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Killy
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The milkweed now with their many pods are standing
like a country of dry women.
The wind lifts their flat leaves and drops them.
This is not kind, but they retain a certain crisp glamour;
moreover, it’s easy to believe
each one was once young and delicate, also
frightened; also capable
of a certain amount of rough joy.
I wish you could walk with me out into the world.
I wish you could see what has to happen, how
each one crackles like a blessing
over its thin children as they rush away.
– Mary Oliver, “Milkweed”
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In talking to children, the old Lakota would places a hand on the ground and explain; ‘We sit in the lap of our Mother. From her we, and all other living things come. We shall soon pass, but the place where we now rest will last forever.’
Chief Luther Standing Bear
Oglala Sioux ( 1868-1939)
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I live; I die; the sea comes over me; it’s the blue that lasts.
Virginia Woolf, Melymbrosia
(via punlovsin)
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Henri Cartier-Bresson, Henri Matisse, all’ Hotel Regina
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Jupiter, Mercury, and Virtue (detail, ca. 1523-24) Dosso Dossi
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victims of child/abuse aren’t soothed by fervent dreams. rip the filth from beneath your skin, we’ll never be quite that clean again.
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the deeper the wound, the more private the pain
this life, now - and at each interval of it’s journey, has required my presence. an unfaltering existence that should expose no fine lines, no signs of hair line fractures. i hold myself, together and others - first. to be alive in this life, now; in this moment - is resisting all temptation of ‘checking out’
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It is a kind of love, is it not?
How the cup holds the tea,
How the chair stands sturdy and foursquare,
How the floor receives the bottoms of shoes
Or toes. How soles of feet know
Where they’re supposed to be.
I’ve been thinking about the patience
Of ordinary things, how clothes
Wait respectfully in closets
And soap dries quietly in the dish,
And towels drink the wet
From the skin of the back.
And the lovely repetition of stairs.
And what is more generous than a window?—
‘The Patience of Ordinary Things’ by Pat Schneider
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We need the tonic of wildness, to wade sometimes in marshes where the bittern and the meadow-hen lurk, and hear the booming of the snipe; to smell the whispering sedge where only some wilder and more solitary fowl builds her nest, and the mink crawls with its belly close to the ground.
— Henry David Thoreau
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