Our life is an apprenticeship to the truth,
that around every circle another can be drawn;
that there is no end in nature, but every end is a beginning;
that there is always another dawn risen on mid-noon,
and under every deep a lower deep opens.
Ralph Waldo Emerson, Circles
A short note on the passing of time: I started this blog ten years ago this week, and, once I got going, have posted every day since then. Some of you have been with me since those early days, and I thank you for your support and encouragement. I am very grateful to everyone who stops by, even if just once.
I post to remind myself to begin anew every day and hope that the thoughts selected help you see the world in new and fresh ways too.
That old September feeling, left over from school days, of summer passing, vacation nearly done, obligations gathering, books and football in the air… Another Fall, another turned page: there was something of jubilee in that annual autumnal beginning, as if last year’s mistakes had been wiped clean by summer.
Abba Poemen said about Abba Pior that every single day he made a fresh beginning.
Abba Poemen, Egyptian monk, (c. 340–450)
Rumi advised me to keep my spirit
up in the branches of a tree and not peek
out too far, so I keep mine in the very tall
willows along the irrigation ditch out back,
a safe place to remain unspoiled by the filthy
culture of greed and murder of the spirit.
People forget their spirits easily suffocate
so they must keep them far up in tree
branches where they can be summoned any moment.
It’s better if you’re outside as it’s hard for spirits
to get into houses or buildings or airplanes.
Jim Harrison, 1937 – 2016), American poet, novelist, and essayist, Dead Man’s Float
So easy this week in Ireland, with beautiful Indian Summer days bathing the fields in light
Observe the wonders as they occur around you.
Don’t claim them. Feel the artistry
moving through, and be silent.
Rumi
When from our better selves we have too long
Been parted by the hurry world, and droop,
Sick of its business, of its pleasures tired,
How gracious, how benign, is Solitude
Wordsworth, The Prelude
All that power from roots.
Imagine you must survive
without running
Ada Limón , Ancestors
Mindfulbalance 