There's a chilly grey sky out, hurrying to pull a thick cloudblanket over itself before Winter hits. Here at Winning Coffee, the regulars of the university district are crowded into two warm, friendly rooms. At the front table - the one with the plants and the tiki lamp - we're playing 6 degrees of separation. Or more like 6 degrees of connection: in this coffeeshop, as in this part of Albuquerque, the circles of acquaintance are likely to overlap, sooner or later, in a natural motion. Like the ripples that spread slowly, from rocks dropped in a lake at various points, eventually will wave across to each other.
Four of us who frequent this place, but aren't acquainted, have just rippled into each other's circles. In a spontaneous conversation that might result in a road trip. The woman sharing her table with me has overheard the other two talking, and politely offers a contribution. When they turn to include us, she tells them, "I know you medium-well, and you I don't know at all but I've seen you here." I, too, only know the tall blonde woman from sight. But her friend, the beautiful-word-weaver, has been linked to my world more than once over the last seven years. Via an ex and then two of my closest friends. (Finding one of those friends, in fact, was probably the only reason I met the ex in the first place.)
The blonde woman's thinking of moving to Silver City. My companion's always wanted to go there, but doesn't like to travel alone. I affirm that the Gila's beautiful, and it's been too long since I was down there. In the good cheer of the moment (maybe the cold outside helps), we all write down our phone numbers and give them to the woman who's moving. Maybe she'll call in a few weeks, and we'll share a ride. Maybe I'll have to pass, because of work. Either way, it's warmed the day to remember that connection can be this simple, and this possible.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Monday, October 26, 2009
quote and
"Life itself provides the substance to make spiritual practice a reality."
-- Neil Douglas-Klotz, The Sufi Book of Life
That's what the book of meditations opened up to this morning. Speaking straight to my here/now, as these magical books so often do. If anyone happened to read my moment of floundering on the subject of spirituality last week...thanks for your patience. And maybe for your silence as well. It wasn't the time for all that yet. Heartfelt thanks to the two good friends who offered me different sides of the coin with their perspectives, in the sweet currency of honest and respectful talk. For now, the room in my house that holds that particular and complicated subject is too disorganized to get into. Maybe someday I'll clean it out and invite people in. Maybe I'll write a book or something, that two or three people in the world will really really want to read. For now, the quote above gives voice to my gratitude for what the moment brings.
Here's a bit more from today's reading, though, because it's good for a laugh. And because I, for one, can relate to these suggestions on how not to meet a difficult situation. This comes from the store of wonderful Sufi stories on their clown/coyote icon, Mullah Nasruddin, which are quoted often in the book.
"One night Mullah Nasruddin awoke to hear a thief entering his house. Mullah went downstairs and began to help the thief load possessions into a bag.
'What are you doing?' asked the thief.
'It looks like I'm moving, so I'm helping you!' said Mullah.
Another time Mullah woke up to hear the thief breaking in again. This time Mullah hid in the closet and listened to the thief banging around, trying to find something to steal. Finally the thief came to the closet and opened it to find Mullah there.
'What? Have you been there all along?' said the thief, afraid that Mullah would call the police.
'Yes,' said Mullah. 'I was so embarrassed that I had nothing to steal that I thought I should hide.'"
-- Neil Douglas-Klotz, The Sufi Book of Life
That's what the book of meditations opened up to this morning. Speaking straight to my here/now, as these magical books so often do. If anyone happened to read my moment of floundering on the subject of spirituality last week...thanks for your patience. And maybe for your silence as well. It wasn't the time for all that yet. Heartfelt thanks to the two good friends who offered me different sides of the coin with their perspectives, in the sweet currency of honest and respectful talk. For now, the room in my house that holds that particular and complicated subject is too disorganized to get into. Maybe someday I'll clean it out and invite people in. Maybe I'll write a book or something, that two or three people in the world will really really want to read. For now, the quote above gives voice to my gratitude for what the moment brings.
Here's a bit more from today's reading, though, because it's good for a laugh. And because I, for one, can relate to these suggestions on how not to meet a difficult situation. This comes from the store of wonderful Sufi stories on their clown/coyote icon, Mullah Nasruddin, which are quoted often in the book.
"One night Mullah Nasruddin awoke to hear a thief entering his house. Mullah went downstairs and began to help the thief load possessions into a bag.
'What are you doing?' asked the thief.
'It looks like I'm moving, so I'm helping you!' said Mullah.
