tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29883134753115003282024-03-18T23:22:14.530-05:00A Year of Being Here<i>daily mindfulness poetry by wordsmiths of the here & now </i><br><br>Phyllis Cole-Daihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12860589719995205974noreply@blogger.comBlogger1136125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2988313475311500328.post-28395030411388671482017-06-12T08:41:00.000-05:002017-06-12T08:41:00.526-05:00A Year of Being Here Leads to Publication of Mindfulness Poetry Anthology<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Though this online project ended on January 1, 2016, I'm happy to announce that it has led to the creation of a print anthology. <a href="http://www.graysonbooks.com/" target="_blank">Grayson Books</a> will publish <a href="http://www.poetryofpresencebook.com/" target="_blank"><i>Poetry of Presence: An Anthology of Mindfulness Poems</i></a> in late summer, 2017. Edited with my friend and colleague <a href="https://rubyrwilson.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">Ruby R. Wilson,</a> this book grew directly out of <i>A Year of Being Here</i> and wouldn't have happened without the support and encouragement of this blog's subscribers, to whom I'll always be grateful.<br />
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I invite you to join the <i>Poetry of Presence</i> email list <a href="https://my.sendinblue.com/users/subscribe/js_id/2rndg/id/1" target="_blank">at this link.</a> As our gift for signing up, you'll receive a mindfulness poem, accompanied by "Great Egret Bow," the fabulous cover photograph by <a href="http://www.davidmoynahan.com/" target="_blank">David Moynahan.</a> We'll send you occasional news about the anthology, including notification of its official release.<br />
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<i>A Year of Being Here </i>will remain online indefinitely for your browsing enjoyment.<br />
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Deep peace,<br />
Phyllis Cole-Dai<br />
Curator<br />
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Phyllis Cole-Daihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12860589719995205974noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2988313475311500328.post-30402501813093646802016-01-01T00:00:00.000-06:002016-01-01T00:00:00.387-06:00Phyllis Cole-Dai:"On How to Pick and Eat Poems"<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Friends,<br />
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I'm not a poet. But for today, as we mark the end of <i>A Year of Being Here</i> (and the start of 2016), I've written you a poem. It was the best gesture of gratitude I could think to offer you.<br />
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Before presenting the poem, let me thank you one last time, in every language of the world, for the gift of the past three years. You readers are out there by the thousands, in at least 50 countries. What has united you in this reading community has been your love of poetry—and not just any poetry, but poetry that speaks straight, and beautifully, about life in the present moment; poetry that teaches or reminds us, or even exemplifies for us, how to greet life openly, compassionately, without judgment. <i>Mindfulness poetry,</i> in other words.<br />
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It has been my pleasure and my privilege to share with you mindfulness poems that I've collected over the years. I haven't exhausted my supply, by any means, but it's time for me to move along. I bow to all the incredible poets, photographers and artists who have made <a href="http://www.ayearofbeinghere.com/" target="_blank"><i>A Year of Being Here</i></a> possible. I bow to all of you readers, who have been so generous with your donations, your gifts, your feedback and good wishes, and most of all with your sharing of poems with friends, relatives, colleagues, support groups, communities of faith, patients, students.... I've been amazed by the many stories you've told me about how the poems have rippled out to touch someone at just the right moment. You yourselves have made that happen, and the world is better for it.<br />
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A special word of thanks to all of you who took time to complete my end-of-project survey regarding a possible anthology of mindfulness poetry. (If you haven't yet done so, you can still submit yours today by clicking <a href="https://coledai.typeform.com/to/u4me6g" target="_blank">here.)</a> I'll be sure to inform you if such a book develops. <br />
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I encourage all of you to keep searching out and sharing poems (and other forms of creative expression) that nurture, inspire, comfort and empower. Remember that the <a href="http://www.ayearofbeinghere.com/" target="_blank">project website</a> and social media accounts will remain up for you to use. But don't stop there. Go looking. The year is new. Let it take you somewhere you've never been.<br />
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Now I bow to you, with a full heart, where our humanity meets. I've given you all I can, and you've given me more than you'll ever know. Thank you forever.<br />
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Deep peace,<br />
Phyllis<br />
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<a href="http://www.phylliscoledai.com/">http://www.phylliscoledai.com</a><br />
<a href="https://www.facebook.com/pcoledai/" target="_blank">https://www.facebook.com/pcoledai/ </a><br />
@phylliscoledai<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTOUZh0NN_KqSfstVxpqsInoPQHL7XqE-CIXQfWzsatz4qj2OnH_NIdrovTe3wV4vUDDOJQewLSNQMZkwGhwB7k8rG_gqEtI5B1a1JOKGxgS8mDnTdQSiTF4UlU5OBeXssivY_pa9AZ5E/s1600/il_fullxfull.829296266_9h94.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 0em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="390" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTOUZh0NN_KqSfstVxpqsInoPQHL7XqE-CIXQfWzsatz4qj2OnH_NIdrovTe3wV4vUDDOJQewLSNQMZkwGhwB7k8rG_gqEtI5B1a1JOKGxgS8mDnTdQSiTF4UlU5OBeXssivY_pa9AZ5E/s400/il_fullxfull.829296266_9h94.jpg" width="400" /></a><br />
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<b>ON HOW TO PICK AND EAT POEMS</b><br />
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Stop whatever it is you’re doing.<br />
Come down from the attic.<br />
Grab a bucket or a basket and head for light.<br />
That’s where the best poems grow, and in the dappled dark.<br />
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Go slow. Watch out for thorns and bears.<br />
When you find a good bush, bow to it, or take off your shoes.<br />
Then pluck. This poem. That poem. Any poem.<br />
It should come off the stem easy, just a little tickle.<br />
No need to sniff first, judge the color, test the firmness.<br />
You’ll only know it’s ripe if you taste.<br />
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So put a poem upon your lips. Chew its pulp.<br />
Let its juice spill over your tongue.<br />
Let your reading of it teach you<br />
what sort of creature you are<br />
and the nature of the ground you walk upon.<br />
Bring your whole life out loud to this one poem.<br />
Eating one poem can save you, if you’re hungry enough.<br />
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When birds and deer beat you to your favorite patch,<br />
smile at their familiar appetite, and ramble on.<br />
Somewhere another crop waits for harvest.<br />
And if your eye should ever light upon a cluster of poems<br />
hanging on a single stem, cup your hand around them<br />
and pull, without greed or clinging.<br />
Some will slip off in your palm.<br />
None will go to waste.<br />
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Take those you adore poem-picking when you can,<br />
even to the wild and hidden places.<br />
Reach into brambles for their sake,<br />
stain your skin some shade of red or blue,<br />
mash words against your teeth, for love.<br />
And always leave some poems within easy reach<br />
for the next picker, in kinship with the unknown.<br />
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If you ever carry away more than you need,<br />
go on home to your kitchen, and make good jam.<br />
No need to rush, the poems will keep.<br />
Some will even taste better with age,<br />
a rich batch of preserves.<br />
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Store up jars and jars of jam. Plenty for friends.<br />
Plenty for the long, howling winter. Plenty for strangers.<br />
