We are radically alive in our simple moments. We stay busy, tell ourselves stories. What does it mean to be alive? We breathe, we breathe……
We gaze out from the fortress of ourselves and scan the world. Judge it. Assess. Is it just enough? Is it wanting? Is it safe? Is it beautiful? Shall we step out and embrace or retreat back into the protective shell fashioned by our experience, beliefs and fear.
I adore this poem by Mary Oliver…perfect….
I know, you never intended to be in this world.
But you’re in it all the same.
But you’re in it all the same.
So why not get started immediately.
I mean, belonging to it.
There is so much to admire, to weep over.
There is so much to admire, to weep over.
And to write music or poems about.
Bless the feet that take you to and fro.
Bless the eyes and the listening ears.
Bless the tongue, the marvel of taste.
Bless touching.
Bless the eyes and the listening ears.
Bless the tongue, the marvel of taste.
Bless touching.
You could live a hundred years, it’s happened.
Or not.
I am speaking from the fortunate platform
of many years,
none of which, I think, I ever wasted.
Do you need a prod?
Do you need a little darkness to get you going?
Let me be as urgent as a knife, then,
and remind you of Keats,
so single of purpose and thinking, for a while,
he had a lifetime.
Or not.
I am speaking from the fortunate platform
of many years,
none of which, I think, I ever wasted.
Do you need a prod?
Do you need a little darkness to get you going?
Let me be as urgent as a knife, then,
and remind you of Keats,
so single of purpose and thinking, for a while,
he had a lifetime.