Another time Mullah woke up to hear the thief breaking in again. This time Mullah hid in the closet and listened to the thief banging around, trying to find something to steal. Finally the thief came to the closet and opened it to find Mullah there.
'What? Have you been there all along?' said the thief, afraid that Mullah would call the police.
'Yes,' said Mullah. 'I was so embarrassed that I had nothing to steal that I thought I should hide.'"
Saturday, October 24, 2009
asking
here in the time between
on cusp of day into darkness
where many say magic can happen
I am asking for another story
another telling of the possible
a affirmation of the actual giving
and a confirmation of what is taken away
before I confuse the two gifts
any further
now in the interim space
between seasons of light and heavy
of fire dance and earth rooting
midway from give to receive
unchosen the nature of connection
people or land
doing or knowing
speaking or silence
I pray for a choice
that doesn't exclude but resolves
and welcomes the paradox
of possible and otherwise
belonging and not
defined and unfinished
which I think is that magic's
open invitation
on cusp of day into darkness
where many say magic can happen
I am asking for another story
another telling of the possible
a affirmation of the actual giving
and a confirmation of what is taken away
before I confuse the two gifts
any further
now in the interim space
between seasons of light and heavy
of fire dance and earth rooting
midway from give to receive
unchosen the nature of connection
people or land
doing or knowing
speaking or silence
I pray for a choice
that doesn't exclude but resolves
and welcomes the paradox
of possible and otherwise
belonging and not
defined and unfinished
which I think is that magic's
open invitation
Sunday, October 18, 2009
the memory unit 2
Back in Carlsbad again to see my sister and my grandmother. I've been getting myself psyched up to head over to the nursing home. The G-mom (as we call her) has been in for 4 months now, and not getting many visits from the outside world. Since I live several hours away, I'm one of these infrequent visitors. I hope her natural buoyancy is holding. I hope her health hasn't declined. I hope she's not ready to stop recognizing people just yet.
She recognizes me, no hesitation. Exclaims over the flowers I brought her. And then starts to ask me who all these other people in the room are. We're in the common dining area and dinner's coming up, so they're wheeling people in. "Sorry, I don't know any of these people," I tell her. "I don't know 'em either," she replies. I'm slowly realizing that, of the maybe a dozen residents in the unit on my last visit in July, only one besides my grandmother seems to be the same. The implications of this are almost too much to bear. But later, my sister and I will remark on another unsettling part of this change: while I guess the staff can't help this situation, they also can't expect the clarity of people whose memories are eroding to be helped much by a constantly changing set of faces and names. Wow.
The other familiar face here is the tall man who doesn't talk much. Today I learn that his name is George. He's parked in the corner, behind where we sit. After a while, he breaks his silence with a stream of words that is equal parts coherent and otherwise. "What's he saying?" my grandmother asks, just a bit irritably. "I don't know," I tell her. It sounds, at one point, like he's deep in the memory of building fence with a crew, out in the back forty. Her natural kindness and sympathy soon overcomes her frustration at his rambling. She looks over her shoulder at him and says, reassuringly, "I know what you mean!" A moment later, when he rejoins his invisible dialogue, she raises her voice a little more. "Oh, is that so!" she calls out, a bit too loudly. Then she turns back to me, smiling with the perfect gleefully-unrepentant-guilty-child expression. To my astonishment, she confides, "That oughta shut him up for a while!". That's what I get for making an angel of her...
My sister later confirms: "Yeah, I think those two have a unique sort of friendship." Tells me about another visit where George wanted to talk, and my grandmother was having trouble conversing over his rising and falling voice. How she loudly declared, "I don't like you! I wish you would just be quiet!" With a bit of that uncensored candor that is old age's beautiful and heart-wrenching privilege. There was a silence - a long one, actually - as he paused, looked her way, and began to move his wheelchair in their direction. It took him 4 or 5 careful minutes to cross the room and pull up even with the two of them. Then he stopped moving, and without looking up said, "But I like you..."
