I left work yesterday as the sun was setting.
The sky was still full of light, but the earth was in deepening shade.
High up and a bit to the east, soared the Moon.
Half lit, half dark, as it always is,
though we usually see more of the darkness, or more of the light.
I'm still training my mind to understand
the complicated spatial relationships of Sun, Earth and Moon.
I still sense the Sun in evening as being in a different place
than in morning,
as if it has moved.
But I can visualize the source of this illusion
as I visualize my place on the spinning globe.
The Sun appears to move out of sight
as my spot on Earth turns away.
In the morning the room lightened slowly
as I lay in bed.
Then, a sudden surge in the light
as Earth turned back into the streaming field of photons.
How short a time it takes for Earth to spin
from evening to morning.
It made the world seem much smaller.
Saturday, February 28, 2015
Friday, February 27, 2015
Gravity. Sun. Life.
Gravity. The attraction of all matter that holds the Earth together.
That holds me to the Earth.
That holds the atmosphere close, creating the pressure
that pushes air into my lungs when I breathe.
Sun. The source of energy radiating out, filling space
with a field of photons the Earth collects
as it spins and orbits.
Gravity. The attraction of all matter that holds Earth in orbit around Sun,
and moon in orbit around Earth. Creating a dance of light and dark,
seasons and tides, that move energy over, through and around Earth.
Life. The replicating, reproducing, recycling
programs that gather energy and organize matter
in self-sustaining ways.
Life. Growing forms shaped by the
inherent, incessant, irresistible force of Gravity.
Including me. Fueled by Sun's energy converted to chemical energy
converted to mechanical force
to push my spent breath back out into the atmosphere.
That holds me to the Earth.
That holds the atmosphere close, creating the pressure
that pushes air into my lungs when I breathe.
Sun. The source of energy radiating out, filling space
with a field of photons the Earth collects
as it spins and orbits.
Gravity. The attraction of all matter that holds Earth in orbit around Sun,
and moon in orbit around Earth. Creating a dance of light and dark,
seasons and tides, that move energy over, through and around Earth.
Life. The replicating, reproducing, recycling
programs that gather energy and organize matter
in self-sustaining ways.
Life. Growing forms shaped by the
inherent, incessant, irresistible force of Gravity.
Including me. Fueled by Sun's energy converted to chemical energy
converted to mechanical force
to push my spent breath back out into the atmosphere.
Thursday, February 26, 2015
Ghost Tracks
A couple of inches of light, powdery snow were on the ground as I left the house this morning. I followed rabbit tracks along the path through the woods.
A block or two later, shoe prints marched up the street and the paw prints of a medium sized dog, sometimes close to the shoe prints, sometimes darting off into the snowy lawns, evidenced an earlier excursion.
Farther on, another set of foot prints appeared in the street. The outline growing faint, old tracks filling in with new snow. Or, perhaps, the tracks left by a ghost - a form without the substance to make a full imprint into the snow.
I followed the trail for a while. Without any intention to do so, my steps gradually synchronized with the fading footprints.
A block or two later, shoe prints marched up the street and the paw prints of a medium sized dog, sometimes close to the shoe prints, sometimes darting off into the snowy lawns, evidenced an earlier excursion.
Farther on, another set of foot prints appeared in the street. The outline growing faint, old tracks filling in with new snow. Or, perhaps, the tracks left by a ghost - a form without the substance to make a full imprint into the snow.
I followed the trail for a while. Without any intention to do so, my steps gradually synchronized with the fading footprints.
Wednesday, February 25, 2015
Meditation
This morning,
instead of sitting to meditate,
I shelled pistachios.
Anything,
can be a meditation.
instead of sitting to meditate,
I shelled pistachios.
Anything,
can be a meditation.
Tuesday, February 24, 2015
How Life Goes
Many things to do.
They get done one at a time.
Best to complete one before
moving on to another.
But sometimes one task
becomes two...
and sometimes divides again
before it is finally complete.
They get done one at a time.
Best to complete one before
moving on to another.
But sometimes one task
becomes two...
and sometimes divides again
before it is finally complete.
Monday, February 23, 2015
Walking on Ice
I left the house this morning and found that the layer packed snow left on the steps and driveway had consolidated into very slick ice. I threw some cat litter on it to provide some traction for the mailman and headed off to work.
I moved my awareness down to the soles of my feet, feeling each step as it first landed on the heel, then rolled up through the arch to the ball of the foot and toes.
Most days I walk without any particular awareness of the process of a step. I may be barely aware of the contact of shoes to pavement at all.