Plenty for all the bread in this broken world.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQyED27RuSDpZCQVzsK0fsiLW6ru4KCzhWZhE2Ncch72a5uwIdXiVAEUKNDkRZk5Rpul7hDUGaUm6xYm8IdaPLMuNkS5oRLibyxJOqn2fcZXkoaoDyPv4N8_FJ1ni5aAys5tmVD640ZlY/s1600/PCD+2013+leaning+agst+tree+-+Version+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 0em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="100" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQyED27RuSDpZCQVzsK0fsiLW6ru4KCzhWZhE2Ncch72a5uwIdXiVAEUKNDkRZk5Rpul7hDUGaUm6xYm8IdaPLMuNkS5oRLibyxJOqn2fcZXkoaoDyPv4N8_FJ1ni5aAys5tmVD640ZlY/s200/PCD+2013+leaning+agst+tree+-+Version+2.JPG" width="72" /></a>"On How to Pick and Eat Poems" by <a href="http://www.phylliscoledai.com/" target="_blank">Phyllis Cole-Dai.</a> © Phyllis Cole-Dai. Offered in profound gratitude to the community of <i>A Year of Being Here.</i> Listen to Phyllis read the poem <a href="https://soundcloud.com/phylliscoledai/on-how-to-pick-and-eat-poems" target="_blank">here.</a><br />
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<i>Art credit: </i>"Berry Red Vintage Berry Bucket," <a href="https://img0.etsystatic.com/100/0/7842773/il_fullxfull.829296266_9h94.jpg" target="_blank">photograph</a> by <a href="https://www.etsy.com/shop/FoxberryHill?ref=l2-shopheader-name" itemprop="url"><span itemprop="title">FoxberryHill.</span></a><br />
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Phyllis Cole-Daihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12860589719995205974noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2988313475311500328.post-64863061128501302402015-12-31T00:00:00.001-06:002015-12-31T00:00:00.042-06:00Naomi Shihab Nye: "Adios"<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7T3JNgu_fkM81ZqzTEBqVV2XSimuqg7C3J99hrtWNKh_Hqt-rLI9sSwEfJUzngr1iJV4mjnj0idCmuWZyUtRf55qvsIGjGEA3bnSAxePbWIdnRCkkdX4Sel-uaXnP_yS9rMbLEMBeOsc/s1600/-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 0em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7T3JNgu_fkM81ZqzTEBqVV2XSimuqg7C3J99hrtWNKh_Hqt-rLI9sSwEfJUzngr1iJV4mjnj0idCmuWZyUtRf55qvsIGjGEA3bnSAxePbWIdnRCkkdX4Sel-uaXnP_yS9rMbLEMBeOsc/s400/-1.jpg" width="400" /></a><br />
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It is a good word, rolling off the tongue; </div>
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no matter what language you were born with </div>
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use it. Learn where it begins, </div>
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the small alphabet of departure, </div>
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how long it takes to think of it, </div>
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then say it, then be heard.</div>
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Marry it. More than any golden ring, </div>
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it shines, it shines. </div>
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Wear it on every finger </div>
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till your hands dance, </div>
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touching everything easily, </div>
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letting everything, easily, go.</div>
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Strap it to your back like wings. </div>
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Or a kite-tail. The stream of air behind a jet. </div>
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If you are known for anything, </div>
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let it be the way you rise out of sight </div>
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when your work is finished.</div>
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Think of things that linger: leaves, </div>
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cartons and napkins, the damp smell of mold.</div>
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Think of things that disappear.</div>
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Think of what you love best, </div>
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what brings tears into your eyes.</div>
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Something that said adios to you </div>
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before you knew what it meant </div>
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or how long it was for.</div>
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Explain little, the word explains itself. </div>
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Later perhaps. Lessons following lessons, </div>
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like silence following sound. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_6Q9gOOFHxgtN6F30oATV6S_vzWqLQE_390AjAmPUB8reyHGPoZVNjimvDvks5esRHc1CtSgjECmxyOBsBkzyZ0iedJiD3fLsZ6bwTMh1NpDeU7AYH2Y8pmRV1lPzzvkuCof8vfYasa0/s1600/174_nsnye3.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 0em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="100" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_6Q9gOOFHxgtN6F30oATV6S_vzWqLQE_390AjAmPUB8reyHGPoZVNjimvDvks5esRHc1CtSgjECmxyOBsBkzyZ0iedJiD3fLsZ6bwTMh1NpDeU7AYH2Y8pmRV1lPzzvkuCof8vfYasa0/s200/174_nsnye3.jpg" width="75" /></a><span style="clear: left; float: left; font-size: x-small; margin-bottom: 0em; margin-right: 1em;"> </span>"Trying to Name What Doesn't Change" by <a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/naomi-shihab-nye" target="_blank">Naomi Shihab Nye.</a> Text as published in <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Words-Under-Selected-Poems-Corner/dp/0933377290" target="_blank">Words Under the Words: Selected Poems</a> </i>(Far Corner Books, 1995). <i> </i><br />
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<i>Art credit:</i> "Sir bird flies into the sunset" in Darwin, Australia, <a href="http://travel.nationalgeographic.com/u/TvyamNb-BivtNwcoxtkc5xGBuGkIMh_nj4UJHQKuorpEWBu4OlTvDGPSHr6e4FrRA03QiSw72a40qw/" target="_blank">photograph</a> by <i><a href="http://travel.nationalgeographic.com/travel/traveler-magazine/photo-contest/2012/users/1397793/"> kevin kelly. </a></i><br />
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<i>Curator's note:</i> After a three-year run, this project will conclude tomorrow with a special post. If you haven't already, I'd really appreciate your taking my brief <a href="https://coledai.typeform.com/to/u4me6g" target="_blank">survey</a> regarding a possible anthology of mindfulness poetry.<br />
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<i> </i> </div>
Phyllis Cole-Daihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12860589719995205974noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2988313475311500328.post-8197757727486479362015-12-30T00:00:00.001-06:002015-12-30T00:00:00.140-06:00Curator's Note: Giveaway Winner #10<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid8TcX_IclogztXDloFKmOZ8kWjdfMFCJstBS_mH_9958Ewhs3h1kuPUoEwB47YckC4FXLlVUrywwGCc_u5UB6y4tIP8g3rohrc_orCBglfvwJBBHW7EUzNv_Wqr-EdUj8o70GDDufK4U/s1600/giveaway-winner.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="149" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid8TcX_IclogztXDloFKmOZ8kWjdfMFCJstBS_mH_9958Ewhs3h1kuPUoEwB47YckC4FXLlVUrywwGCc_u5UB6y4tIP8g3rohrc_orCBglfvwJBBHW7EUzNv_Wqr-EdUj8o70GDDufK4U/s200/giveaway-winner.png" width="200" /></a><br />
Happy news for Beth Markow of Brunswick, Maine (USA). She has been randomly selected as the final recipient in our End-of-Project Giveaway. Her gift will be <i>The Selected Poems of Wendell Berry.</i> She says she "loves Wendell Berry's work!", so it's another happy match!<br />
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"For the last eighteen years," Beth writes, "I have had the privilege of working for one of our community hospitals, taking care of my neighbors and their families. I have held newborns through the night while their moms rested and held the hands of remarkable men and women, honored to be present as they and their families said goodbye for now." <br />
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Beth goes on to say, "When I'm open I see poetry all around me, from an ant climbing a single blade of grass to the way the early morning sun shines though the dew on the trees. Poetry grounds me. Poetry captures life and everything about life and in so few words! I know some of this may sound a little corny but this is who I am at my best." <br />
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Not corny at all, Beth. Heartfelt! Enjoy your reading of Berry's poetry!<br />
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Deep peace,<br />
Phyllis<br />
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Phyllis Cole-Daihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12860589719995205974noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2988313475311500328.post-42845444908005524672015-12-30T00:00:00.000-06:002015-12-30T00:00:00.286-06:00Kjell Walfridsson: "Restricted Living"<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiInmXZMXtY2Pubbj1jWckC4Sr6q6iNfktEzVow6yivfxtpgYcQzVubEFg0qr1aeBEagdlUVi8c-Alhr49DL1qRXndWqzZM7GbOQMHfXbmf8JVpYv-_0zNf9JLj5nX23WG64ZZ8OOXiJuk/s1600/dancing_in_the_ocean_breeze_sm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 0em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiInmXZMXtY2Pubbj1jWckC4Sr6q6iNfktEzVow6yivfxtpgYcQzVubEFg0qr1aeBEagdlUVi8c-Alhr49DL1qRXndWqzZM7GbOQMHfXbmf8JVpYv-_0zNf9JLj5nX23WG64ZZ8OOXiJuk/s400/dancing_in_the_ocean_breeze_sm.jpg" width="400" /></a><br />