My grandmother agreed quickly that she liked him fine, as well, and just wanted to talk with her granddaughter a minute. The unconditionality necessary to their shared state returning them, perhaps, to the present moment. They're the only two survivors of the Memory Unit. They could reminisce like old war veterans do. I think they must know a final, elemental, human acceptance that most of us spend our lives learning -- or not learning -- only to be met by irrevocably, at the end of all our preferences and attachments. But anyway. I think my grandmother was cultivating this sort of acceptance long before she was required to. I watched her, in younger years, give it generously to many people, a standout in her small conservative town. And it sustains her now. "It's what's kept her going, all these years", my sister sums up later. "She loves people and she's never stopped wanting to show them kindness." If there's anything I know of my grandmother, throughout my own acquaintance with her, this is definitely it. Her love of life, of experiences, and most of all of people. That and her brilliant, distance-melting candor. Two things in which I hope to follow her well, should I have the privilege of living 87 years of life.
She recognizes me, no hesitation. Exclaims over the flowers I brought her. And then starts to ask me who all these other people in the room are. We're in the common dining area and dinner's coming up, so they're wheeling people in. "Sorry, I don't know any of these people," I tell her. "I don't know 'em either," she replies. I'm slowly realizing that, of the maybe a dozen residents in the unit on my last visit in July, only one besides my grandmother seems to be the same. The implications of this are almost too much to bear. But later, my sister and I will remark on another unsettling part of this change: while I guess the staff can't help this situation, they also can't expect the clarity of people whose memories are eroding to be helped much by a constantly changing set of faces and names. Wow.
The other familiar face here is the tall man who doesn't talk much. Today I learn that his name is George. He's parked in the corner, behind where we sit. After a while, he breaks his silence with a stream of words that is equal parts coherent and otherwise. "What's he saying?" my grandmother asks, just a bit irritably. "I don't know," I tell her. It sounds, at one point, like he's deep in the memory of building fence with a crew, out in the back forty. Her natural kindness and sympathy soon overcomes her frustration at his rambling. She looks over her shoulder at him and says, reassuringly, "I know what you mean!" A moment later, when he rejoins his invisible dialogue, she raises her voice a little more. "Oh, is that so!" she calls out, a bit too loudly. Then she turns back to me, smiling with the perfect gleefully-unrepentant-guilty-child expression. To my astonishment, she confides, "That oughta shut him up for a while!". That's what I get for making an angel of her...
My sister later confirms: "Yeah, I think those two have a unique sort of friendship." Tells me about another visit where George wanted to talk, and my grandmother was having trouble conversing over his rising and falling voice. How she loudly declared, "I don't like you! I wish you would just be quiet!" With a bit of that uncensored candor that is old age's beautiful and heart-wrenching privilege. There was a silence - a long one, actually - as he paused, looked her way, and began to move his wheelchair in their direction. It took him 4 or 5 careful minutes to cross the room and pull up even with the two of them. Then he stopped moving, and without looking up said, "But I like you..."
My grandmother agreed quickly that she liked him fine, as well, and just wanted to talk with her granddaughter a minute. The unconditionality necessary to their shared state returning them, perhaps, to the present moment. They're the only two survivors of the Memory Unit. They could reminisce like old war veterans do. I think they must know a final, elemental, human acceptance that most of us spend our lives learning -- or not learning -- only to be met by irrevocably, at the end of all our preferences and attachments. But anyway. I think my grandmother was cultivating this sort of acceptance long before she was required to. I watched her, in younger years, give it generously to many people, a standout in her small conservative town. And it sustains her now. "It's what's kept her going, all these years", my sister sums up later. "She loves people and she's never stopped wanting to show them kindness." If there's anything I know of my grandmother, throughout my own acquaintance with her, this is definitely it. Her love of life, of experiences, and most of all of people. That and her brilliant, distance-melting candor. Two things in which I hope to follow her well, should I have the privilege of living 87 years of life.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
good day later
"It's gotta be nap time somewhere, right?" A guy just said that to me, in line for coffee. At 10 in the morning. Don't say it, man. I'm still trying to detach from another night's wishes for sufficient sleep. And I got English class in an hour. Hoping to make it a little less boring this week - that's the very simple goal of every week, lately. Maybe I'll add the new adjectives from the silly workbook to our non-magnetic poetry collection (a lot of small paper rectangles, each with one word, easy for building sentences from). Maybe I'll ask her to do some practice reading with the bilingual newspaper I picked up, even though its news is already a month old. Maybe we'll just do some too-easy dialogues, and the hour will fly by just like that. But that's what I want to avoid. That's exactly what my four years of Spanish classes did for me, which is the reason why, almost 20 years later (wow), I'm still struggling just to keep up with the good jokes in an everyday conversation with friends. I don't want M to be in that boat, if I can help it. Hope I can help it.
