The Ever-glorious Morning!
Thus our life is not altogether a forgetting, but also, alas! to a
great extent, a remembering, of that which we should never have been
conscious of, certainly not in our waking hours. Why should we not
meet, not always as dyspeptics, to tell our bad dreams, but sometimes
as eupeptics, to congratulate each other on the ever-glorious morning?
I do not make an exorbitant demand, surely.
HDT-From Life Without Principle
Who Is Alice?
The Old Woman Who Went To Market
There was an old woman,
as I've heard tell,
She went to market
Her eggs for to sell;
She went to market
On a summer’s day,
And fell asleep
On the King's Highway.There came by a peddler
Whose name was Stout,
He cut off her petticoats
All round about;
He cut off her petticoats
Up to her knees,
Which made the little old woman
Shiver and freeze.When the little old woman
First did wake,
She began to shiver
And she began to shake.
She began to wonder,
She began to cry,
"Oh deary, deary me, this is none of I!""But if it be I,
As I hope it may be,
I have a little dog at home
And he will know me
If it be I
He will wag his little tail,
And if be not I,
He will loudly bark and wail."Home went the little woman
All in the dark,
Up got the little dog
And he began to bark.
He began to bark;
And she began to cry,
"Oh deary, deary me this is none of I."
For some unknown reason, this long forgotten nursery rhyme has followed me from childhood. I know every word of this silly little jingle, and sometimes find myself saying of myself, “Oh deary, deary me, this is none of I.”
Self knowledge is a difficult commodity to come by. We have spent our lives as daughters, wives, mothers, and sometimes as teachers or accountants or ---whatever career path we have chosen. But deary, deary me, who are we? Who is the I that we hope the little dog will know? We surely hope the little dog will know for we certainly don’t!
Wild apples examples from the past have not been kind to womanly self-knowledge, and although I see younger women today who seem assured, well educated and able to cope well with the changes in the feminine roll that we have witnessed.
Yet, is there much difference in the woman of yesterday and today? Are we women, even in the 21st century, looking over our shoulder for acceptance and approval? And when we look are we looking to men to determine our value? Can we still be cut down to size by a cruel remark made by man or woman? Are we running and doing and pursuing activities at an alarming rate just so that we will not have to deal with the deathly silence of self doubt? Oh deary deary me, who am I?
A dear friend said to me the other day, “I didn’t realize until I quit teaching how much my self worth depended on others.” She knew that she had received much acclaim, attention and love from her students. She had had such a full daily schedule that she had had no time to consider who Alice was. Ironically when I think of this I think of another Alice – Alice in the Looking Glass and Alice in Wonderland, both by Lewis Carroll.
That Alice voiced a familiar womanly complaint, “I wonder if I've been changed in the night? Let me think. Was I the same when I got up this morning? I almost think I can remember feeling a little different. But if I'm not the same, the next question is 'Who in the world am I?' Ah, that's the great puzzle!”
And later she admits, “I can't explain myself, I'm afraid, Sir, because I'm not myself you see.”
Have women in the past depended upon someone else to tell them who they are? Is this only a feminine problem or is it a human problem? The dog will only know us when we know ourselves and are confident and content with the direction of our lives. Then we will have the courage to do as the Queen in Through the Looking Glass bid Alice to do.
“One cannot believe impossible things," said Alice.
“I daresay you haven’t had much practice,” said the queen. “When I was your age, I always did it for half an hour a day. Why sometimes I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast."
A wild apple breeze from past experience tells me that the queen was right. Dream the impossible dream and set your sights where you want them to be. Set them in the direction that dictates your self-conceived purpose in this life. It is amazing what talents come to us when we look up and out. “Impossible!” No, the old lady does not need her dog to tell her who she is; she needs to spend time each day looking inside for the impossible. This is her lodestar. This is her mission.
A Story on the loss of a good friend.