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I have lived restricted<br />
for so many years<br />
the days they vanish<br />
the years disappear<br />
One day I feel<br />
from the ocean a breeze<br />
It warms my inside<br />
and melts my ice<br />
There are doors forgotten<br />
that lead somewhere<br />
though I never dared<br />
believe they existed</div><br />
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</div><h3 style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt;"></h3><div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt;">Jag har varit trångbodd<br />
i så många år<br />
dagar försvinner<br />
åren de går<br />
En dag jag känner<br />
från havet en bris<br />
Den värmer mitt inre<br />
och smälter min is<br />
Det finns glömda dörrar<br />
som leder någonstans<br />
fast jag aldrig vågat<br />
tro att de fanns</div><div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: .1pt;"><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj1YALQkWMTL4AFXXtQAUjfkEEE9k4ceoRn5XUsBznX6kULSCLOz1-FFipdgtaTrYPhJbddxHogYUA-h_A5rqTLAo_vl4bkYOd4qqK-hv9WUq1il9QYrgNGIh88aQ9SdlBMYewif_JzHM/s1600/604144_900_1200.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 0em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="100" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj1YALQkWMTL4AFXXtQAUjfkEEE9k4ceoRn5XUsBznX6kULSCLOz1-FFipdgtaTrYPhJbddxHogYUA-h_A5rqTLAo_vl4bkYOd4qqK-hv9WUq1il9QYrgNGIh88aQ9SdlBMYewif_JzHM/s200/604144_900_1200.jpg" width="64" /></a>"Restricted Living" by Kjell Walfridsson. Text as published by <a href="http://www.pietisten.org/summer99/poetry-walfridsson.html" target="_blank"><i>Pietisten: A Herald of Awakening and Spiritual Edification</i></a> (Winter 1999). Translated from the original Swedish by Tommy Carlson.<br />
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<i>Art credit:</i> "Dancing in the ocean breeze," <a href="http://www.heatherpiazza.com/images/dancing_in_the_ocean_breeze_sm.jpg" target="_blank">photograph</a> by <a href="http://www.heatherpiazza.com/" target="_blank">Heather Piazza</a> (digitally altered by curator).<br />
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<i>Curator's note:</i> This project will conclude with a special post on January 1. If you haven't already, please take my brief <a href="https://coledai.typeform.com/to/u4me6g" target="_blank">survey</a> before then regarding a possible anthology of mindfulness poetry. <br />
<br />
</div>Phyllis Cole-Daihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12860589719995205974noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2988313475311500328.post-24635953429272689472015-12-29T00:00:00.000-06:002015-12-29T07:17:46.345-06:00John O'Donohue: "For Grief"<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf54Ple9oxxTAxQhrptrxc2KiiEVgp5E4egitrvfdQOqRqnOkysjIFyNLw8fqa00Jl6qTgVCiOGy6k5hf3gKHw5LLq7LgG6miWPYUJnQYLvZopIolIcmGlsumM2S9hGBJqcl2VPA-r55M/s1600/tumblr_mbanaeyFOo1re3kvuo1_500.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 0em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf54Ple9oxxTAxQhrptrxc2KiiEVgp5E4egitrvfdQOqRqnOkysjIFyNLw8fqa00Jl6qTgVCiOGy6k5hf3gKHw5LLq7LgG6miWPYUJnQYLvZopIolIcmGlsumM2S9hGBJqcl2VPA-r55M/s400/tumblr_mbanaeyFOo1re3kvuo1_500.jpg" width="283" /></a><br />
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When you lose someone you love,<br />
Your life becomes strange,<br />
The ground beneath you gets fragile,<br />
Your thoughts make your eyes unsure;<br />
And some dead echo drags your voice down<br />
Where words have no confidence.<br />
<br />
Your heart has grown heavy with loss;<br />
And though this loss has wounded others too,<br />
No one knows what has been taken from you<br />
When the silence of absence deepens.<br />
<br />
Flickers of guilt kindle regret<br />
For all that was left unsaid or undone.<br />
<br />
There are days when you wake up happy;<br />
Again inside the fullness of life,<br />
Until the moment breaks<br />
And you are thrown back<br />
Onto the black tide of loss.<br />
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Days when you have your heart back,<br />
You are able to function well<br />
Until in the middle of work or encounter,<br />
Suddenly with no warning,<br />
You are ambushed by grief.<br />
<br />
It becomes hard to trust yourself.<br />
All you can depend on now is that<br />
Sorrow will remain faithful to itself.<br />
More than you, it knows its way<br />
And will find the right time<br />
To pull and pull the rope of grief<br />
Until that coiled hill of tears<br />
Has reduced to its last drop.<br />
<br />
Gradually, you will learn acquaintance<br />
With the invisible form of your departed;<br />
And, when the work of grief is done,<br />
The wound of loss will heal<br />
And you will have learned<br />
To wean your eyes<br />
From that gap in the air<br />
And be able to enter the hearth<br />
In your soul where your loved one<br />
Has awaited your return<br />
All the time. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhne_I2nz5BeLKZcsrNPpNXDAA51VwOwp2iMoVDl6cDVbofWmDe9aselnByHxufBHfjDs79syNnhbDdzsNzd5gG6KqRTvt_lv7d8aNQsWv2vPOpAEZmeZjyr0Q_mskrtW-uOX_uzhwBLNo/s1600/johnodonohueweb.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 0em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="100" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhne_I2nz5BeLKZcsrNPpNXDAA51VwOwp2iMoVDl6cDVbofWmDe9aselnByHxufBHfjDs79syNnhbDdzsNzd5gG6KqRTvt_lv7d8aNQsWv2vPOpAEZmeZjyr0Q_mskrtW-uOX_uzhwBLNo/s200/johnodonohueweb.jpg" width="70" /></a></div>
<span style="clear: left; float: left; font-size: x-small; margin-bottom: 0em; margin-right: 1em;"> </span>"For Grief" by <a href="http://www.johnodonohue.com/" target="_blank">John O'Donohue<i>.</i></a> Text as published in <a href="http://www.amazon.com/To-Bless-Space-Between-Blessings/dp/0385522274" target="_blank"><i>To Bless the Space Between Us: A Book of Blessings</i></a> (Doubleday, 2008<span style="font-size: small;">).</span><br />
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<i>Art credit:</i> Untitled <a href="http://dreamsgatherhere.tumblr.com/post/62327053068" target="_blank">image</a> by unknown photographer whose name in the lower-left corner is too small to decipher.<br />
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<i>Curator's note:</i> A few days left to gift me with your feedback! Please take this brief <a href="https://coledai.typeform.com/to/u4me6g" target="_blank">survey</a> regarding a possible anthology of mindfulness poetry. <br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Phyllis Cole-Daihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12860589719995205974noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2988313475311500328.post-11186857055677056532015-12-28T00:00:00.001-06:002015-12-28T00:00:05.584-06:00Curator's Note: Giveaway Winner #9<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid8TcX_IclogztXDloFKmOZ8kWjdfMFCJstBS_mH_9958Ewhs3h1kuPUoEwB47YckC4FXLlVUrywwGCc_u5UB6y4tIP8g3rohrc_orCBglfvwJBBHW7EUzNv_Wqr-EdUj8o70GDDufK4U/s1600/giveaway-winner.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="149" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid8TcX_IclogztXDloFKmOZ8kWjdfMFCJstBS_mH_9958Ewhs3h1kuPUoEwB47YckC4FXLlVUrywwGCc_u5UB6y4tIP8g3rohrc_orCBglfvwJBBHW7EUzNv_Wqr-EdUj8o70GDDufK4U/s200/giveaway-winner.png" width="200" /></a><br />
Happy news for Lauri Warren of Chapel Hill, North Carolina (USA). She has been randomly selected as a recipient in our End-of-Project Giveaway. Her gift will be <i>A Thousand Mornings </i>by Mary Oliver, whom, it turns out, she "adores."<br />
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Enjoy your reading of Oliver's poetry, Lauri!<br />
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Deep peace,<br />
Phyllis<br />
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<br /></div>
Phyllis Cole-Daihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12860589719995205974noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2988313475311500328.post-90394451313957565272015-12-28T00:00:00.000-06:002015-12-28T00:00:00.888-06:00David Wagoner: "The Lessons of Water"<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1OtDBbNOQ_uxRVfC4VXQbC2PkY32kyofK5tW9Gnb232ojJZyMs5texnZGJTdaKUhP4cYGi8EqkoPqpdeR9P19dpzbNsG0f7WXMojFDlWKz7VHYV9pvkTnAwik0MzBIg8LndalgCKp-ec/s1600/penguins-and-icebergs-antarctica-jumping-penguins-earth-natural-god-awesome-amazing-photo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 0em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="600" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1OtDBbNOQ_uxRVfC4VXQbC2PkY32kyofK5tW9Gnb232ojJZyMs5texnZGJTdaKUhP4cYGi8EqkoPqpdeR9P19dpzbNsG0f7WXMojFDlWKz7VHYV9pvkTnAwik0MzBIg8LndalgCKp-ec/s400/penguins-and-icebergs-antarctica-jumping-penguins-earth-natural-god-awesome-amazing-photo.jpg" width="345" /></a><br />
