white feathered wings. i can't believe i've lived in shanghai for eight years and never ventured to this place of magic. i regret the costumes from years past that could've been....sigh.

- my cat has learned to open kitchen drawers. here's jimmy caught in the act. good thing i don't keep the cat food in that drawer.

- finally, if you're a lover of verse and want to learn more about poets of the christian faith, this is a terrific blog to subscribe to: kingdom poets.

here's a gem from luci shaw:

As Iron Sharpens Iron

Walking, this morning, I began to think
how everything wears its other down. How
this sidewalk smoothes my rubber soles.
How stomachs slick their food, waves
burnish shattered bottles to sea glass,
how prevailing wind shapes trees
and bends them to its gusting will.
How calm weather soothes an impatient sea.

A panther, crated for the zoo, will pace
her pattern in her cage. Today my open window
carves the sunlight to a square that warms
the rug. God tools me like a strip of buckskin.
My silence wears your chatter like a suit;
your charity unravels my reproach. You
shape me, and I shape you, and all our kindred
work to shape us into who they wish we were.

(luci shaw, taken from kingdom poets blog)

cups of coffee: 1 + 3 green tea

mood: hopeful

o time

"On Time"

- John Milton

Fly, envious Time, till thou run out thy race,
Call on the lazy leaden-stepping hours,
Whose speed is but the heavy Plummets pace;
And glut thy self with what thy womb devours,
Which is no more then what is false and vain,
And meerly mortal dross;
So little is our loss,
So little is thy gain.
For when as each thing bad thou hast entomb'd,

And last of all thy greedy self consum'd,
Then long Eternity shall greet our bliss
With an individual kiss;
And Joy shall overtake us as a flood,
When every thing that is sincerely good
And perfectly divine,
With Truth, and Peace, and Love shall ever shine
About the supreme Throne
Of him, t' whose happy-making sight alone,
When once our heav'nly-guided soul shall clime,

Then all this Earthy grosnes quit,
Attir'd with Stars, we shall for ever sit,
Triumphing over Death, and Chance, and thee O Time.

* * * * *

some belated pics from the creative black tie farewell bash we threw for the crosbys. 

 the guests of honor arrive

 a little "slumdog millionaire" dance number

 getting sassy

 beloved gallery staff, past and present

cups of coffee: 1.5

mood: world cup fever! go, DUTCH!

manifesto

a friend just posted this on her facebook...i love wendell berry.

"every day do something that won't compute." a beautiful and thoughtful poem to inspire the week ahead.



Wendell Berry - Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front

Love the quick profit, the annual raise,
vacation with pay. Want more
of everything ready-made. Be afraid
to know your neighbors and to die.

And you will have a window in your head.
Not even your future will be a mystery
any more. Your mind will be punched in a card
and shut away in a little drawer.

When they want you to buy something
they will call you. When they want you
to die for profit they will let you know.
So, friends, every day do something
that won't compute. Love the Lord.
Love the world. Work for nothing.
Take all that you have and be poor.
Love someone who does not deserve it.

Denounce the government and embrace
the flag. Hope to live in that free
republic for which it stands.
Give your approval to all you cannot
understand. Praise ignorance, for what man
has not encountered he has not destroyed.

Ask the questions that have no answers.
Invest in the millenium. Plant sequoias.
Say that your main crop is the forest
that you did not plant,
that you will not live to harvest.

Say that the leaves are harvested
when they have rotted into the mold.
Call that profit. Prophesy such returns.
Put your faith in the two inches of humus
that will build under the trees
every thousand years.

Listen to carrion -- put your ear
close, and hear the faint chattering
of the songs that are to come.
Expect the end of the world. Laugh.
Laughter is immeasurable. Be joyful
though you have considered all the facts.
So long as women do not go cheap
for power, please women more than men.

Ask yourself: Will this satisfy
a woman satisfied to bear a child?
Will this disturb the sleep
of a woman near to giving birth?

Go with your love to the fields.
Lie down in the shade. Rest your head
in her lap. Swear allegiance
to what is nighest your thoughts.

As soon as the generals and the politicos
can predict the motions of your mind,
lose it. Leave it as a sign
to mark the false trail, the way
you didn't go.

Be like the fox
who makes more tracks than necessary,
some in the wrong direction.
Practice resurrection.

all my sour-sweet days

Bitter-Sweet

Ah, my dear angry Lord,
Since thou dost love, yet strike;
Cast down, yet help afford;
Sure I will do the like.

I will complain, yet praise;
I will bewail, approve;
And all my sour-sweet days
I will lament and love.