The Spirit of a Basket
The old woman handed the weathered basket to the younger one and, in a voice almost like an incantation, she said, “Wherever this basket travels will be home and hearth for you.” In it she placed chocolate, tea and wine. Patting her friend on the head, and putting her arm around her she said,
“For thousands of years Women have traveled with baskets, for they do not break on the journey. Like friendship, the basket will bend and stretch carrying good wishes and love within. When you reach the place you call home, the basket will know it and find its place near a rocker or near a hearth, and with a sigh it will say, ‘We have arrived. We are home. Whether I hold food or yarn I will watch with passion the life you are living and witness your personal victories as you fashion a home where there has been none before.’”
“Blessings on you,” the old crone said. “When you drink this chocolate, sip this tea, or share this wine with those you love, think of those who carried baskets before you. In our hearts we travel with you.
With love and best wishes,
Magic; fingers entwined,
Hearts lifted beyond reason.
Magic, the melody of life
Filtered through the strings of
An aged violin.
Magic; a moment of hapless breath
Caught in a spider’s web,
Hidden in the shadow of an eave.
Wispy shapes that
Appear in dreamlike
Trances
At my bedside
On my shoulder
In the crook of
My arm.
A sidelong glance
Intrigues my spirit.
Magic; what may be.
Can be, could be, would be.
Magic; the unthought
That appears in a reasoned mind.
Magic enters my self
And gives access to
Other possibilities
Of Time and Space.
Thank God.
Sue Petrovski
While dropping beans in the garden at {Texas} just after sundown
(May 13{"}) I hear {from}across the fields the note of the bay-wing
"Come here there there quick quickly or I am gone"--(which
I have no doubt sits on some fence post or rail there) & it instantly
translates me from the sphere of my work--& repairs all the world
that we jointly inhabit between me & it. It reminds me of so many
country afternoons & evenings when this birds strain was heard far
over the fields--or I pursued it from field to field. The spirit of its earth
song-- of its serene & true philosophy and I was breathed into me &
I saw the world as through a glass--as it lies eternally. Some of its
aboriginal contentment--even of its domestic felicity--
possessed me{--}What Bay wing he suggests is permanently true-- As the sparrow
sang many a thousand years ago so sang he{--}tonight. In the
beginning God heard his song & pronounced it good--& hence it has
endured. It reminded me of many a summer sunset--of many miles
of gray rails--of many a rambling pasture--of the farm-house far in
the fields-- its milk pans & {well sweep}--& the cows coming home
from pasture--I would thus from time to time take advice of the birds--correcting
human views by listening to their {volucral}(?) He is a brother poet--
this small gray bird (or bard) whose muse inspires mine-- His lay is
an idyl or pastoral older & sweeter than any that is classic-- He sits
on some gray perch like himself--or a stake perchance in the midst
of the field--& you can hardly see him against the plowed ground--
You advance step by step as the twilight deepens & lo! he is gone
& in vain you strain your eyes to see whither-- but anon his tinkling
strain is heard from some other quarter{--} One with the rocks & with
us.Methinks I hear these sounds--have these reminiscences--only
when well employed--at any rate only when I have no reason to be
ashamed of my employment. I am often aware of a certain
compensation of this kind for doing something from a sense of duty
even--unconsciously{.} Our past experience is a never failing capital
which can never be alienated--of which each kindred future event
reminds us.If you would have the song of the sparrow inspire you a thousand
years hence--let your life be in harmony with its strain today.I ordinarily plod along a sort of white-washed prison {entry}--subject
to some indifferent or even grovelling mood--I do not distinctly realize
my destiny--I have turned down my light to the merest glimmer & I am
doing some task which I have set myself--I take incredibly narrow
views--live on the limits--& have no recollection of absolute truth--
{mushroom institutions hedge me in-- But suddenly in some
fortunate moment the voice of eternal wisdom reaches me even{--}
in the strain of the sparrow--& liberates me--whets & clarifies my
senses--makes me a competent witness."
