I took a career test.
Hilarious in its obvious attempts To get at the heart of me and the work I'm here to do. Why don't I know? Why don't I know what I want? Or what I should do To leave a stamp on this Earth? I wish I did. There are swirling opinions Each one with its own path Trying to push me down it. Mom thought I should be a music director. I thought I should be an anthropologist. My mentors thought I should teach. My path made me do all of it...in parts. Now that I'm finishing up one path. I'm thinking to the next one. How do I walk down just one? I've never been good at cutting something out. Two paths diverge in a yellow wood. Hah! As if there were only two. I take the grass in between and around, and behind. I take it under my steps Like a mother holds her child Gratefully, with reverence and a desperation. The last thing I want to do is trip and fall As I walk upon the future, underfoot.
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I miss her today.
She always had the words I needed to hear. Today isn't any different than any other day, but I need to hear her voice. Even if it's to throw a guilt trip my way. Even if it's to complain about someone in the congregation. Even if it's to remind me of something I forgot to do, or to say, or to be... I would take her at her worst if it meant I could hear her say "My Annie" one more time. She was so...big. She was the sun, moon and stars. She was the guiding light the world needed. I don't know how to carry such a torch. It's too big. It's too great. She didn't raise us the way her parents raised her...badly. She was a loving, harsh, mountain of a woman. I always think of her as the elephant. She never forgot, and she was always taking care of other people's kids...including her own. Her heart was that big. She was, is, and always will be...my mother. And I need her...but I can't have her. So, I'll be her for someone else. Be the change you wish to see in the world, right? Be the difference you wish to make. I'm just trying to be her. Is it enough. Sure. The trickle of tears
Tumbles dreadfully Till the sweet song Bubbles up, lavalike To overtake The waterfall. Builds up, To form A bouldered scar That stands strong Against the onslaught. Engulfed in sunlight
That echoes across His face, Like rocks That tumble down A canyon wall. He winks, A wide grin Parting the clouds In my mind And splashing color With a stomp. Stretched thin
Enough so we Can search For cracks With the sun. Finding none. As I read over Emerson's "The American Scholar," I am enjoying his weaving of the threads that bind us. The ever-present connectivity that is the foundation of our understanding of the need we have for one another.
In a pandemic year (or two), we are ever-aware of the presence of others. Whether they are with us, or far away, we are more aware than ever of their proximity. If you're close, are you too close? Far...too far away...and I miss you. But, we are made of the stuff of stars, and isn't the organization that we place on the world through mathematics demonstrated in the shifting of the planets? Don't our observations of the movement of cells match with the birth and death of nebulas? As Emerson writes about the young mind classifying our world into separate objects, so the scholar bridges those connections and creates a sense of unity to the many thoughts and ideas that ebb and flow in the conscious. Something that struck me was the fact that he, nor any other scholar of his day, thought to rely on an American education. They all received theirs in Europe. This makes me wonder why we ever would have created a model of education that fell outside of the European model? When Finland is the gold standard for education in the world today, one wonders why we, as a nation, do not give it more than a passing glance? More to come...http://digitalemerson.wsulibs.wsu.edu/exhibits/show/text/the-american-scholar The Pine Woods By Mary Oliver
Just before dawn three deer came walking down the hill as if the moment were nothing different from eternity-- as lightly as that they nibbled the leaves, they drank from the pond, their pretty mouths sucking the loose silver, their heavy eyes shining. Listen, I did not really see them. I came later and saw their tracks on empty sand. But I don't believe only to the edge of what my eyes actually see in the kindness of the morning, do you? And my life, which is my body surely, is also something more-- isn't yours? I suppose the deer waited to see the sun lift itself up, filling the hills with light and shadows-- they were leaping back into the rough, uncharted pinewoods where I have lived so much of my life, where everything is so quick and uncertain, so glancing, so improbable, so real. by Mary Oliver, from Why I Wake Early
After rain after many days without rain, it stays cool, private and cleansed, under the trees, and the dampness there, married now to gravity, falls branch to branch, leaf to leaf, down to the ground where it will disappear–but not, of course, vanish except to our eyes. The roots of the oaks will have their share, and the white threads of the grasses, and the cushion of moss; a few drops, round as pearls, will enter the mole’s tunnel; and soon so many small stones, buried for a thousand years, will feel themselves being touched. By Gerald Locklin
i envy those who live in two places: new york, say, and london; wales and spain; l.a. and paris; hawaii and switzerland. there is always the anticipation of the challenge, the chance that what is wrong is the result of where you are. i have always loved both the freshness of arriving and the relief of leaving. with two homes every move would be a homecoming. i am not even considering the weather, hot or cold, dry or wet: i am talking about hope by May Sarton
Next Snow silence fills my head After I leave the window. Hours later near dawn When I look down again The whole landscape has changed The perfect surface gone Criss-crossed and written on Where the wild creatures ranged While the moon rose and shone. Why did my dog not bark? Why did I hear no sound There on the snow-locked ground In the tumultuous dark? How much can come, how much can go When the December moon is bright, What worlds of play we'll never know Sleeping away the cold white night After a fall of snow. From Coming into Eighty (W.W. Norton & Company). |