It's gonna be a good day later. Time to wander and play tourist, among the autumned leaves and slanting light that, to me, give Santa Fe its best face. Time to work on a couple of projects for la danza, sitting by the river. Time to meet up with a friend I haven't talked with in almost 7 years, and just met again recently. It's gonna be a lovely day, if I can only stay awake for it.
It's gonna be a good day later. Time to wander and play tourist, among the autumned leaves and slanting light that, to me, give Santa Fe its best face. Time to work on a couple of projects for la danza, sitting by the river. Time to meet up with a friend I haven't talked with in almost 7 years, and just met again recently. It's gonna be a lovely day, if I can only stay awake for it.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
lost and found
So strange all the things that get lost and found, in a move. This time the lost items were a library card, a mixing bowl and a rolling pin. Who knows. And one of the finds was a 5x7” spiral notebook. It's one of many that have been riders next to me in my truck: aides to the short-term memory. Only since this one carries notes from 2004 it must be part of permanent storage now. Summer '04 was my first trial run living in Portland.
Of course, it's a silly practice to try and preserve too much memory – everything passes, everything finds its place, hopefully what's needed remains. But it's only as silly as observing beauty in the world -- in the moment -- which is a lot of what these little notebooks are about for me. Not so much holding onto time or thought as holding onto a sense of collective humanity. And also learning to see – to travel through life with the eyes more fully open. And maybe it's a way to give an admiring nod to all the fellow humans around me whose beauty is spontaneous, inexplicable and, as for far too many, completely unremembered. So, in that spirit, here are a few of the quotes that are maybe worth saving, from the '04 memory book.
****
(Context: I'm walking out of Mississippi Studios on a Saturday night, and two guys on the sidewalk start talking to me. They're unlocking their bikes, which are parked right next to my truck. They're not flirting – it's more like they were already engaged in animated talk and have decided, on sight, that I need to be included. They introduce themselves as Arthur and Liam. They're both 30ish, kind of geeky, but their candor and animation are contagious, and they strike me as two guys who are just really into Life. After a few minutes' conversation, we agree to go check out some other music across town. I load their bikes into my camper and we all crowd into the truck, talking like we've already been friends for some time. Arthur does most of the talking, and several of his surprising pronouncements are right on the mark. So much so that later I find a minute to write a few of them down in this notebook, which is in my truck already.)
“We travellers know each other.”
“I used to worry about overpopulation..now I think of the world as having more creative mass...”
“I don't want to be mis-an-throp-ic”...(he pronounces the word with extreme care, as if his elocutionary caution could safeguard against unwanted character developments)
“You liked to read and write about things when you were younger, didn't you?”
(We just hang out this one evening, then they take their bikes and go. But they're good entertainment. At one point, they're discussing a performance they recently saw somewhere.) Arthur: “That one woman had that audience in the palm of her hand...” Liam: “Yeah, and that part with the vegetables was completely Samuel Beckett.” Arthur (in a very disinterested voice): “Oh, was it? Okay...”
****
A local public radio DJ: “It's 5:22, and the day's...perfect! It's perfect, just as it is.”
****
In the Hollywood neighborhood, late afternoon: a man takes a break from his work, painting the business name on the front of a salon. He is 30something, shaved head, full mustache, dark coppery skin, confident bearing. He leans back against the stucco wall in a metal chair, talking on a cell phone, looking like he hasn't got a care in the world. Just above his head like a pronouncement is the bold lettering which he has almost finished: “HAIR STUD”.
****
(Song lyric, from a pop station)
She said in the days
when you were clumsy and poor
I only liked you more
and if you have five seconds to spare
I'll tell you the story of my life
****
(from an interview on the radio)
“But, Dr. Bob Goldman, doesn't it get to a point where it almost smacks of desperation? What's wrong with growing old gracefully – or even disgracefully?”
****
Two pizza deliveries:
A cheerful, middle-aged white guy answers his front door: “So they got a nice decent lady like you to deliver pizza to a nice decent ugly man like me...”
A charming, middle-aged black man in the Domino's parking lot tells me this: “You stay sweet, now. I become a millionaire I'ma come back and get you. This girl works hard.”
