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Showing posts from January, 2010


Winter, with her cold arms and grey dress, has long been a difficult season for me to embrace. The beach comber at my core, longs for sunny days and sandy shores with the obstinant blindness of a two-year old. This year, I have tried to soften in many ways, not the least of which is in my blighted judgments of life. In so doing I learned something important about myself: I don't despise winter, I simply don't like being cold. That is much simpler than actually dreading an entire season. So I have been taking baby steps in the hopes of falling in love with each moment a little at a time. Today, on my hike I found a rainbow of color, subdued and inspiring, radiating from a landscape ripe with angles, contrasts and line juxtaposed with texture and raw beauty. Here are a few sights along the way to mark the quiet symphony of winter: Sometimes I stand in awe, captivated, behind the looking lens of my camera, by the incomprehensible beauty in the details of the world we inhabi
Sorrow like a mountain sits on my chest Labored breath calling air Longing
If you wish to know the truth, Hold no opinions. -Buddhist Wisdom

a breath

The Buddha once asked a student, "How long is a human life?" The student replied, "It is so brief it seems but a day long." He then asked another the same question, "What is the true length of a person's life?" She answered thoughtfully, "It is the time taken to eat a single meal". And so the Buddha asked a third student, "How long is life?" "The time in a single breath", was the student's reply. "Exactly so." said the Buddha, "You understand". from Kindness; A Treasury of Buddhist Wisdom for Children and Parents
Owen and I have a standing date, each Sunday night, a mama-son evening, usually spent reading, drawing and/or sipping tea. Last night we nestled in bed and turned scribbles into art. Next, we turned our collaborative attention to poetry. I wrote the first line, Owen the second, I the third and so on, until we were finished. As a grand finale, we gave a dramatic reading to Shane in the backroom, who kindly paused the football games to attend our performance. Here are the poems (when reading please imagine Owen, standing on the coffee table dramatically interpreting the poems, while mother reads): Duh! Light on winter window, A bird mutated, In glass, reflected. The mutant cried, caw, caw. The mutant cried, moo, baa, neigh. Confused the bird sought sun. "Well Duh!", said the moon And the light went out. Sleep "Sleep", howled the wind. "EEHEEHAHE, NEVER!", Yelled the child, hiding tired eyes. "BOW-WOW", cried the

Professor Prattle Pink, aka Papa

Last night, Bodhi reached his melting point, a combination of exhaustion, cold and overall overload, he was a bundle of weeping inconsolability. As I tried to read him a bed time story, a rumble began down the hall. Soon Shane emerged in the doorway as Professor Prattle Pink, speaking in a thick English accent and bobbling toward us. Bodhi was transported from glum to giggles and a family frolic ensued, thanks to these cool giant pipe cleaners and the imagination of one very good Papa.

celebrate what's right with the world

That is my new mantra. It is accessible, it is transforming, it is revolutionary and it is real. If you have 22 minutes at your disposal, give it to this clip from the great National Geographic photographer Dewitt Jones and it may become your mantra as well. Celebrate what's right with the world - Dewitt Jones @ Yahoo! Video

new year's day

I have never been a new year's bell ringer, rather I generally ring in the new year quietly, with introspection and intentions (sounds perfectly pink doesn't it). My standing ritual is to write down on a sheet of paper the things/concepts/belief/crap for letting go and then I throw them on a fire and watch them turn to ash. Then I meditate on my intentions and dedications. That's it. This year we also added a good long howl at the full moon and some poetry games. The poetry game is played when each person writes one line of a poem and passes it to the next person, who writes another line and folds the paper so that only the most recent writing is visible, and passes it on again. When the poem writing is complete, the person who wrote the first line on the page, reads the poem and gives it a title. Shane and I played it together (with some arm twisting on my part)and here are the new year poems (granted they are not brilliant, but alot of fun): Night and Day Rising u