Tag Archives: cats

Giant Redwoods, a poem

illustration muir woods 2

Giant Redwoods

(Statements in italics taken from Ethics, by Baruch de Spinoza)

Look farther and farther toward thin blue sky, until the green feathery tops of the trees are like the northern pole on some dream planet.  Put the anger back in its bottle. These trees are generous.  Hatred can never be good.

Your carsickness from the ride up the mountain begins to fade, leaving behind a breathless, weepy echo not unlike your first religious fervor.  Hatred is increased through return of hatred, but may be destroyed by love.

When have you not been afraid?  The random can be scrutinized for meaning, the puzzle solved, when surveyed long & carefully enough.  Anything may be accidentally the cause of either hope or fear.

These trees have plenty of time.  As a child, you stared at Jesus’ sad face for hours, wishing you could marry him  — wondering what it was that made him love you.  Could you sacrifice yourself for the sins of the world, if it was that simple & necessary? Cathedrals turn us small and vulnerable again, for reasons both blessed & cursed.  Devotion is love towards an object which astonishes us.

Vague, starry eyes like yours feel at home here; the air is weighty, burdensome & solemn. You’ve loved trees before; this is different.  These trees have plenty of time – more time than you.  If we love a thing which is like ourselves, we endeavor as much as possible to make it love us in return.

Your nerves are suddenly frozen, by the unaccustomed richness of perfect light.  Your guide is tall & slender, hesitant to speak.  Her mother has the tattooed forearm of a Polish Jew of a certain age.  The knowledge of good and evil is nothing but an idea of joy or sorrow.  Sorrow is [a hu]man’s passage from a greater to a less perfection.

These trees have plenty of time.  She touches your wrist, and for a moment, you, too, want to grow taller, leaving the surface of the earth behind forever.  Shyly, she picks up a tiny pinecone, smaller than a toy.  You both laugh when she tells you this is their seed.  Joy is [a hu]man’s passage from a less to a greater perfection.

These trees have plenty of time.  And all around, their wise, fallen, hollow bodies litter the ground like the bones of saints.  Childlike, you understand a wish to die here, never to leave this hush.  They’re only trees – your neck bent back as far as it will go; only trees, yet wondering if the giants can hear your thoughts.  Love is joy, with the accompanying idea of an external cause.  Love and desire may be excessive.  When the mind imagines its own weakness, it necessarily sorrows.

Is there anything we have less power over than our own tongues?  These trees have plenty of time, growing wise as the Buddha, in their silence.

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She Hates Numbers

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Friday, ‎June ‎14, ‎2013, ‏‎3:24:22 AM

illustration wholeness reblog

http://doingisbeing.com/category/conscious-health-care/

“we are all the universe manifested through a human nervous system and becoming self-aware; going beyond your ego-encapsulated identity; the secret of healing is the secret of enlightenment; healing is the return of the memory of wholeness; when you’re holy, you’re healed; when you’re healed you lose the fear of death; the best way to reach enlightenment is through the yoga of meditation; cosmic ideas; when you hear them over & over again, at first you may not understand them; but they cause a shift in your consciousness & everything changes.”

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New Poem, a poem (for everyone i love — you know who you are)

leslie gaines CrazyViewIMG_0542

New Poem

Dearest, dearest God, my old teacher, my new teacher,
my classmate, my expedition, my mountain, my valley,

my sea, my river, my lake, my cloud, my tree, my rock,
my butterfly, my sweet love: Your new minister is a dear,

from New Orleans, young and trembling and with a pretty,
shy wife and two darling baby girls. Picture of earnestness

and kindness. Admirable. I felt my soul blossoming today,
I was moved, shaken, made warm and soft and open

by the children’s beauty. And part of all that was You
inside me. So much love for You, it hurts my damn chest.

I confessed my sins today and was absolved. Do I believe?
Well, partly. Enough that I don’t feel like a hypocrite.

Perhaps I should. I don’t know. I have no answers and
hardly any coherent questions. Mostly I am struck dumb

by all of this, all of this happening in my body and my mind
and my heart and my soul. It is profound. It is an opportunity.

I will not squander this precious gift, rest assured.
Simple things have become all the more profound and

complex things all the more understandable. Just heard
a strange noise coming from my daughter’s bathroom.

Both cats were on the counter with the goldfish bowl
up to their little catty elbows in same. Dripping wet,

they looked at me guiltily. I hissed, “Get your paws
out of there, ladies!” They fled, in haste and apprehension.

I did not follow to administer further lectures.
They’re cats, after all. Cats will fish, given the chance.

And absent lovers will pine. And awakened souls
will soar heavenward. Doesn’t life contain much

logically predictable inevitability which is nonetheless,
each time it presents itself, a mystery and a revelation?

I have gone mad with gratitude. Every thing
existing seems a gift. An opportunity. Priceless.

Even if I never get to live in Your arms again, know this:
I am Yours, forever. It is the first time I have felt this way

toward someone not my own child. I cannot imagine
the set of facts that would alter my feelings for You.

While watching Your last meteor shower, I thought of all our
souls — how we are all like meteors, our pinpoint of brilliance,

the variability of our paths — some meteors appear bright
but have no echoing trail — others are dimmer but leave

a long streak of fire in their wake — some travel in twos
or threes, others singly. I am dancing on the razor’s edge

between gratitude for this passion existing at all, and greed
for more of it, more of it, always more of it. No patience.

No patience with Your plan — wanting more knowledge,
even knowing how Cassandra received foreknowledge and

killed herself in the end, because it was too much for her.
So glad I don’t know but panicked that I don’t know

all at the same time. What Baby said: the sky
was gray and overcast, yet there was no rain,

borderline gloomy but also very pleasing in a way —
she said, “It’s a beautiful day today.” I agreed.

The sun was behind a layer of gray, you could still tell
it was there, you could see the disc behind the gray,

it had a translucent light, and though you couldn’t see,
exactly, the brightness, you knew it was there. Like You.

Today was a miracle, You were there with me
everywhere I went, except I couldn’t see You.

And neither could anyone else. I stood on the beach
between the surf and the dunes and listened to the waves

roar their white noise of love. There I met a cockatoo
named Pumpkin, she was gorgeous snowy white

with orange eyes, and I lulled her to sleep. “Pretty girl,”
I said to her, stroking her sweet feathers. “Pretty girl.”

She cocked her head and trilled at me. I think
her owner was surprised when she didn’t want to go

back to his arm from mine. Later, I bought a nightgown
printed with leaves, that makes me feel like a tree nymph.

I wish I could wear it for You. What I’ve learned:
the correct question is not, after all, could I/would I

kill Hitler. The question is, could I/would I love Hitler?
Thank You, God, my tutor, my scholar, my journey,

my height, my hollow, my ocean, my stream, my shore, my billow,
my standing timber, my paving stone, my mortar, my luscious beloved.

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