But on icy days my mind goes inside the process, stretching out time, noticing each part of the step, and tuning in to any changes in traction.
At the same time I am carefully aligning myself in gravity, keeping my center of gravity directly over my contact with the earth. This way I minimize the lateral forces that, if my foot is on a slippery surface, would cause movement.
My ability to move my awareness and focus it to stretch out the sense of time comes from yoga practice, as does my heightened sense of alignment in the field of gravity. Useful skills to stay upright on a slippery day.
I moved my awareness down to the soles of my feet, feeling each step as it first landed on the heel, then rolled up through the arch to the ball of the foot and toes.
Most days I walk without any particular awareness of the process of a step. I may be barely aware of the contact of shoes to pavement at all.
But on icy days my mind goes inside the process, stretching out time, noticing each part of the step, and tuning in to any changes in traction.
At the same time I am carefully aligning myself in gravity, keeping my center of gravity directly over my contact with the earth. This way I minimize the lateral forces that, if my foot is on a slippery surface, would cause movement.
My ability to move my awareness and focus it to stretch out the sense of time comes from yoga practice, as does my heightened sense of alignment in the field of gravity. Useful skills to stay upright on a slippery day.
Sunday, February 22, 2015
Rapid Change
After the long week of very cold weather, the transition of the past 24 hours has been rapid and jarring. By last nightfall, four inches of new show were on the ground, covering the previously shoveled driveway and adding to the snow left on the yard for the past week.
When I went out to shovel after breakfast this morning, the air was moist and warmer than I expected. The snow was already sodden and heavy - easy to pack into snowballs, but difficult to push and heavy to lift.
I took care, both with the loads I lifted and the angle that I threw the snow, not to over-stress my back. Yoga has improved my awareness and sensitivity to healthy movement.
I finished shoveling and did a hand stand in the driveway - gloves down and Sorrel boots in the air - just because.
By afternoon, the sun was out spreading light and warmth. The show was brilliant white, the shadows had a bluish cast. The world seemed happy for the change. Birds and people alike were out in the day, moving and chatting in their own voices.
When I went out to shovel after breakfast this morning, the air was moist and warmer than I expected. The snow was already sodden and heavy - easy to pack into snowballs, but difficult to push and heavy to lift.
I took care, both with the loads I lifted and the angle that I threw the snow, not to over-stress my back. Yoga has improved my awareness and sensitivity to healthy movement.
I finished shoveling and did a hand stand in the driveway - gloves down and Sorrel boots in the air - just because.
By afternoon, the sun was out spreading light and warmth. The show was brilliant white, the shadows had a bluish cast. The world seemed happy for the change. Birds and people alike were out in the day, moving and chatting in their own voices.
Saturday, February 21, 2015
New Snow
The snow that fell last Sunday night
has lain throughout the week, still powdery.
The air so cold, night and day,
that the snow didn't consolidate and harden.
I walked to the market this morning
for bread and vegetables,
layers of clothes holding the cold at bay.
Halfway home, the first flakes of new snow
struck my face.
Several inches down now, and still falling.
If the forecast is right, this new snow
won't last long.
The deepest cold is leaving,
and the snow will be displaced by
sleet and freezing rain before morning.
has lain throughout the week, still powdery.
The air so cold, night and day,
that the snow didn't consolidate and harden.
I walked to the market this morning
for bread and vegetables,
layers of clothes holding the cold at bay.
Halfway home, the first flakes of new snow
struck my face.
Several inches down now, and still falling.
If the forecast is right, this new snow
won't last long.
The deepest cold is leaving,
and the snow will be displaced by
sleet and freezing rain before morning.
Thursday, February 19, 2015
Dive Deep
Life flows by
a river springing
from the creative instant
of the present -
the event horizon of time.
The fullest, richest experience
of life - where we feel alive -
where we find meaning,
is there in the river.
Always there, waiting for us
to engage fully - to peel off
the layers of fear and complacency
that keep us in the shallows -
observing only the surface of the mystery
with no comprehension of what
lies within -
no true experience of it.
Not really living at all.
Yet the river flows by -
as does the time of our life.
How sad to reach
the end of our opportunity for life
without immersing in it,
aware, awake, alive
to the experience.
Dive deep.
a river springing
from the creative instant
of the present -
the event horizon of time.
The fullest, richest experience
of life - where we feel alive -
where we find meaning,
is there in the river.
Always there, waiting for us
to engage fully - to peel off
the layers of fear and complacency
that keep us in the shallows -
observing only the surface of the mystery
with no comprehension of what
lies within -
no true experience of it.
Not really living at all.