- George Herbert


cups of coffee: 2 + 2 cups of green tea

mood: all sorts of full

strict joy

gray skies, cool breeze...a day when the city seems to be muffled by clouds. i have the whole day off and i intend on doing nothing but sleeping, reading, writing and eating. ahhhhhhhhh.

perfect day to listen to the swell season's most recent album, 'strict joy.'

glen hansard and marketa irglova of the swell season were thrust into the limelight after the unanticipated wild success of the movie (and soundtrack) 'once'. as much as i love the 'once' soundtrack, i am head-over-heels enamored by 'strict joy'. besides the sheer musical brilliance and lyrical poignancy of the songs, the whole theme of the album is compelling. the name of the album of comes from a poem penned by irish novelist and poet james stephens. the poem is called "strict care, strict joy!", which you can read in full here.

my favorite stanza from the poem:

For, as he meditated misery

And cared it into song—strict care, strict joy!

Caring for grief he cared his grief away:

And those sad songs, tho' woe be all the theme,

Do not make us grieve who read them now

—Because the poet makes grief beautiful.

the basic thread of the poem is the outworking of grief, sorrow and disappointments into things of beauty and gold. the album follows the same strain--the transformation of sorrow into joy, the intentionality that it takes and the willingness to address the sorrow and not bypass or stifle it. for a great brief explanation about the album, click here.

it's the thrust of life, isn't it? how we as broken, fallen creatures so desperately crave for wholeness. how we long for our mourning to turn into gladness and our weeping into dancing. how we desire to go through the fire and come out on the other side not destroyed but refined, made stronger and purer as finest gold.


cups of coffee: 1 1/2

mood: recuperating

in beauty and brokenness

this is the blog post in which i brag about my friend mindy. :)

mindy is a dear friend - the little sister i never had, actually - and she is finishing a year (well, 9 months to be exact) at the trinity forum academy. the academy is a post-graduate program consisting of both rigorous studies and intentional community, aimed at providing an environment that prods participants to investigate how their faith affects their vocational calling.

in their recent newsletter, mindy is highlighted as one of the graduating fellows. an excerpt from her statement of calling, crafted during her fellowship, was included. mindy entered the academy with the intent of honestly and diligently laying down a spiritual foundation for a future career in the arts. her statement of calling rings with such beauty and depth, i think it's best to just repeat it here in her own words:

'Our challenge then, is to wrestle with this shared "secret" of humanity and allow our wrestling to produce fruits of peace. I have written a personal aesthetic to help frame my exploration of what it means to participate in this process of reconciliation as a poet, a peacemaker. Ephesians 2:10a declares that because we are saved by grace alone, "we are his workmanship, created in Christ Jesus for good works." In its original form, the first clause reads, "autou gar esmen poiema," meaning, "for we are poems."

'As a result of Christ's death and resurrection, our lives have the capacity to embody poetry. We are to address the world in all its beauty and brokenness, as we hold it in tension with its completed peace. Therefore because Christ lives in us, we are likewise able to imagine and respond to all of life in the manner of poets—moving from an evocation of questions to a meditation upon life. What we can see passes away, but what is imagined and lived out in faith leads us to an inexpressible joy and the salvation of our souls. This piece is an effort that both defines and stretches my understanding of what it means to employ our imaginations for His glory.'

there are two parts from her statement that really hit me: "the world in all its beauty and brokenness" and "what is imagined and lived out in faith." to deny either the beauty or brokenness is to paint a one-sided image of reality. the result is either trite and insufficient or dismal cynicism. to fully hold the beauty and brokenness, to see the world beyond current realities and in its full intended potential means that we must imagine, we must dare to dream and hope. and what a beautiful thing that itself is--to imagine with a reckless joy and childlike wonder. i suppose that's why we're drawn to fairy tales and fantasies, fascinated by tales of magic and heroes that battle evil and save kingdoms.

to dream is not enough, though. to live out in faith - to grasp the straws of possibility and begin to etch them into the world we know, that is where the reconciliation and reconstruction occurs. it doesn't have to be grandiose - it's often in the simple and the familiar that we plant and cultivate truths. to forgive, to share, to encourage, to hope...gestures that convey greater virtues.

one more item of pride: included in the newsletter was a link to one of the poems mindy penned as part of her research portfolio: "what is wild and strange." enjoy.


cups of coffee: 3

mood: o insanity, how i love and loathe thee....

steadfast

poetry reading for the day: john keats.

Bright Star

Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art--
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors--
No--yet still steadfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever--or else swoon to death.


i watched the movie "bright star" a few months ago (it was on my list of must-see movies) and absolutely loved it. the film depicts the relationship between john keats and fanny brawne - a devoted, passionate love sadly cut short by keats' death. the film moves slowly but eloquently, their love for each other declared through poems and well-chosen prose.

after keats died, fanny cut her hair short, dressed in black, and adorned her fingers with the rings keats had given her. she came out of mourning six years later, and eventually married, more than 12 years after keats' death.

wow. imagine a love like that?

whatever happened to faithfulness? whatever happened to comparing the one you love to a star that hangs resolutely in the night sky--patient, watchful. commitment seems so dispensable today.


cups of coffee: 2 + a whole lotta green tea

mood: mopey