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<i>The best way to conduct oneself may be observed in the behavior of water. —Tao te ching</i><br />
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When given a place to wait, it fills that place<br />
By taking the shape of what contains it,<br />
Its upper surface poised and level,<br />
Absorbing, accepting what it can as lightly<br />
Or heavily as it does itself. If pressed<br />
Down, it will offer back in all directions<br />
Everything it was given. If chilled, it will shatter<br />
Daylight and whiten to stars, will harden and sharpen<br />
And turn unforseeably dazzling. Neglected,<br />
It will disappear, being transformed and lifted<br />
Into thin air. Or thrown away, it will gather<br />
With other water, which is all one water,<br />
And rise and fall, regather and go on rising<br />
And falling the more quickly its path descends<br />
And the more slowly as it wears that path away,<br />
To be left awhile, to stir for the moon, to wait<br />
For the wind to begin again.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOIBb_l5zeF8ytZKnH7GFIg8da8Qhd-2zai-KVHI3AwzfJZlAVijKSslxNXFFCZrcingcLzXVwpNUNeb5jAIK8RQP2k1UGSZ2flS6BhU8f7-zWdj4ibSf7IZXRy9vow5it9f-GHQw4zX8/s1600/wagoner.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 0em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="100" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOIBb_l5zeF8ytZKnH7GFIg8da8Qhd-2zai-KVHI3AwzfJZlAVijKSslxNXFFCZrcingcLzXVwpNUNeb5jAIK8RQP2k1UGSZ2flS6BhU8f7-zWdj4ibSf7IZXRy9vow5it9f-GHQw4zX8/s200/wagoner.jpg" width="67" /></a><span style="clear: left; float: left; font-size: x-small; margin-bottom: 0em; margin-right: 1em;"> </span>"The Lessons of Water" by <a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/david-wagoner" target="_blank">David Wagoner.</a> Text as posted on <i><a href="http://theparisreview.tumblr.com/post/71759460454/the-lessons-of-water-the-best-way-to-conduct" target="_blank">The Paris Review</a> </i>(12/31/2013).<i> </i><br />
<br />
<i>Art credit:</i> Untitled <a href="http://amazingplacespics.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/07/penguins-and-icebergs-antarctica-jumping-penguins-earth-natural-god-awesome-amazing-photo.jpg" target="_blank">image</a> of penguins on an Antarctic iceberg, taken by unknown photographer.<br />
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<i>Curator's note:</i> I'm so grateful to all of you who have taken my <a href="https://coledai.typeform.com/to/u4me6g" target="_blank">survey.</a> Everybody's feedback matters. Please provide yours before the project ends on January 1. <br />
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</div>Phyllis Cole-Daihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12860589719995205974noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2988313475311500328.post-20374134786820545562015-12-27T00:00:00.001-06:002015-12-27T00:00:08.017-06:00Teddy Macker: "A Poem for My Daughter"<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8pczRXY5cQuirOjc6-S4mnC7OC6pkcpdK9zNCyCA9AwXZg_GCpzGDZE_3xroLREH6Cc2o4IINLueGi0iJtrPx7F95TIg3pmdemPUgi_i-nNZan1dIp1OJxrIcFOP1T7wU9IDRsyfqtu4/s1600/Nature_Tree_Snow_Winter_Bench_White_57834_detail_thumb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 0em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="350" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8pczRXY5cQuirOjc6-S4mnC7OC6pkcpdK9zNCyCA9AwXZg_GCpzGDZE_3xroLREH6Cc2o4IINLueGi0iJtrPx7F95TIg3pmdemPUgi_i-nNZan1dIp1OJxrIcFOP1T7wU9IDRsyfqtu4/s400/Nature_Tree_Snow_Winter_Bench_White_57834_detail_thumb.jpg" width="520" /></a><br />
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It seems we have made pain<br />
some kind of mistake,<br />
like having it <br />
is somehow wrong. <br />
<br />
Don’t let them fool you—<br />
pain is a part of things. <br />
<br />
But remember, dear Ellie, <br />
the compost down in the field:<br />
if the rank and dank and dark <br />
are handled well, not merely discarded, <br />
but turned and known and honored, <br />
they one day come to beds of rich earth<br />
home even to the most delicate rose. <br />
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<span style="font-family: "menlo regular"; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Menlo Regular"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">❖</span> <br />
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God comes to you disguised as your life.<br />
Blessings often arrive as trouble. <br />
<br />
In French, the word <i>blesser</i> means to wound<br />
and relates to the Old English <i>bletsian</i>—<br />
<br />
to sprinkle with blood. <br />
<br />
And in Sanskrit there is a phrase, <br />
a phrase to carry with you<br />
wherever you go:<br />
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<i>sarvam annam: </i><br />
<br />
everything is food. <br />
<br />
Every last thing. <br />
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❖ <br />
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<br />
The Navajo people,<br />
it is said, <br />
intentionally wove <i><br />
(intentionally!)</i><br />
obvious flaws into their sacred quilts …<br />
<br />
Why? <br />
<br />
It is there, they say, <br />
in the “mistake,” <br />
in the imperfection, <br />
<br />
through which the Great Spirit moves. <br />
<br />
<br />
❖ <br />
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Life is easy, yes.<br />
And life is hard.<br />
Life is simple, yes.<br />
And life is complex.<br />
We are tough, yes. But we are also fragile. <br />
Everything’s eternally perfect <br />
but help out if you can. <br />
<br />
<br />
❖ <br />
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Work on becoming a native of mind, a native of heart. <br />
No thought, no feeling, could ever be “bad.” <br />
<br />
It’s just another creature <br />
in the bestiary of Buddha,<br />
the bestiary of Christ. <br />
<br />
Knowing this, <br />
knowing this down to the marrow, <br />
could save you, dear one, <br />
much needless strife. <br />
<br />
Remember that wild and strange animals <br />
paused to drink at the pond <br />
of the Buddha’s mind<br />
even after he saw <br />
the morning star. <br />
<br />
<br />
❖ <br />
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No matter what you do, no matter what happens,<br />
it is impossible to leave the path. <br />
<br />
Let me say that one more time:<br />
No matter what you do, no matter what happens,<br />
it is impossible to leave the path. <br />
<br />
<br />
❖ <br />
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Believe it or not, dear Ellie,<br />
some folks carefully imagine<br />
hideous gods tearing at flesh,<br />
clawing at faces, <br />
eating human hearts,<br />
and drinking cups of blood … <br />
<br />
Why?<br />
<br />
To shake hands with the Whole Catastrophe,<br />
to cultivate the Noble Idiot Yes. <br />
<br />
According to their tradition, <br />
there are 84,000 “skillful means,"<br />
84,000 tactics of wakefulness,<br />
84,000 ways to become spaciously alive,<br />
84,000 ways to be at home in your life and in this world. <br />
<br />
And many of those skillful means are like this one: <br />
<br />
enlightenment through endarkment. <br />
<br />
<br />
❖ <br />
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Life appears to be fundamentally ambiguous. <br />
<br />
Wily, everycolored, unpindownable. <br />
<br />
For evidence of this, spend time with trees. <br />
<br />
Over and over they say, <br />
<br />
There is no final word.<br />
<br />
And big decisions—<br />
decisions concerning <br />
relationships, concerning children, <br />
concerning death—<br />
are rarely made cleanly. <br />
<br />
In general, be wary—<br />
even if just a little—<br />
of talk of purity,<br />
of goodness, <br />
of light. <br />
<br />
<br />
❖ <br />
<br />
<br />
To love everything, not just parts …<br />
To love all of yourself, not just certain traits … <br />
To rest in not knowing …<br />
<br />
To carry the cross<br />
and to lay your burden down … <br />
<br />
To savor the medicine blue of moon,<br />
the fierce sugar of tangerine …<br />
<br />
To be a Christ unto others,<br />
a Christ unto one’s self …<br />
<br />
To laugh …<br />
<br />
To be shameless, wild, and silly …<br />
<br />
To know—fully, headlong, <br />
without compunction—the ordinary magic <br />
of our beautiful human bodies … <br />
<br />
<br />
these seem worthwhile pursuits, life-long tasks. <br />
<br />
<br />
❖<br />
<br />
<br />
By way of valediction, dear Ellie, <br />
I pass along some words<br />