Yet the river flows by -
as does the time of our life.
How sad to reach
the end of our opportunity for life
without immersing in it,
aware, awake, alive
to the experience.
Dive deep.
Wednesday, February 18, 2015
Sundial
Snow fell overnight - light, very cold,
a five-inch thick blanket of white.
Early morning, a crow cawed,
the sound etched in the crisp, dense air.
Later, the sun cast shadows of tulip poplars and hemlocks
on the pure white canvas outside.
Cardinal grosbeaks sang,
as the long, straight shadow of the tulip poplar
slowly dialed from west to east.
a five-inch thick blanket of white.
Early morning, a crow cawed,
the sound etched in the crisp, dense air.
Later, the sun cast shadows of tulip poplars and hemlocks
on the pure white canvas outside.
Cardinal grosbeaks sang,
as the long, straight shadow of the tulip poplar
slowly dialed from west to east.
Monday, February 16, 2015
Start of the Storm
Evening coming.
Air filled with the small flakes
of very cold snow -
that falls light, like powder.
Down the street,
steam rising from a chimney -
then vanishing in the cold, dry air.
Late winter,
most trees shed their leaves long ago.
One oak, across the street,
kept it's coat of red-brown leaves.
No birds, no squirrels -
they are all tucked away
to wait out the storm.
Air filled with the small flakes
of very cold snow -
that falls light, like powder.
Down the street,
steam rising from a chimney -
then vanishing in the cold, dry air.
Late winter,
most trees shed their leaves long ago.
One oak, across the street,
kept it's coat of red-brown leaves.
No birds, no squirrels -
they are all tucked away
to wait out the storm.
Sunday, February 15, 2015
Back to Winter
Single digit temperatures. High winds. A little snow.
After last Sunday's pleasant day, winter roared back. My week was busy with teaching my regular classes plus four more, subbing for teachers who were either sick or out of town. Wednesday and Thursday I taught both before work and in the evening, and then finished with an early morning class on Friday.
With a schedule like that, energy focuses around the essentials - getting enough rest - or as much as possible - getting up on time - keeping track of schedule and projects. Other things fall aside - reading - keeping my class journal up to date - writing blog posts.
Then, the question. What's the right balance?
Some Sundays I teach two classes in Takoma Park. The first ends at 2 pm and the second starts at 4. Usually I just stay there, because to go home between gives me just a little over an hour, bracketed by the driving back and forth.
Those two hours of waiting time allow me to do some reading, update my journal, and settle out of the busy-ness to open up to what is happening around me.
Today I noticed that the planter outside the entrance is tiered, and the highest tier has a decorative concrete wall behind a small holly tree. The afternoon light angled in past the branches and cast the tree's shadow on the wall right beside it. As the tree branches danced in the gusty breeze, the shadow tree danced beside it - a monochromatic, high contrast, two-dimensional abstraction, visually more compelling than the tree that made it.
After last Sunday's pleasant day, winter roared back. My week was busy with teaching my regular classes plus four more, subbing for teachers who were either sick or out of town. Wednesday and Thursday I taught both before work and in the evening, and then finished with an early morning class on Friday.
With a schedule like that, energy focuses around the essentials - getting enough rest - or as much as possible - getting up on time - keeping track of schedule and projects. Other things fall aside - reading - keeping my class journal up to date - writing blog posts.
Then, the question. What's the right balance?
Some Sundays I teach two classes in Takoma Park. The first ends at 2 pm and the second starts at 4. Usually I just stay there, because to go home between gives me just a little over an hour, bracketed by the driving back and forth.
Those two hours of waiting time allow me to do some reading, update my journal, and settle out of the busy-ness to open up to what is happening around me.
Today I noticed that the planter outside the entrance is tiered, and the highest tier has a decorative concrete wall behind a small holly tree. The afternoon light angled in past the branches and cast the tree's shadow on the wall right beside it. As the tree branches danced in the gusty breeze, the shadow tree danced beside it - a monochromatic, high contrast, two-dimensional abstraction, visually more compelling than the tree that made it.
Sunday, February 8, 2015
February Spring
Suddenly, from temperatures in the teens and twenties,
today brought an afternoon in the 60s.
I was in Takoma Park, with some time between yoga classes.
I sat outside, in the sun,
it didn't feel like February.
A medium sized bee hummed around,
lured from its burrow by the warmth.
For a bit, a cloud moved in front of the sun
just as a chilly breeze began to ruffle the papers
I had spread beside me.
I zipped up my coat. It was a short spring in February.
today brought an afternoon in the 60s.
I was in Takoma Park, with some time between yoga classes.
