August 9, 2010

Let go your want for greatness and feel the tool that’s in your hand. Let go your fear of emptiness and receive the wave still reaching from the beginning. It only wants to enliven you the way a candle fills an entire room. Let the web of living things entangle you. Only stars are free and they are so lonely. Curse what you will but give thanks that everything alive wants something from you. Read more

August 2, 2010

When I drop my glasses in the airport and they are crushed in the walkway between terminals, I get to meet the three kind souls who help me on my way. Then I hear you crying after everyone has left and bring you water. Ever since the lock on my door broke, I have more visitors. Now the road I always take is detoured, which I curse until I see the heron glide across the small pond I didn’t know… Read more

July 26, 2010

There’s the limb that came down in the last storm. And the peach tree we want to transplant. And the furnace needs to be cleaned. And I promised to water the plants while you’re gone. And I want to buy you that necklace I saw you linger with when I was waiting on the sidewalk. You held it like it reminded you of the strong part of your heart. I don’t know where to begin. I keep staring at the… Read more

July 19, 2010

In learning to play piano at the age of forty-one, I worked my fingers far enough into that uncanny dimension that all pianists know, regardless of their level of skill, where the hands, briefly, beyond all logic, start to behave more quickly than the mind that tries to read the notes or position the fingers. I had practiced enough weeks that I was ready to tackle my first piece of Bach, a minuet taken from a collection he created for… Read more

July 12, 2010

There is a day when the road neither comes or goes, and the way is not a way but a place. —Wendell Berry We drive to Bangor, take a right at the blinking yellow light, another right on Hastings Court and then down a dirt road to Blue Dog Greens. Twenty-eight acres of agreeable land tucked between the railroad tracks and Black River. Dennis and Genevieve live there, very simply, in order to tend this organic farm. It’s a sunny,… Read more

July 11, 2010

Your Heroic Journey started yesterday and it was an inspiring and thought-provoking class. Here’s a little sampling of Robert talking about how the experience of poetry mirrors the classic hero’s journey. We’ll be posting small excerpts from the class from week to week. Read more

July 5, 2010

I’m a bird who’s found his way to the forest. –Po Chü-I Sitting alone in the place of practice, the cranes rise beyond the mirror I avoid and I put down the great perfection and dream of a path that shimmers in the mountains that have always called, the ones that float beyond the village I keep alive in my mind, the village of counters and complainers. The problem in living is that the soul, like a horse dragging a… Read more

June 28, 2010

A thousand years ago, a colorful bird flew out of an ancient tree in Persia, just as a thoughtful boy opened his eyes. He never saw it lift, only sweep over him in flight. This is how he came to speak of God: as something lifting out of view, as something sweeping over us once we’re awake. Five hundred years ago, a young woman saw her father beheaded in one stroke by a desperate man leaning off a horse. She… Read more

June 21, 2010

Sorry. As soon as I talk about it, it moves out of view. Let me try again. There is a teacher, a teaching, a moment that keeps working me. I became aware of it four years ago when I met several burn survivors; heroic individuals whose faces have been removed, whose limbs have been disfigured. They have nowhere to hide. Inside is outside for them. I could see their beauty, each like a lantern broken by the storm; their flicker… Read more

June 14, 2010

We’re having lunch at the harbor, salads and tea, and Bob starts talking about losing himself in certain pieces of music. Not losing track of time. Or forgetting to meet me in half an hour. More that who he is pools, for the mo- ment, in a larger sea. He says it’s scary, ’cause he’s not sure he will come back as himself. But being drawn out this way makes him feel alive. Now Susan talks about the small woodpecker… Read more

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