from our many gracious teachers:<br />
<br />
Eden is. <br />
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The imperfect is our paradise. <br />
<br />
All is grace.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYuu8ja6WEHFD3ip_WZc4dpVdpqDBOChyYcBIzahAIOW1-dcknNdfsGo5rtv18tcO_kUeZFcOBpZbeOmbAHg11gwbYKpsKubJYfMKJgOa3jvKXZWYwSXYhquMPobLNs-ALCsyynhkiCoc/s1600/macker-orion_adjust-1_t479.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="100" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYuu8ja6WEHFD3ip_WZc4dpVdpqDBOChyYcBIzahAIOW1-dcknNdfsGo5rtv18tcO_kUeZFcOBpZbeOmbAHg11gwbYKpsKubJYfMKJgOa3jvKXZWYwSXYhquMPobLNs-ALCsyynhkiCoc/s200/macker-orion_adjust-1_t479.jpg" width="69" /></a>"A Poem for My Daughter" by Teddy Macker. Text as published in <a href="http://www.amazon.com/This-World-Teddy-Macker/dp/1935952390" target="_blank"><i>This World</i></a> (White Cloud Press, 2015). © Teddy Macker. Reprinted by permission of the poet.<i></i><br />
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<i>Art credit:</i> Untitled <a href="http://img.hdwallpaperpc.com/cover/58/Nature_Tree_Snow_Winter_Bench_White_57834_detail_thumb.jpg" target="_blank">image</a> by unknown photographer.<br />
<br />
<i>Curator's note:</i> Another long poem for you to savor into the new year and beyond. Only six days left until the conclusion of <i>A Year of Being Here.</i> Please be sure to complete my <a href="https://coledai.typeform.com/to/u4me6g" target="_blank">survey</a> regarding a possible anthology of mindfulness poetry.<br />
<br />
<i> </i> </div>
</div>
Phyllis Cole-Daihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12860589719995205974noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2988313475311500328.post-74004829235698802352015-12-26T00:00:00.002-06:002015-12-26T00:00:15.442-06:00Jalal ad-Din Muhammad Rumi: Untitled ["The clear bead at the center changes everything"]<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4cDqlgfunUhXThcriyae-nCl2wi7jy8UN83RIRLuFMMExttWgOpHxYJ4LNKoYuTyTOrjwF8twSFJXIRKtkufouSsQGG6Md5heQt2vgzmK6q3GWwzcrEbqGmyQhihMcvXjOLqPfa44JSg/s1600/20130714_200545.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="305" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4cDqlgfunUhXThcriyae-nCl2wi7jy8UN83RIRLuFMMExttWgOpHxYJ4LNKoYuTyTOrjwF8twSFJXIRKtkufouSsQGG6Md5heQt2vgzmK6q3GWwzcrEbqGmyQhihMcvXjOLqPfa44JSg/s400/20130714_200545.jpg" width="400" /></a><br />
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The clear bead at the center changes everything. <br />
There are no edges to my loving now.<br />
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You've heard it said there's a window<br />
that opens from one mind to another,<br />
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but if there's no wall, there's no need<br />
for fitting the window, or the latch.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="clear: left; float: left; font-size: small; margin-bottom: 0em; margin-right: 1em;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1LtoO7HgVOMbH-gUcT2NwxqSMVF8zL_B5AsMhL3bDDxEVb5ZZx2AhGH9mxMXpF3WbdyNKVeSgn2mzMbuQk7eYQLPYmw_RmE4GEdS7JXIj4wELyehVAjiY4oRxF-7-2jQnhn9DGpA2EHs/s1600/rumi.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 0em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="100" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1LtoO7HgVOMbH-gUcT2NwxqSMVF8zL_B5AsMhL3bDDxEVb5ZZx2AhGH9mxMXpF3WbdyNKVeSgn2mzMbuQk7eYQLPYmw_RmE4GEdS7JXIj4wELyehVAjiY4oRxF-7-2jQnhn9DGpA2EHs/s200/rumi.png" width="77" /></a></span></div>Untitled ["The clear bead at the center changes everything"] by <a href="http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/543" target="_blank">Jalal ad-Din Muhammad Rumi.</a> Text as published in <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Rumi-Book-Poems-Ecstasy-Longing/dp/0060750502" target="_blank"><i>Rumi: The Book of Love</i></a> (HarperCollins, 2003), translated from the original Persian by Coleman Barks.<br />
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<i>Art credit:</i> "The marble door that leads to nowhere," <a href="https://leglessbirds.files.wordpress.com/2014/05/20130714_200545.jpg" target="_blank">photograph</a> taken in Naxos, Greece, by the unnamed blogger at <a href="https://leglessbirds.wordpress.com/author/leglessbirds/" target="_blank">legless birds.</a><i> </i><br />
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<i>Curator's note: </i>Only seven days left until the New Year and the conclusion of <i>A Year of Being Here.</i> Please be sure to complete my <a href="https://coledai.typeform.com/to/u4me6g" target="_blank">survey</a> regarding a possible anthology of mindfulness poetry.<br />
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</div>Phyllis Cole-Daihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12860589719995205974noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2988313475311500328.post-30192123684784932672015-12-26T00:00:00.001-06:002015-12-26T00:00:02.983-06:00Curator's Note: Giveaway Winner #8<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid8TcX_IclogztXDloFKmOZ8kWjdfMFCJstBS_mH_9958Ewhs3h1kuPUoEwB47YckC4FXLlVUrywwGCc_u5UB6y4tIP8g3rohrc_orCBglfvwJBBHW7EUzNv_Wqr-EdUj8o70GDDufK4U/s1600/giveaway-winner.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="149" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid8TcX_IclogztXDloFKmOZ8kWjdfMFCJstBS_mH_9958Ewhs3h1kuPUoEwB47YckC4FXLlVUrywwGCc_u5UB6y4tIP8g3rohrc_orCBglfvwJBBHW7EUzNv_Wqr-EdUj8o70GDDufK4U/s200/giveaway-winner.png" width="200" /></a><br />
Happy news for T.L. of Minnesota (USA), who says he doesn't think he has ever won anything until now! He has been randomly selected as a recipient in our End-of-Project Giveaway. His gift will be <i>A Year with Rilke: Daily Readings </i>(Anita Barrows, editor).<br />
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T.L. says, "I love to read the wisdom found in mindfulness poetry as my life's journey begins to head toward the far edge of middle age....."<br />
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Enjoy your reading of Rilke, T.L.!<br />
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Deep peace,<br />
Phyllis<br />
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Phyllis Cole-Daihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12860589719995205974noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2988313475311500328.post-18110478598674131182015-12-25T00:00:00.000-06:002015-12-25T00:00:00.994-06:00Rolf Jacobsen: "Just Delicate Needles—"<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvaNa-97dO6BLkt2MZBRBIkofGMIJHrlQGPccL0NEXYPEbFvq28i2x-1dBGmhZnHFkAknpOHkbba-wi2TzT5Oa2-gxSfv57zfK2ah3hyW1LZdznwnt95-Yxk17w2pkAga250odiiJR8Fg/s1600/light-in-the-darkness.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvaNa-97dO6BLkt2MZBRBIkofGMIJHrlQGPccL0NEXYPEbFvq28i2x-1dBGmhZnHFkAknpOHkbba-wi2TzT5Oa2-gxSfv57zfK2ah3hyW1LZdznwnt95-Yxk17w2pkAga250odiiJR8Fg/s400/light-in-the-darkness.jpg" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"> </span><br />
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<br />It's so delicate, the light.</div>
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And there's so little of it. The dark<br /> is huge.<br /> Just delicate needles, the light,<br /> in an endless night.<br /> And it has such a long way to go<br /> through such desolate space.<br /><br />So let's be gentle with it.<br /> Cherish it.<br /> So it will come again in the morning.<br /> We hope.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkYziXbpGEZt5QqVnZrQsL5h4r0E7P22i32w-lpD7Gu1Ec5Uje0yrHNOCQgwUIDawWGtkfXpn_8JYfVkVT6Nj3IVE4L4MrXre5XtF0IKU8tEws5hRIgvkSnpMzaw-UvsRT5BzFJy0PN2w/s1600/RolfJacobsen.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 0em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="100" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkYziXbpGEZt5QqVnZrQsL5h4r0E7P22i32w-lpD7Gu1Ec5Uje0yrHNOCQgwUIDawWGtkfXpn_8JYfVkVT6Nj3IVE4L4MrXre5XtF0IKU8tEws5hRIgvkSnpMzaw-UvsRT5BzFJy0PN2w/s1600/RolfJacobsen.jpg" width="74" /></a><span style="clear: left; float: left; font-size: x-small; margin-bottom: 0em; margin-right: 1em;"> </span>"Just Delicate Needles—" by <a href="http://www.kirjasto.sci.fi/jaco.htm" target="_blank">Rolf Jacobsen.</a> Text as published <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Roads-Have-Come-End-Now/dp/1556591659/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1433771030&sr=1-1&keywords=9781556591655" target="_blank">in <i>The Roads Have Come to an End Now: Selected and Last Poems of Rolf Jacobsen</i>,</a><i> </i>translated by Robert Bly, Roger Greenwald and Robert Hedin (Copper Canyon Press, 2001). This poem translated from the original Norwegian (found on page 138 of this <a href="https://books.google.com/books?id=mrcGuxVh8MsC&pg=PA44&lpg=PA44&dq=N%C3%A5r+de+sover+rolf+jacobsen&source=bl&ots=vxTtFWQpC6&sig=RiFK8jBJKTT4cQ7mwcX9NPYmMbw&hl=en&sa=X&ei=0Z11Veq4Go3foASwxa3ICg&ved=0CE0Q6AEwBg#v=onepage&q=N%C3%A5r%20de%20sover%20rolf%20jacobsen&f=false" target="_blank">online source)</a> by Robert Hedin.<br />