One cannot read the last paragraph of this journal entry without feeling an instant recognition of life itself. We do not realize our destiny, we have turned down our internal lights to a glimmer, and we go about our daily tasks. We have narrowed our views and yet suddenly something will occur which flashes across our deadened senses and clarifies, liberates and solidifies a 'knowingness' within us.
Perhaps the opening of our prison will be the sound of the bay-wing, or a child's laughter. Perhaps it will be the sight of snowflakes falling on a beloved land. Perhaps it is the sight of the last rose of summer. Whatever keeps the night away and opens our eyes to glorious sunshine is to be cherished. The moment is holy.
We are feeling rather helpless because we concentrate so much on our expectation that our politicians will solve our problems for us, and then we become angry and depressed when our chosen leaders are found wanting. Recently some of my friends were discussing the coming election and one finally said, "Oh, let's not talk about it all! It depresses me!"
It may be depressing, but in a democracy citizens are responsible to learn, judge and make decisions they feel are good for their country. It’s not pleasant to think about, but perhaps our leaders are what they are because we are what we are. It hurts to admit that but it needs saying.
I saw a movie yesterday with Meryl Streep and Robert Redford and Tom Cruise (he's not a favorite!). It was a rather heavy handed propaganda movie but since the propaganda was to my liking I sat and enjoyed it. I don't want to spoil it for anyone who hasn't seen it, but it's theme describes how a corporate-owned media and a populace willing to believe 'whatever' as long as it doesn't interfere with their personal lives is doing to America. As a result the Lions are using the lambs unreasonably and to the long-term detriment to our country.
"It depresses us!" The depression comes, among thoughtful people, because we don't follow our hearts to tell us what to do except, perhaps, vote. Yes, we'll do that but what else? We can be our best selves as Thoreau did, regardless of the cost to personal comfort and disruption of our private comforts. If we are writers, let us write letters of condemnation to CNN, CBS, NBC and ABC for the news that is not news. If we are artists let’s design posters that say to the world that we are willing to remake our country on our founding principles. If you talk – then tell the world that you will not spout their propaganda – propaganda that is killing our best and brightest while we cozy up to a warm fire.
This day following Thanksgiving is a very cold day here in Denver, and outside it is just beginning to snow. There are only a few scattered flakes floating slowly as they search for grounding, but more will follow these early pioneers. They will not search alone for the good, the true and the beautiful. Soon a flurry of beautiful white flakes will gently fall on our world to tell everyone that the good, the true and the beautiful are still desirable goals.
God bless.
It was on November 9 in 1938 when the Nazis went through the Jewish neighborhoods breaking windows, looting and setting fires which they later blamed on the Jews. This night was later known as Krystallnacht - the Night of Broken Glass. It was the Nazis' first attempt to find an excuse to imprison Jews and send them to concentration camps. It wasn't the first, or last, time that false information led to wrongful actions. Why is it so easy to blame others and so difficult to build bridges?
Masnavi, 3359 from The Story of Harut and Marut
"Since the depravity of people here
To both of them had started to be clear,
They waved their fists in anger at mankind
While to their own shortcomings they were blind;
One saw his ugly features in the mirror,
Then turned away from it, enraged and bitter;
Conceited men see other people's sin,
A fire from hell then flares up deep within.
The word journal originates in a Latin word Diurnalis which means 'belonging to the day'. Henry Thoreau's last journal entry, like all last entries that we leave behind, tells of the man - lessons of living and dying that are far beneath the facades and faces we show to the world.