Of course, it's a silly practice to try and preserve too much memory – everything passes, everything finds its place, hopefully what's needed remains. But it's only as silly as observing beauty in the world -- in the moment -- which is a lot of what these little notebooks are about for me. Not so much holding onto time or thought as holding onto a sense of collective humanity. And also learning to see – to travel through life with the eyes more fully open. And maybe it's a way to give an admiring nod to all the fellow humans around me whose beauty is spontaneous, inexplicable and, as for far too many, completely unremembered. So, in that spirit, here are a few of the quotes that are maybe worth saving, from the '04 memory book.
****
(Context: I'm walking out of Mississippi Studios on a Saturday night, and two guys on the sidewalk start talking to me. They're unlocking their bikes, which are parked right next to my truck. They're not flirting – it's more like they were already engaged in animated talk and have decided, on sight, that I need to be included. They introduce themselves as Arthur and Liam. They're both 30ish, kind of geeky, but their candor and animation are contagious, and they strike me as two guys who are just really into Life. After a few minutes' conversation, we agree to go check out some other music across town. I load their bikes into my camper and we all crowd into the truck, talking like we've already been friends for some time. Arthur does most of the talking, and several of his surprising pronouncements are right on the mark. So much so that later I find a minute to write a few of them down in this notebook, which is in my truck already.)
“We travellers know each other.”
“I used to worry about overpopulation..now I think of the world as having more creative mass...”
“I don't want to be mis-an-throp-ic”...(he pronounces the word with extreme care, as if his elocutionary caution could safeguard against unwanted character developments)
“You liked to read and write about things when you were younger, didn't you?”
(We just hang out this one evening, then they take their bikes and go. But they're good entertainment. At one point, they're discussing a performance they recently saw somewhere.) Arthur: “That one woman had that audience in the palm of her hand...” Liam: “Yeah, and that part with the vegetables was completely Samuel Beckett.” Arthur (in a very disinterested voice): “Oh, was it? Okay...”
****
A local public radio DJ: “It's 5:22, and the day's...perfect! It's perfect, just as it is.”
****
In the Hollywood neighborhood, late afternoon: a man takes a break from his work, painting the business name on the front of a salon. He is 30something, shaved head, full mustache, dark coppery skin, confident bearing. He leans back against the stucco wall in a metal chair, talking on a cell phone, looking like he hasn't got a care in the world. Just above his head like a pronouncement is the bold lettering which he has almost finished: “HAIR STUD”.
****
(Song lyric, from a pop station)
She said in the days
when you were clumsy and poor
I only liked you more
and if you have five seconds to spare
I'll tell you the story of my life
****
(from an interview on the radio)
“But, Dr. Bob Goldman, doesn't it get to a point where it almost smacks of desperation? What's wrong with growing old gracefully – or even disgracefully?”
****
Two pizza deliveries:
A cheerful, middle-aged white guy answers his front door: “So they got a nice decent lady like you to deliver pizza to a nice decent ugly man like me...”
A charming, middle-aged black man in the Domino's parking lot tells me this: “You stay sweet, now. I become a millionaire I'ma come back and get you. This girl works hard.”
Monday, October 12, 2009
quote: Colonialism Day
"...Columbus didn't know where he was going, didn't know where he had been, and did it all on someone else's money. And the white man has been following Columbus ever since."
-- Vine Deloria,Jr., God is Red, 1994
Another quote via another friend, that bears repeating. I hope he won't mind. This just arrived, with other provocative thoughts, under the heading, "Happy Colonialism Day". Which I think would be a fascinating way to rename this particular date on the calendar. In a dimension where we actually stopped and pondered our intentions about things, that is. As it is, my calendar titles today, "Columbus Day, Observed". I translate that final word as something like "Apparently, This Is Our Mindless Duty", or perhaps "Or So They Say". Both phrases describe, for me, the seeming attitude toward the majority of the "holidays" that this country maintains on its calendar. (I'm not going to write "celebrates", because that word is too life-affirming, and too intentional, in my dictionary. There are indeed a few days that we still Celebrate.)
But yeah, I could dream of the day when we decided to do something different with this one. Rethink it, repeal it, or just retire it. But with an honest, humble public dialogue, properly translating past to future. Accompanied, of course, by appropriate action. Are there a few humans out there courageous enough to imagine such a thing? I could envision a future world where today was called something like "Post-Colonialism Day". Where children learned in school, not what words we can find to rhyme with "1492", but of the vanished institutions of our planet's past: the World Bank, the IMF, the corporations that once degraded the environment and devalued human labor and dignity, all in the name of money. Guess us idealists can keep hoping. While, perhaps, not losing too much sleep until it happens.