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<i>Art credit:</i> Untitled <a href="https://jjhiii24.files.wordpress.com/2012/05/light-in-the-darkness.jpg" target="_blank">image</a> by unknown photographer.<br />
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Phyllis Cole-Daihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12860589719995205974noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2988313475311500328.post-34456890451051952412015-12-24T00:00:00.002-06:002015-12-24T00:00:11.709-06:00Curator's Note: Giveaway Winner #7<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid8TcX_IclogztXDloFKmOZ8kWjdfMFCJstBS_mH_9958Ewhs3h1kuPUoEwB47YckC4FXLlVUrywwGCc_u5UB6y4tIP8g3rohrc_orCBglfvwJBBHW7EUzNv_Wqr-EdUj8o70GDDufK4U/s1600/giveaway-winner.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="149" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid8TcX_IclogztXDloFKmOZ8kWjdfMFCJstBS_mH_9958Ewhs3h1kuPUoEwB47YckC4FXLlVUrywwGCc_u5UB6y4tIP8g3rohrc_orCBglfvwJBBHW7EUzNv_Wqr-EdUj8o70GDDufK4U/s200/giveaway-winner.png" width="200" /></a><br />
Happy news for Kay Aitch of Sebastopol, California (USA)! She has been randomly selected as a recipient in our End-of-Project Giveaway. Her gift will be <i>Selected Poems</i> (Barbara Crooker).<br />
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Kay describes herself as "a voracious reader and scrabble player, sometime poet and baker." She says that the mindfulness poetry presented by <i>A Year of Being Here</i> has often provided "beauty, strength and solace."<br />
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Enjoy your reading of Crooker's poetry, Kay!<br />
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Deep peace,<br />
Phyllis<br />
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Phyllis Cole-Daihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12860589719995205974noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2988313475311500328.post-9221597851843269312015-12-24T00:00:00.001-06:002015-12-24T00:00:01.197-06:00Tom Hennen: "Looking for the Differences"<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGhnXeKV-R7-oTfeIDlq2yoQoR78rQOdBfdap8jCeI7YOP035lsHRTr7X4iHV5rhK2Af8dAfyl2-rxGoRXmJHYyajwmxnPDq8OqWE86Uz9vlkd5qddB6HfVOvXWb4r3AW-mtT53MfKcRg/s1600/329876.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGhnXeKV-R7-oTfeIDlq2yoQoR78rQOdBfdap8jCeI7YOP035lsHRTr7X4iHV5rhK2Af8dAfyl2-rxGoRXmJHYyajwmxnPDq8OqWE86Uz9vlkd5qddB6HfVOvXWb4r3AW-mtT53MfKcRg/s400/329876.JPG" width="400" /></a> </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I am struck by the otherness of things rather than their sameness. </div><div style="text-align: justify;">The way a tiny pile of snow perches in the crook of a branch in the</div><div style="text-align: justify;">tall pine, away by itself, high enough not to be noticed by people, </div><div style="text-align: justify;">out of reach of stray dogs. It leans against the scaly pine bark, busy</div><div style="text-align: justify;">at some existence that does not need me. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">It is the differences of objects that I love, that lift me toward the rest</div><div style="text-align: justify;">of the universe, that amaze me. That each thing on earth has its own</div><div style="text-align: justify;">soul, its own life, that each tree, each clod is filled with the mud of</div><div style="text-align: justify;">its own star. I watch where I step and see that the fallen leaf, old</div><div style="text-align: justify;">broken grass, an icy stone are placed in exactly the right spot on the</div><div style="text-align: justify;">earth, carefully, royalty in their own country. </div><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9OGGtnf0I50ZVV9tyO1Z1qfi71z8UO_fnyBQyOicDvsmIkEqHon6Z-6pYyvxfUsBdzs3XD0NhXd49hy20UQt6AoaMERh88S8N6hlWA5m3ErqPLG6cY_-MLGWGWmVUKVlAJRWiatG_Wo8/s1600/Tom_Hennen-590x-590x260.jpg" style="clear: left; float: right; margin-bottom: 0em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="92" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9OGGtnf0I50ZVV9tyO1Z1qfi71z8UO_fnyBQyOicDvsmIkEqHon6Z-6pYyvxfUsBdzs3XD0NhXd49hy20UQt6AoaMERh88S8N6hlWA5m3ErqPLG6cY_-MLGWGWmVUKVlAJRWiatG_Wo8/s200/Tom_Hennen-590x-590x260.jpg" width="100" /></a>"Looking for the Differences" by Tom Hennen from <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Darkness-Sticks-Everything-Collected-Poems/dp/1556594046/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1450107959&sr=1-1" target="_blank">Darkness Sticks to Everything: Collected and New Poems</a> </i>(Copper Canyon Press, 2013).<br />
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<span style="clear: left; float: right; font-size: x-small; margin-bottom: 0em; margin-right: 1em;"> </span><i>Art credit:</i> "Icy stone," <a href="http://images.summitpost.org/original/329876.JPG" target="_blank">photograph</a> by <a href="http://www.goalps.com/" target="_blank">Gungyoel.</a><br />
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<i>Curator's note:</i> Take a breather from holiday bustle. Read a poem you love. Then take my two-minute <a href="https://coledai.typeform.com/to/u4me6g" target="_blank">survey</a> to will help me (and any potential publishers) decide upon an anthology of mindfulness poetry. <i>A Year of Being Here</i> concludes on January 1.<br />
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</div>Phyllis Cole-Daihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12860589719995205974noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2988313475311500328.post-45597493151510376452015-12-23T00:00:00.000-06:002015-12-23T00:00:03.193-06:00Esther Cohen: "Can I Call You Back?"<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
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Last night as always<br />
I called Bruce<br />
although<br />
he is the best telephone<br />
person I know<br />
he nearly<br />
always says<br />
Can I Call You Back<br />
because he is Doing Something.<br />
Last night he was<br />
cutting up zucchini<br />
and I asked him,<br />
I always ask him<br />
why he can’t talk to me<br />
at the same time as he<br />
cuts up his zucchini but<br />
he can’t. He just can’t.<br />
Later, he calls<br />
back to explain What Happened<br />
the Last Few Days<br />
(nothing and everything)<br />
Mike the painter<br />
has landlord problems<br />
red flying squirrel<br />
still eating Bruce’s grapes<br />
and I listen, thinking<br />
how words<br />
are the musical<br />
notes I love.<br />
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<i>Art credit:</i> Untitled <a href="http://www.nextbyathena.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/03/image.jpeg" target="_blank">image</a> by unknown photographer.<br />
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<i>Curator's note:</i> I know you're busy, but I'd be grateful if you took my two-minute <a href="https://coledai.typeform.com/to/u4me6g" target="_blank">survey</a> before <i>A Year of Being Here</i> concludes on January 1. It will help me (and any potential publishers) decide upon an anthology of mindfulness poetry. <br />
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</div>Phyllis Cole-Daihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12860589719995205974noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2988313475311500328.post-24096374467597824272015-12-22T00:00:00.002-06:002015-12-22T07:17:05.082-06:00Curator's Note: Giveaway Winner #6<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid8TcX_IclogztXDloFKmOZ8kWjdfMFCJstBS_mH_9958Ewhs3h1kuPUoEwB47YckC4FXLlVUrywwGCc_u5UB6y4tIP8g3rohrc_orCBglfvwJBBHW7EUzNv_Wqr-EdUj8o70GDDufK4U/s1600/giveaway-winner.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="149" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid8TcX_IclogztXDloFKmOZ8kWjdfMFCJstBS_mH_9958Ewhs3h1kuPUoEwB47YckC4FXLlVUrywwGCc_u5UB6y4tIP8g3rohrc_orCBglfvwJBBHW7EUzNv_Wqr-EdUj8o70GDDufK4U/s200/giveaway-winner.png" width="200" /></a>Happy news for Jane Spickett of Arlington, Massachusetts (USA)! She has been randomly selected as a recipient in our End-of-Project Giveaway. Her gift will be <i>Red Suitcase</i> (Naomi Shihab Nye).<br />
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Jane is a certified spiritual director, artist, organizer, and photographer. "All of these are ways I share that the sacred is immanent in ourselves and our lives," she says. "I read (and write poetry) because it restores me and is yet another reminder that I am part of something so much bigger than myself."<br />
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Enjoy your reading of Nye's poetry, Jane!<br />
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Deep peace,<br />
Phyllis<br />
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<br />
