My best friend during my youth — now my husband — is himself from Northern Ireland, an area where people who look absolutely identical to each other, eat the same food, pray to the same God, read the same holy book, wear the same clothes and celebrate the same holidays have yet spent four hundred years at war over a relatively minor doctrinal difference they later allowed to morph into an all-encompassing argument over land, government and national identity. Racial homogeneity is no guarantor of peace, any more than racial heterogeneity is fated to fail.
With my arms raised in a vee,
I gather the heavens and bring
my hands down slow together,
press palms and bow my head.
I try to forget the suffering,
the wars, the ravage of land
that threatens songbirds,
butterflies, and pollinators.
The ghosts of their wings flutter
past my closed eyes as I breathe
the spirit of seasons, the stirrings
in soil, trees moving with sap.
With my third eye, I conjure
the red fox, its healthy tail, recount
the good of this world, the farmer
tending her tomatoes, the beans
dazzled green al dente in butter,
salt and pepper, cows munching
on grass. The orb of sun-gold
from which all bounty flows.
I do not deny this consciousness of being, nor the immediate security of here I am that it breathes into us. What I do deny is that all our other convictions must be adjusted to the customary antithesis between the self and the non-self, and that this antithesis is constant…The self is a mere logical imperative, without qualities of its own or distinctions from individual to individual.
Consciousness rejuvenates everything, giving a quality of beginning to the most everyday actions.
🎂Happy Birthday Gaston Bachelard (June 27, 1884 – October 16, 1962) In Memoriam🌹
The creative instinct is … an enormous extra vitality, a super-energy, born inexplicably in an individual … an energy which no single life can consume.
🎂Happy Birthday Pearl S Buck (June 26, 1892 – March 6, 1973) in Memoriam🌹
It discovers by night
what the day hid from it.
Sometimes it turns itself
into an animal.
In summer it takes long walks
by itself where meadows
fold back from ditches.
Once it stood still
in a quiet row of machines.
what it is thinking?
🌹Donald Andrew Hall (September 20, 1928 – June 23, 2018) In Memoriam🌹
Hope is a gift you don’t have to surrender, a power you don’t have to throw away, and though hope can be an act of defiance, defiance isn’t enough reason to hope.
🎂Happy Birthday Rebecca Solnit (June 24, 1961 -)🎂