I sat outside, in the sun,
it didn't feel like February.
A medium sized bee hummed around,
lured from its burrow by the warmth.
For a bit, a cloud moved in front of the sun
just as a chilly breeze began to ruffle the papers
I had spread beside me.
I zipped up my coat. It was a short spring in February.
Friday, February 6, 2015
Winter Song
Days are lengthening,
seven weeks past the solstice.
Dawn comes earlier each morning.
Dusk settles a little later.
Birds know the meaning of the growing light.
They sing in spite of the still wintry cold,
anticipating warmer days ahead -
of nesting, and hatching, and feeding their young -
from the swelling bounty of spring.
The setting sun casts light rose pastels
onto the silvery wisps of cloud
hanging in the deepening blue sky.
Earth turning away from the sun,
heading toward tomorrow's dawn,
and another chorus of birdsong.
seven weeks past the solstice.
Dawn comes earlier each morning.
Dusk settles a little later.
Birds know the meaning of the growing light.
They sing in spite of the still wintry cold,
anticipating warmer days ahead -
of nesting, and hatching, and feeding their young -
from the swelling bounty of spring.
The setting sun casts light rose pastels
onto the silvery wisps of cloud
hanging in the deepening blue sky.
Earth turning away from the sun,
heading toward tomorrow's dawn,
and another chorus of birdsong.
Thursday, February 5, 2015
Dig Deep Enough
So much I think I know,
but I really don't.
I walk to work, the sun is rising.
I walk home, it is setting.
Morning, in the east.
Evening, in the west.
But it's not the sun that moves.
Spinning earth turns toward the sun,
and then away.
I know this, but I don't know it.
It isn't how it feels.
In this regular cycle of days,
the moon floats presenting its own changing face.
Sometimes rising with the sun,
shining bright in the morning and still bright at night.
Other days hanging dark overhead
even as sunlight floods the earth all around me.
On my walk to work this morning,
under a bright moon and the breaking dawn,
I put this question in the stewpot of my mind,
and refused to take the lid off until the solution was done.
Until I truly understood.
Nearly six decades of observing these cycles,
I pushed past superficial understanding,
into at least a slightly deeper knowing.
What a challenge it is
to perceive that the sun in the west
has not moved since it was to the east in morning.
The sun to my left as I walk to work
is in the same place
as the sun to my left as I walk home.
It appears to move because I am on the
Merry-Go-Round of Earth.
The moon is bright when it loops
farthest behind the Earth,
and dark when it is between Earth and Sun.
So simple.
So easy to understand once I allowed my mind
to accept the Sun fixed in its place,
and to understand my perceptions
of movement in the heavens above as -
Illusion:
The mistake of thinking that because I cannot feel
the spinning of the Earth,
that I am, in actuality, standing still.
Dig deep enough, and
every thing I think I know,
I really don't.
but I really don't.
I walk to work, the sun is rising.
I walk home, it is setting.
Morning, in the east.
Evening, in the west.
But it's not the sun that moves.
Spinning earth turns toward the sun,
and then away.
I know this, but I don't know it.
It isn't how it feels.
In this regular cycle of days,
the moon floats presenting its own changing face.
Sometimes rising with the sun,
shining bright in the morning and still bright at night.
Other days hanging dark overhead
even as sunlight floods the earth all around me.
On my walk to work this morning,
under a bright moon and the breaking dawn,
I put this question in the stewpot of my mind,
and refused to take the lid off until the solution was done.
Until I truly understood.
Nearly six decades of observing these cycles,
I pushed past superficial understanding,
into at least a slightly deeper knowing.
What a challenge it is
to perceive that the sun in the west
has not moved since it was to the east in morning.
The sun to my left as I walk to work
is in the same place
as the sun to my left as I walk home.
It appears to move because I am on the
Merry-Go-Round of Earth.
The moon is bright when it loops
farthest behind the Earth,
and dark when it is between Earth and Sun.
So simple.
So easy to understand once I allowed my mind
to accept the Sun fixed in its place,
and to understand my perceptions
of movement in the heavens above as -
Illusion:
The mistake of thinking that because I cannot feel
the spinning of the Earth,
that I am, in actuality, standing still.
Dig deep enough, and
every thing I think I know,
I really don't.
Tuesday, February 3, 2015
The Oz Moon
Walking home in early evening,
sky growing dark, cloudless,
with a slight haze - moisture? -
or mild urban smog?
Perhaps both.
Full moon just rising over the roof tops.
Bright, like a spotlight straight on to the stage.
Big. Present. Seeming to loom closer,
more impressive than normal.