</div>Phyllis Cole-Daihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12860589719995205974noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2988313475311500328.post-5186099756009335832015-12-22T00:00:00.001-06:002015-12-22T00:00:00.565-06:00Barbara Crooker: "Solstice"<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgkCL6BHVnNbB-WRkvl6eCKFc06szhG0UJrx8roiCstUvYjrhgOGWikOacUb8fxR9LRvXAvwZvNERTqeuA2WrDZtiFgPXQP3RD25oXJcTJKEnrdvGsV8zMTe8srzl9pLxkOYg0tZ7po9E/s1600/christmas_by_soulkissfaerie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 0em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgkCL6BHVnNbB-WRkvl6eCKFc06szhG0UJrx8roiCstUvYjrhgOGWikOacUb8fxR9LRvXAvwZvNERTqeuA2WrDZtiFgPXQP3RD25oXJcTJKEnrdvGsV8zMTe8srzl9pLxkOYg0tZ7po9E/s400/christmas_by_soulkissfaerie.jpg" width="400" /></a><br />
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These are dark times. Rumors of war</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">rise like smoke in the east. Drought</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">widens its misery. In the west, glittering towers</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">collapse in a pillar of ash and dust. Peace,</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">a small white bird, flies off in the clouds.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">And this is the shortest day of the year.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">Still, in almost every window,</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">a single candle burns,</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">there are tiny white lights</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">on evergreens and pines,</div>and the darkness is not complete.</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
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</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgxRDDj2cCJ7P8lexSRaHbsFmYgZO8aEcVwIM3AnWKLsWbEj0-MRU0PFRe4EW930_fzgqbZNWKcYaOZy5AFWWLWqwnunW5rk34DX8Aoa32JJ0M4xLk0MIlV3Ufh-5bma4kWckepXoP2BI/s1600/crooker.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 0em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="100" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgxRDDj2cCJ7P8lexSRaHbsFmYgZO8aEcVwIM3AnWKLsWbEj0-MRU0PFRe4EW930_fzgqbZNWKcYaOZy5AFWWLWqwnunW5rk34DX8Aoa32JJ0M4xLk0MIlV3Ufh-5bma4kWckepXoP2BI/s200/crooker.jpg" width="80" /></a>"Solstice" by <a href="http://www.barbaracrooker.com/" target="_blank">Barbara Crooker.</a> Text as posted on <a href="http://kingdompoets.blogspot.com/2014/12/barbara-crooker.html" target="_blank"><i>Kingdom Poets</i></a> (12/15/2014). © Barbara Crooker. Reprinted by permission of the poet.<i> </i><br />
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<i>Art credit: </i>"Christmas," <a href="http://cdn.tripwiremagazine.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/11/image249.png" target="_blank">photograph</a> by<span class="username-with-symbol u"><a class="u regular username" data-ga_click_event="{"category":"Deviation","action":"description_author","nofollow":0}" href="http://soulkissfaerie.deviantart.com/"> soulkissfaerie.</a></span><br />
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<i>Curator's note:</i> Please take my two-minute <a href="https://coledai.typeform.com/to/u4me6g" target="_blank">survey</a> before <i>A Year of Being Here</i> concludes on January 1. It will help me (and any potential publishers) decide upon an anthology of mindfulness poetry.<br />
<br />
<br />
</div></div>Phyllis Cole-Daihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12860589719995205974noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2988313475311500328.post-83851915622220757222015-12-21T00:00:00.001-06:002015-12-21T00:00:04.466-06:00Wendell Berry: "2007, VI" ["It is hard to have hope"]<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4eOcOsX9-5qciQFV1VCRo6ZG7qBqRTltNRs9X071EkXD6zu3cbvShWUGJ-A9t4FCVbTHL9Lkcr3KZVDm2ONEZbSB3X7Hkdlk6HkYR4XojshVdZACDXAtxjDX1BWM1pQ_iU7qEILz5pqk/s1600/1387712588_besthdwallpaperspack1111_70.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 0em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="350" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4eOcOsX9-5qciQFV1VCRo6ZG7qBqRTltNRs9X071EkXD6zu3cbvShWUGJ-A9t4FCVbTHL9Lkcr3KZVDm2ONEZbSB3X7Hkdlk6HkYR4XojshVdZACDXAtxjDX1BWM1pQ_iU7qEILz5pqk/s400/1387712588_besthdwallpaperspack1111_70.jpg" width="520" /></a><br />
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It is hard to have hope. It is harder as you grow old,<br />
for hope must not depend on feeling good<br />
and there is the dream of loneliness at absolute midnight.<br />
You also have withdrawn belief in the present reality<br />
of the future, which surely will surprise us,<br />
and hope is harder when it cannot come by prediction<br />
any more than by wishing. But stop dithering.<br />
The young ask the old to hope. What will you tell them?<br />
Tell them at least what you say to yourself. <br />
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Because we have not made our lives to fit<br />
our places, the forests are ruined, the fields eroded,<br />
the streams polluted, the mountains overturned. Hope<br />
then to belong to your place by your own knowledge<br />
of what it is that no other place is, and by<br />
your caring for it as you care for no other place, this<br />
place that you belong to though it is not yours,<br />
for it was from the beginning and will be to the end. <br />
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Belong to your place by knowledge of the others who are<br />
your neighbors in it: the old man, sick and poor,<br />
who comes like a heron to fish in the creek,<br />
and the fish in the creek, and the heron who manlike<br />
fishes for the fish in the creek, and the birds who sing<br />
in the trees in the silence of the fisherman<br />
and the heron, and the trees that keep the land<br />
they stand upon as we too must keep it, or die. <br />
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This knowledge cannot be taken from you by power<br />
or by wealth. It will stop your ears to the powerful<br />
when they ask for your faith, and to the wealthy<br />
when they ask for your land and your work.<br />
Answer with knowledge of the others who are here<br />
and how to be here with them. By this knowledge<br />
make the sense you need to make. By it stand<br />
in the dignity of good sense, whatever may follow.<br />
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Speak to your fellow humans as your place<br />
has taught you to speak, as it has spoken to you.<br />
Speak its dialect as your old compatriots spoke it<br />
before they had heard a radio. Speak<br />
publicly what cannot be taught or learned in public. <br />
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Listen privately, silently to the voices that rise up<br />
from the pages of books and from your own heart.<br />
Be still and listen to the voices that belong<br />
to the streambanks and the trees and the open fields.<br />
There are songs and sayings that belong to this place,<br />
by which it speaks for itself and no other. <br />
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Found your hope, then, on the ground under your feet.<br />
Your hope of Heaven, let it rest on the ground<br />
underfoot. Be it lighted by the light that falls<br />
freely upon it after the darkness of the nights<br />
and the darkness of our ignorance and madness.<br />
Let it be lighted also by the light that is within you,<br />
which is the light of imagination. By it you see<br />
the likeness of people in other places to yourself<br />
in your place. It lights invariably the need for care<br />
toward other people, other creatures, in other places<br />
as you would ask them for care toward your place and you. <br />
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No place at last is better than the world. The world<br />
is no better than its places. Its places at last<br />
are no better than their people while their people<br />
continue in them. When the people make<br />
dark the light within them, the world darkens.<br />
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<i style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 0em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="100" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyKCCcgOPodFQrn7xLP6umFnatfw1sVMCBtAoFYlh1vH7aesKQm3nc1DWnSbCiRCoe2-iBTJ_KJ0Zzd_FpksrzBs74AFUMinsz96WjAhy29a-m_Sz94ZbWISRIcTUqDnAisTrY2K7YidY/s200/Wendell-Berry.jpg" width="80" /></i>"2007, VI" ["It is hard to have hope"] by <a href="http://www.wendellberrybooks.com/" target="_blank">Wendell Berry.</a> Text as published in <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/This-Day-Collected-Sabbath-Poems/dp/1619021986/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1449969790&sr=1-1&keywords=9781619021983" target="_blank">This Day: New & Collected Sabbath Poems</a> </i>(Counterpoint, 2013).<i> </i><br />
