Small forgotten miracles

“It is believed that the onion originally came from India. 
In Egypt it was an object of worship — why I haven’t been able to find out. From Egypt the onion entered Greece and on to Italy, thence into all of Europe.” 
Better Living Cookbook 
 

When I think how far the onion has traveled
just to enter my stew today, I could kneel and praise
all small forgotten miracles,
crackly paper peeling on the drainboard,
pearly layers in smooth agreement,
the way the knife enters onion
and onion falls apart on the chopping block,
a history revealed.
And I would never scold the onion
for causing tears.
It is right that tears fall
for something small and forgotten.
How at meal, we sit to eat,
commenting on texture of meat or herbal aroma
but never on the translucence of onion,
now limp, now divided,
or its traditionally honorable career:
For the sake of others,
disappear.

Naomi Shihab Nye

Might never happen

When we wake up in bed on Monday morning and think of the various hurdles we’ve got to jump that day, immediately we feel sad. Bored and bothered.

Whereas actually we’re just lying in bed.

Alan Watts

Sunday Quote: Times and seasons

There are years that ask questions and years that answer

Zora Neale Hurston, 1891 – 1960 African American author and anthropologist

Attention

 

Through the most simple things which we do all the time,

we can feel out to which degree we honor everything with our inner attention.

Charlotte Selver

Respect

When the Lakota leader Sitting Bull was asked by a white reporter why his people loved and respected him, Sitting Bull replied by asking if it was not true that among white people a man is respected because he has many horses, many houses? When the reporter replied that was indeed true, Sitting Bull then said that his people respected him because he kept nothing for himself.

Joseph Bruchac, Sacred Giving, Sacred Receiving

At home with the breath

My peace is there in the receding mist
when I may cease from treading these long shifting thresholds
and live the space of a door
that opens and shuts

Samuel Beckett at his most zen-like.

What we call “I” is just a swinging door, which moves when we inhale and when we exhale.

Suzuki Roshi, Zen Mind, Beginners Mind.