But its strutting just illusion.
Fraud,
a false pretense.
Not larger than life, just magnified by
the scatter of light in the atmospheric haze.
The ordinary made extraordinary by
a bit of trickery.
Like the Wizard of Oz.
sky growing dark, cloudless,
with a slight haze - moisture? -
or mild urban smog?
Perhaps both.
Full moon just rising over the roof tops.
Bright, like a spotlight straight on to the stage.
Big. Present. Seeming to loom closer,
more impressive than normal.
But its strutting just illusion.
Fraud,
a false pretense.
Not larger than life, just magnified by
the scatter of light in the atmospheric haze.
The ordinary made extraordinary by
a bit of trickery.
Like the Wizard of Oz.
Monday, February 2, 2015
The Wind
I watched a layer of dark bottomed clouds
sail through the sky from west to east.
Just air flowing by.
Where there was enough water
in the the air, droplets formed,
light was absorbed and reflected,
and a cloud appeared.
I walked home later, as the sun set.
The air was colder, drier.
Just a few clouds scurried over,
now flying from north to south.
Gusty wind swirled, blasting my face
with chill; trying to knock me off balance.
The unseen air exerting awesome force.
A large branch down in the street.
Air, that bathes us in life giving oxygen,
the unseen sea in which we live.
Pushed with a sun-powered force
from high pressure to low,
with power beyond our resisting.
sail through the sky from west to east.
Just air flowing by.
Where there was enough water
in the the air, droplets formed,
light was absorbed and reflected,
and a cloud appeared.
I walked home later, as the sun set.
The air was colder, drier.
Just a few clouds scurried over,
now flying from north to south.
Gusty wind swirled, blasting my face
with chill; trying to knock me off balance.
The unseen air exerting awesome force.
A large branch down in the street.
Air, that bathes us in life giving oxygen,
the unseen sea in which we live.
Pushed with a sun-powered force
from high pressure to low,
with power beyond our resisting.
Sunday, February 1, 2015
Life, Non-Life
Friday afternoon I felt like I was coming down with a cold. A little scratch in my throat. A little congestion. Saturday I had little energy, slept late, and took long naps in the morning and afternoon.
In between, I finished processing and posting the videos from last Sunday's Composers Society concert. This is a process that takes lots of clock time, but much less active time. A few minutes of work sets the computer off for much longer, then there's another step to do.
I went to bed early Saturday night, not knowing how I'd feel in the morning. While I did sleep a couple extra hours in the morning, I felt fine when I got up. No sign of cold or the flu. Had I had just a super-mild case? Or had I just been so exhausted at the end of the week that I felt I was getting sick. I don't know, but I'm going to prioritize rest this week as much as I can.
Saturday afternoon, the sun was bright on the branches of a dead hemlock tree in the side yard. A leaf, fallen from the huge tulip poplars above, had caught on a hemlock twig and hung from its stem, like and ornament, swinging in the breeze.
A dead leaf, caught in the branches of a dead tree, lifeless but still animated by the swirling wind. Brown branches, fanning out as they grew once to catch the sunlight and convert air to food for the tree through photosynthesis, now just a sculpture filling the space. Catching the sunshine, bright before the shadows behind, a structure created by the power of the sun and the genetic programming we call a hemlock tree, and left here, for a while, to catch the light on an afternoon and remind me of the continuity of matter and energy, through life, to non-life.
In between, I finished processing and posting the videos from last Sunday's Composers Society concert. This is a process that takes lots of clock time, but much less active time. A few minutes of work sets the computer off for much longer, then there's another step to do.
I went to bed early Saturday night, not knowing how I'd feel in the morning. While I did sleep a couple extra hours in the morning, I felt fine when I got up. No sign of cold or the flu. Had I had just a super-mild case? Or had I just been so exhausted at the end of the week that I felt I was getting sick. I don't know, but I'm going to prioritize rest this week as much as I can.
Saturday afternoon, the sun was bright on the branches of a dead hemlock tree in the side yard. A leaf, fallen from the huge tulip poplars above, had caught on a hemlock twig and hung from its stem, like and ornament, swinging in the breeze.
A dead leaf, caught in the branches of a dead tree, lifeless but still animated by the swirling wind. Brown branches, fanning out as they grew once to catch the sunlight and convert air to food for the tree through photosynthesis, now just a sculpture filling the space. Catching the sunshine, bright before the shadows behind, a structure created by the power of the sun and the genetic programming we call a hemlock tree, and left here, for a while, to catch the light on an afternoon and remind me of the continuity of matter and energy, through life, to non-life.
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