November 3, 1861: Thoreau's last entry in his journal:
"After a violentYes, it is a totally practical entry. Seeing and observing, after all, was Henry's stock in trade. It's meaning, however, lies in the day - that day on which Henry wrote these words. Desperately ill with Consumption, or what we now call Tuberculosis, unable to walk and enjoy the nature he so loved, , he could still find outstanding meaning in such a simple thing as how the storm the night before changed the patterns in the gravel of the railroad bed. Perhaps he could see the tracks from his window. Perhaps his gaze, once so precise and penetrating, and now confinded to an invalid's window had looked so long at the scene described that he knew the curves and flow of all the natural materials in his view.
easterly storm in the night, which clears up at noon, I notice that the
surface of the railroad causeway, composed of gravel, is singularly marked,
as if stratified like some slate rocks, on their edges, so that I can tell
within a small fraction of a degree from what quarter the rain came. These
lines, as it were of stratification, are perfectly parallel, and straight
as a ruler, diagonally across the flat surface of the causeway for its
whole length. Behind each little pebble, as a protecting boulder, an eight
or a tenth of an inch in diameter, extends northwest a ridge of sand an
inch or more, which it has protected from being washed away, while the
heavy drops driven almost horizontally have washed out a furrow on each
side, and on all sides are these ridges, half an inch apart and perfectly
parallel.
All this is perfectly distinct to an observant eye, and yet could easily
pass unnoticed by most. Thus each wind is self-registering."
"Thus each wind is self-registering," he tells his readers and with these few words we know that each part of nature, including man, leaves its mark on reality. After all, Henry is talking about more than the wind. History has shown that his mark, his insights, have "washed out" huge pathways and ridges in the lives of all he touches. To be that close to death and know that, like everything in nature, one has added a few ridges and furrows to the plane of life is the most we can hope for.
To reach one’s final day and feel that you have left no mark on any person, place or thing would make it seem that life had been a futile effort. Why live if the silt of one’s life experience is untouched?
Henry, with his attention to detail and meaning, once again warns us to be aware of the furrows we cut with the rain and wind of our being.
Last night's PBS presentation of Bill Moyer's Journal featured Brian Fishman, instructor in Arab culture studies at West Point and Fawaz Gerges, professor of Middle Eastern studies at Sarah Lawrence and at the U of Cairo. Most of what was said is already part of our present knowledge base but two things struck me:
(1) Only 5% of those we are fighting in Iraq are Al Quaida, and (2) the majority of Muslims sincerely believe that America wants to take over Muslim lands and establish an empire there. Both gentlemen seemed to believe that the ONLY solution is a political one and that military withdrawl from Iraq is a must and it should be immediate. We are the enemy.
Don't you think that we Americans see ourselves and our soldiers as good guys handing our Hershey bars to the kids and shaking everyone's hand? Gosh, we're the good guys! Why doesn't everyone see that? We don't understand that that others see us from a very different point of view. We are blind to the fact that Muslim media paints our troops as those who beat up and rape Iraqi women. We are blind to the fact that we are not welcome whereever we want to go. We believe that all people want a democracy and freedom, and yet, in many places in this world, freedom is a frightening thing. It allows behaviors that some believe should be curtailed and punished.
Considering that most of what the Middle East has seen of the West is as an occupying Colonial power - India, Palestine, Lebanon etc etc etc, how can we blame them? We have a public relations problem that we are not facing, a mindset problem of our own that is unseen and yet, we believe that is is possible to solve problems with the use of muscle. How stupid. This blindness we exhibit today is not new. It is part of our culture - from our early attitude toward races and slavery to our attitude toward the world's cultures today.
This mental mindwarp is downright humiliating. Most of the most serious mistakes I have made have been because I could only see a problem from one point of view. I did not look for alternatives. Thoreau asked his friend, "What does the mountain say to you?" Why are we able to only see one view of the mountain?
God bless Queen Elizabeth. It is a favorite American custom to debunk the British Monarchy - after all, didn't we fight a war to get rid of them? Yes, of course. But recently we have realized that friends are a good thing and should be encouraged. We don't have that many friends left in the world, so we best look after them.
In such a mood, our own Prez George W is "entertaining" this evening in white tie and tails. Rumor has it that Laura had to stomp her feet to get him to gussy up like that, but with a lot of Texas grumbling it looks like he's doomed to take off the boots and spurs at least for the evening. But, even with his discomfort, it should be a great evening. Long live the bloody British!
