I’m taking a break until the 9th of Jan, but that doesn’t stop me from wishing you a lovely day, whatever you’re doing. Here’s the handmade Christmas card I sent out (hopefully you can see the glitters) and the poems I included with it.
Thank you for reading my blog this year – enjoy your rest. Namo Amida Bu.
Of Rain and Air
All day I have been closed up
inside rooms, speaking of trivial
matters. Now at last I have come out
into the night, myself a center
Beneath the clouds the low sky glows
with scattered lights. I can hardly think
this is happening. Here in this bright absence
of day, I feel myself opening out
All around me the soft rain is whispering
of thousands of feet of air
invisible above us.
White Owl Flies Into and Out of the Field
Coming down out of the freezing sky
with its depths of light,
like an angel, or a Buddha with wings,
it was beautiful, and accurate,
striking the snow and whatever was there
with a force that left the imprint
of the tips of its wings — five feet apart —
and the grabbing thrust of its feet,
and the indentation of what had been running
through the white valleys of the snow —
and then it rose, gracefully,
and flew back to the frozen marshes
to lurk there, like a little lighthouse,
in the blue shadows —
so I thought:
maybe death isn’t darkness, after all,
but so much light wrapping itself around us —
as soft as feathers —
that we are instantly weary of looking, and looking,
and shut our eyes, not without amazement,
and let ourselves be carried,
as through the translucence of mica,
to the river that is without the least dapple or shadow,
that is nothing but light — scalding, aortal light —
in which we are washed and washed
out of our bones.
Book of Hours II, 16
How surely gravity’s law,
strong as an ocean current,
takes hold of even the strongest thing
and pulls it toward the heart of the world.
Each thing –
each stone, blossom, child –
is held in place.
Only we, in our arrogance,
push out beyond what we belong to
for some empty freedom.
If we surrendered
to earth’s intelligence
we could rise up rooted, like trees.
Instead we entangle ourselves
in knots of our own making
and struggle, lonely and confused.
So, like children, we begin again
to learn from the things,
because they are in God’s heart;
they have never left him.
This is what the things can teach us:
patiently to trust our heaviness.
Even a bird has to do that
before he can fly.
Rainer Maria Rilke
Winter is good – his Hoar Delights
Italic flavor yield –
To Intellects inebriate
With Summer, or the World –
Generic as a Quarry
And hearty – as a Rose –
Invited with asperity
But welcome when he goes.
Emily Dickinson, 1830 – 1886