She missed the solstice,
days growing long, blue to gold,
Winter stays her heart
31 January 2012
30 January 2012
Voice Found
28 January 2012, 8:43 PM. A cool night, but pleasant enough to have the window open just so. A dog is barking.
What is this they say about finding your voice? How is this done in a world full of clamor, a world that demands clamor? This is not right. The voice, the voice I can only hear best if others fall away. No, no, I need to rephrase the assertion. I can hear my voice when surrounded by the din and clatter of others. It is not easy, nor is it ideal. Ideal, that is, for me.
I cannot speak for others.
I considered this today as I walked along the tracks between a motionless line of rail cars and a steep hillside. The cars were full of coal that twinkled in the sun like black diamonds. Leaves like scraps of parchment cartwheeled down the ties as a wind swept down the river valley. They scraped and skittered, and I reveled in the sound of them. It was impossible for me to not smile as I witnessed such a lovely moment.
I wasn't talking to myself. Not out loud. I didn't want to spoil the whispery quiet there along the river. Around here it is exceeding difficult to find a place free of noise from man and his machines. That I managed the trick while following a railroad line is doubly special. Aside from a faint whine from some device on the last rail car, the only sounds were leaves, wind, water, and the scuff of my shoes on timber and gravel. These noises punctuated by the faint caw of crows. Once, I heard the screech of a hawk. I stopped on the tracks, turning my face skyward to look overhead and in the trees. I heard the screech again, but could not find the creature that produced it.
The sun felt good on my face. The sky was beautiful in the early afternoon light. I wondered, was it azure? Lapis lazuli? Cerulean? No matter. It was sufficient that it was blue and that I was fortunate to witness it.
A third screech from the hawk startled me. A small epiphany, if I may be so bold as to call it. That screech was some creature's voice. It had its voice. And now, so do I. My voice is the voice of solitude. I stopped walking. The conceit of the idea forced a grin and a chuckle. Me, the voice of solitude? Is that what I have been pursuing all these years? The notion had a strong pull even if it seemed a bit...pompous.
I immediately set aside the concerns over pomposity. After all, no one was there to witness it, and the thought was strictly my own. So much seemed clearer in that moment of January sunshine. I could see the core of truth in it. My voice, the one I have been chasing, manifests so much clearer when I can take myself out of the clamor so often swirling about. It isn't that I cannot or do not want to listen. I do. But it finally crystallized in my head that being in solitude upon occasion is good for my voice.
Today, I found my voice there in the cool breeze and leaf-whisper. It trembles like a newborn foal, struggling upright and shaking as it rises. I cannot predict what this voice will say. I need time to practice with it, make it stronger. But now I understand more about my voice; I will learn to speak clear and true.
What is this they say about finding your voice? How is this done in a world full of clamor, a world that demands clamor? This is not right. The voice, the voice I can only hear best if others fall away. No, no, I need to rephrase the assertion. I can hear my voice when surrounded by the din and clatter of others. It is not easy, nor is it ideal. Ideal, that is, for me.
I cannot speak for others.
I considered this today as I walked along the tracks between a motionless line of rail cars and a steep hillside. The cars were full of coal that twinkled in the sun like black diamonds. Leaves like scraps of parchment cartwheeled down the ties as a wind swept down the river valley. They scraped and skittered, and I reveled in the sound of them. It was impossible for me to not smile as I witnessed such a lovely moment.
I wasn't talking to myself. Not out loud. I didn't want to spoil the whispery quiet there along the river. Around here it is exceeding difficult to find a place free of noise from man and his machines. That I managed the trick while following a railroad line is doubly special. Aside from a faint whine from some device on the last rail car, the only sounds were leaves, wind, water, and the scuff of my shoes on timber and gravel. These noises punctuated by the faint caw of crows. Once, I heard the screech of a hawk. I stopped on the tracks, turning my face skyward to look overhead and in the trees. I heard the screech again, but could not find the creature that produced it.
The sun felt good on my face. The sky was beautiful in the early afternoon light. I wondered, was it azure? Lapis lazuli? Cerulean? No matter. It was sufficient that it was blue and that I was fortunate to witness it.
A third screech from the hawk startled me. A small epiphany, if I may be so bold as to call it. That screech was some creature's voice. It had its voice. And now, so do I. My voice is the voice of solitude. I stopped walking. The conceit of the idea forced a grin and a chuckle. Me, the voice of solitude? Is that what I have been pursuing all these years? The notion had a strong pull even if it seemed a bit...pompous.
I immediately set aside the concerns over pomposity. After all, no one was there to witness it, and the thought was strictly my own. So much seemed clearer in that moment of January sunshine. I could see the core of truth in it. My voice, the one I have been chasing, manifests so much clearer when I can take myself out of the clamor so often swirling about. It isn't that I cannot or do not want to listen. I do. But it finally crystallized in my head that being in solitude upon occasion is good for my voice.
Today, I found my voice there in the cool breeze and leaf-whisper. It trembles like a newborn foal, struggling upright and shaking as it rises. I cannot predict what this voice will say. I need time to practice with it, make it stronger. But now I understand more about my voice; I will learn to speak clear and true.
29 January 2012
Sunday Meditation #14: On Discarding the Noise of the World
How to walk in the woods without being in the woods? This is the dilemma before me this day, a fine winter Saturday in this January. I am feeling under the weather, and it has tempered my plan to walk down by the river to restore some balance to my inner self. Perhaps I am a reverse Muhammad, seeking to have the 'mountain' come to me, just this once. In my current state, I may not have the energy to go to the mountain.