And on that note, this is my word to the world today: there are some deeply interesting and valuable conversations going on about paradigm shifting, right now. I am privileged to be a part of some of them. And I would like to share some of their ideas in the near future. But I ain't shifting my paradigm any further til I get enough SLEEP. That's all I have to say for today.
-- Vine Deloria,Jr., God is Red, 1994
Another quote via another friend, that bears repeating. I hope he won't mind. This just arrived, with other provocative thoughts, under the heading, "Happy Colonialism Day". Which I think would be a fascinating way to rename this particular date on the calendar. In a dimension where we actually stopped and pondered our intentions about things, that is. As it is, my calendar titles today, "Columbus Day, Observed". I translate that final word as something like "Apparently, This Is Our Mindless Duty", or perhaps "Or So They Say". Both phrases describe, for me, the seeming attitude toward the majority of the "holidays" that this country maintains on its calendar. (I'm not going to write "celebrates", because that word is too life-affirming, and too intentional, in my dictionary. There are indeed a few days that we still Celebrate.)
But yeah, I could dream of the day when we decided to do something different with this one. Rethink it, repeal it, or just retire it. But with an honest, humble public dialogue, properly translating past to future. Accompanied, of course, by appropriate action. Are there a few humans out there courageous enough to imagine such a thing? I could envision a future world where today was called something like "Post-Colonialism Day". Where children learned in school, not what words we can find to rhyme with "1492", but of the vanished institutions of our planet's past: the World Bank, the IMF, the corporations that once degraded the environment and devalued human labor and dignity, all in the name of money. Guess us idealists can keep hoping. While, perhaps, not losing too much sleep until it happens.
And on that note, this is my word to the world today: there are some deeply interesting and valuable conversations going on about paradigm shifting, right now. I am privileged to be a part of some of them. And I would like to share some of their ideas in the near future. But I ain't shifting my paradigm any further til I get enough SLEEP. That's all I have to say for today.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
autumning
at last
all you over-lit days
overheated on hyper-real isms
slow down your frantic, your manic, exhale
and show us a numinous side
affirm that it's not all so simple and clear
quiet the trafficking noise
of bright ego commerce expansion
clarify this change that so many feel
as the natural continual turning of life
from days of burning abundance
into sure elemental transition
a return to essential ground
plunge fire into water and wait
for the cooling and sharpening focus
lead follow fallow me
let me rest silent for just a short space
trade branches for roots in a nurturing place
remind me the seed doesn't choose
what is admired harvested and consumed
it only grows green and bears flowers and fruit
let some others enjoy then
whatever is ripe on these low bending branches
and leave me the natural work of discarding
what's already served purpose
now dry and superfluous, rattling
a movement that diverts the attention to wind
that breathes change not as death
but an opening
all you over-lit days
overheated on hyper-real isms
slow down your frantic, your manic, exhale
and show us a numinous side
affirm that it's not all so simple and clear
quiet the trafficking noise
of bright ego commerce expansion
clarify this change that so many feel
as the natural continual turning of life
from days of burning abundance
into sure elemental transition
a return to essential ground
plunge fire into water and wait
for the cooling and sharpening focus
lead follow fallow me
let me rest silent for just a short space
trade branches for roots in a nurturing place
remind me the seed doesn't choose
what is admired harvested and consumed
it only grows green and bears flowers and fruit
let some others enjoy then
whatever is ripe on these low bending branches
and leave me the natural work of discarding
what's already served purpose
now dry and superfluous, rattling
a movement that diverts the attention to wind
that breathes change not as death
but an opening
quote
A friend passed this along. Too excellent not to pass further.
"Our bodies know that they belong; it is our minds that make our lives so homeless." -John O'Donohue
"Our bodies know that they belong; it is our minds that make our lives so homeless." -John O'Donohue
Thursday, October 8, 2009
sistervisit
Too many words inside to write any on this screen. In the past two days I've had the great privilege of about 8 hours of almost uninterrupted conversation with my sister, in town on her way home from a vacation. Good thing there was nobody else there with us - they wouldn't have been able to get a word in edgewise. I almost couldn't sleep last night, for the stream of consciousness still overflowing its banks. Hopefully soon I will be able to organize a few of the insights we covered, on travel, personal growth, family relations, and all facets of the search for meaning in life. For now, I just have to pass on my favorite line that she said yesterday: "I've finally realized that hopeless romantics only encounter hopeless romances! And that is not what I choose any more..."
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