In the pursuit of balance, this walk may be necessary. The noise of the world has been heavy on my mind in recent days. The fault lies entirely within myself. I opened the spigot far too much, as it were. A strange intersection of necessity and idleness led me astray into the wilds of social media and Internet. Useful tools and conduits I'm sure you would agree. But shiny and seductive in ways that are not always good for us.
Paraphrasing a friend of mine, who was actually referring to F**eb**k, the Internet is like one long conversation that never ends. So many thoughts, observations, quotations flying back and forth. And like any medium of communication, besmirched with a lot of ignorance, misinformation, and wrongheadedness. This environment can be mental quicksand for those inclined to tilt at windmills.
Those people such as this author. Harrumph.
I have allowed myself too much traipsing about in the wastelands of social commentary. I have allowed myself to be entangled far too deeply in the small-mindedness of consumer culture and politics. Politics in particular. Election years in specific tend to be time-sumps, and with the "facilitator of dreams" that is electronic media, the sump is in danger of becoming all-consuming.
Another wise friend of mine had advised me some weeks ago forgo tilting at windmills, and she was spot on in that advice. This is a time now that I should let go, back up, and leave the windmills to their own devices. I am only one man. I have only one voice. That voice cannot sustain infinite conversation and fruitless dissipation. that way lies weariness and stress. It behooves me to temper myself, my leaps into the din and clatter.
It is time to reacquaint myself with my center. It is time for a walk in the woods, whether they come to me or I go to them, so I may discard the noise of the world and hear my own voice again.
In the pursuit of balance, this walk may be necessary. The noise of the world has been heavy on my mind in recent days. The fault lies entirely within myself. I opened the spigot far too much, as it were. A strange intersection of necessity and idleness led me astray into the wilds of social media and Internet. Useful tools and conduits I'm sure you would agree. But shiny and seductive in ways that are not always good for us.
Paraphrasing a friend of mine, who was actually referring to F**eb**k, the Internet is like one long conversation that never ends. So many thoughts, observations, quotations flying back and forth. And like any medium of communication, besmirched with a lot of ignorance, misinformation, and wrongheadedness. This environment can be mental quicksand for those inclined to tilt at windmills.
Those people such as this author. Harrumph.
I have allowed myself too much traipsing about in the wastelands of social commentary. I have allowed myself to be entangled far too deeply in the small-mindedness of consumer culture and politics. Politics in particular. Election years in specific tend to be time-sumps, and with the "facilitator of dreams" that is electronic media, the sump is in danger of becoming all-consuming.
Another wise friend of mine had advised me some weeks ago forgo tilting at windmills, and she was spot on in that advice. This is a time now that I should let go, back up, and leave the windmills to their own devices. I am only one man. I have only one voice. That voice cannot sustain infinite conversation and fruitless dissipation. that way lies weariness and stress. It behooves me to temper myself, my leaps into the din and clatter.
It is time to reacquaint myself with my center. It is time for a walk in the woods, whether they come to me or I go to them, so I may discard the noise of the world and hear my own voice again.
28 January 2012
Walking Under Black Pines With Thomas
I'm reading Thomas Merton on a regular basis these days. A spiritual man who makes me think, in good ways. His writing has a knack for stunning me with a thought, a phrase, a turn of mind. Earlier this month, this leapt off the page at me:
I read that, and knew envy. To know such unfettered joy...
Even without the benefit of gainful employment life has often not held that simplicity for me. Anxieties, searching, the omnipresent specter of diminishing resources have obscured my inner vision. I come in from the cold, and instead of the treat of a glass of sherry I find myself supping on worry.
That is not to say I have not had joy and relief. To the contrary. I have experienced some wonderful periods of togetherness and love; the difficulty is that the proportions of joy to anxiety are too far weighted to anxiety. I am working to change them to the good.
Still, I cherish that with which I have been blessed. Thomas Merton reminded me of that in a simple sentence of three phrases. Walking with him on a cold winter morning, in the counsel of black pines, I reawakened to the simple joys to be had in this life. I sit at the dining table, washed in the pearly winter light, and vow to myself to always remember what he had to teach me.
Quotation is from "A Year with Thomas Merton: Daily Meditations from His Journals", in the essay for January 6 entitled 'Winter Hermitage Under Black Pines'. This particular excerpt was written by Fr. Merton on January 5, 1968. I am still pondering what it really means to me. I do know that it brings with it a sense of peace.
I drank a glass of dry sherry and warm! Lovely morning! How lovely life can be!It was winter, and he had just returned to his hermitage from an early morning recitation of psalms and a rosary. Settling in by a gas fire, he takes such uncomplicated delight in the actions of the morning finished off with a glass of sherry.
I read that, and knew envy. To know such unfettered joy...
Even without the benefit of gainful employment life has often not held that simplicity for me. Anxieties, searching, the omnipresent specter of diminishing resources have obscured my inner vision. I come in from the cold, and instead of the treat of a glass of sherry I find myself supping on worry.
That is not to say I have not had joy and relief. To the contrary. I have experienced some wonderful periods of togetherness and love; the difficulty is that the proportions of joy to anxiety are too far weighted to anxiety. I am working to change them to the good.
Still, I cherish that with which I have been blessed. Thomas Merton reminded me of that in a simple sentence of three phrases. Walking with him on a cold winter morning, in the counsel of black pines, I reawakened to the simple joys to be had in this life. I sit at the dining table, washed in the pearly winter light, and vow to myself to always remember what he had to teach me.
Quotation is from "A Year with Thomas Merton: Daily Meditations from His Journals", in the essay for January 6 entitled 'Winter Hermitage Under Black Pines'. This particular excerpt was written by Fr. Merton on January 5, 1968. I am still pondering what it really means to me. I do know that it brings with it a sense of peace.
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