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<i>Art credit:</i> Untitled <a href="http://kolyan.net/uploads/posts/2013-12/thumbs/1387712588_besthdwallpaperspack1111_70.jpg" target="_blank">image</a> by unknown photographer.<br />
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<i>Curator's note:</i> It's a long post, but I couldn't excerpt it. I believe every word.<br />
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Phyllis Cole-Daihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12860589719995205974noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2988313475311500328.post-20823543405261623032015-12-20T00:00:00.001-06:002015-12-20T00:00:08.843-06:00Curator's Note: Giveaway Winner #5<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid8TcX_IclogztXDloFKmOZ8kWjdfMFCJstBS_mH_9958Ewhs3h1kuPUoEwB47YckC4FXLlVUrywwGCc_u5UB6y4tIP8g3rohrc_orCBglfvwJBBHW7EUzNv_Wqr-EdUj8o70GDDufK4U/s1600/giveaway-winner.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="149" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid8TcX_IclogztXDloFKmOZ8kWjdfMFCJstBS_mH_9958Ewhs3h1kuPUoEwB47YckC4FXLlVUrywwGCc_u5UB6y4tIP8g3rohrc_orCBglfvwJBBHW7EUzNv_Wqr-EdUj8o70GDDufK4U/s200/giveaway-winner.png" width="200" /></a>Happy news for Christopher Bellonci of Jamaica Plain, Massachusetts (USA)! He has been randomly selected as a recipient in our End-of-Project Giveaway. His gift will be <i>The Book of the World: A Contemporary Scripture </i>(Phyllis Cole-Dai, editor).<br />
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Christopher is a child psychiatrist at Tufts Medical Center. He also teaches mindfulness at the Tufts University Medical School as well as in his consultations to public schools in the Boston area. He appreciates being able to incorporate poetry into his own mindfulness journey and into his teaching of mindfulness to others.<br />
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He writes, "I read one of the poems [from <i>A Year of Being Here]</i> recently in a consultation that I found had relevance to the youth we were discussing during our meeting. The medical students have also enjoyed the poetry as a path into their mindfulness practices."<br />
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Enjoy your reading of <i>The Book of the World,</i> Christopher!<br />
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Deep peace,<br />
Phyllis<br />
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Phyllis Cole-Daihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12860589719995205974noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2988313475311500328.post-21003901395645143772015-12-20T00:00:00.000-06:002015-12-20T00:00:03.111-06:00Marlene Cookshaw: "Over the Shoulder"<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Guilt is a bag someone has carried </div>
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up the hill from the pub.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A brown bag</div>
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the size of a good catch, or</div>
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darkish, and bigger than that:</div>
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duffel over the shoulder.</div>
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Guilt is a pool with ladders </div>
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rising in every direction.</div>
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We climb and fall back and climb again.</div>
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Who can make the connection between </div>
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what snaps underfoot and what drenches us?</div>
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We are not taught how to do nothing.</div>
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there is what happens when</div>
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what you haven’t imagined occurs.</div>
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Pain or its absence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wind </div>
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underneath its buffer of down.</div>
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I believe in birds, the smallness of them, </div>
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their potential for flight, the way</div>
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they acknowledge this, even so</div>
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nodding and feeding in front of us.</div>
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<span style="clear: left; float: left; font-size: small; margin-bottom: 0em; margin-right: 1em;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8hferByHd_4pD6IcxTRnPp0P2zdFhxNPgHOwDkq6PcQ6DQZSvAytLh4rae5ebgjsX1I2KPPzYxhW4onqDHOYmse5h8grzu_x2C0zxB1l-U99hulQJv2yhfSBuZ2JZ9yP_1OdiJLqCgo8/s1600/marlenecookshawcreditmitchellparry.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 0em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="100" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8hferByHd_4pD6IcxTRnPp0P2zdFhxNPgHOwDkq6PcQ6DQZSvAytLh4rae5ebgjsX1I2KPPzYxhW4onqDHOYmse5h8grzu_x2C0zxB1l-U99hulQJv2yhfSBuZ2JZ9yP_1OdiJLqCgo8/s200/marlenecookshawcreditmitchellparry.jpg" width="83" /></a></span>"Over the Shoulder" by Marlene Cookshaw. Text as published in <a href="http://www.brickbooks.ca/shop/double-somersaults/" target="_blank"><i>Double Somersaults</i></a> (Brick Books, 1999).<br />
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<i>Art credit:</i> "Black-capped chickadees," <a href="http://blogs.massaudubon.org/yourgreatoutdoors/wp-content/uploads/sites/20/2015/12/shutterstock_110416922-931x1024.jpg" target="_blank">image</a> by unknown photographer.<br />
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<i>Curator's note:</i> Please take my two-minute <a href="https://coledai.typeform.com/to/u4me6g" target="_blank">survey</a> before <i>A Year of Being Here</i> concludes on January 1. It will help me (and any potential publishers) decide upon an anthology of mindfulness poetry.<br />
<br />
<br />
</div>
Phyllis Cole-Daihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12860589719995205974noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2988313475311500328.post-88547338879401257672015-12-19T00:00:00.000-06:002015-12-19T00:00:03.634-06:00Ron C. Moss: Selection of Haiga<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDkn4ns1yi1tuh47lY2TAyTLR7k1wE072V8-dZFQ7wFLe80tV8gm652oBWs8ngJpyAmXLA_6BlzcnrxwE6DjXxX1qDI6GMvf7zQQTMzTqt70jM7Y1PFtT8l-tD84nPsSkXa1KiD6vcZHI/s1600/172t.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 0em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDkn4ns1yi1tuh47lY2TAyTLR7k1wE072V8-dZFQ7wFLe80tV8gm652oBWs8ngJpyAmXLA_6BlzcnrxwE6DjXxX1qDI6GMvf7zQQTMzTqt70jM7Y1PFtT8l-tD84nPsSkXa1KiD6vcZHI/s400/172t.jpg" /></a>Today we have a selection of haiga (illustrated haiku) submitted by <a href="http://www.ronmoss.com/" target="_blank">Ron C. Moss,</a> an award-winning visual artist and poet from Tasmania, Australia.<br />
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Ron has been published in numerous journals and anthologies including <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Haiku-English-First-Hundred-Years/dp/0393239470">Haiku in English: The First Hundred Years</a></i> (W. W. Norton & Company, 2013) and <i><a href="http://www.snapshotpress.co.uk/books/where_the_river_goes.htm">Where the River Goes: The Nature Tradition in English-Language Haiku</a></i> (Snapshot Press, 2013). Among his many current activities, he is an <a href="http://theawakenedeye.com/artisans/ron-c-moss/" target="_blank">Artisan</a> at <a href="http://theawakenedeye.com/about/" target="_blank"><i>The Awakened Eye.</i></a> As <a href="http://www.ayearofbeinghere.com/" target="_blank"><i>A Year of Being Here</i></a> draws to a close, he suggests that our readers might be interested in following that site. Learn more <a href="http://theawakenedeye.com/about/" target="_blank">here.</a> <br />
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Phyllis Cole-Daihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12860589719995205974noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2988313475311500328.post-70484379053231883102015-12-18T00:00:00.001-06:002015-12-18T00:00:20.331-06:00Curator's Note: Giveaway Winner #4<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid8TcX_IclogztXDloFKmOZ8kWjdfMFCJstBS_mH_9958Ewhs3h1kuPUoEwB47YckC4FXLlVUrywwGCc_u5UB6y4tIP8g3rohrc_orCBglfvwJBBHW7EUzNv_Wqr-EdUj8o70GDDufK4U/s1600/giveaway-winner.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="149" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid8TcX_IclogztXDloFKmOZ8kWjdfMFCJstBS_mH_9958Ewhs3h1kuPUoEwB47YckC4FXLlVUrywwGCc_u5UB6y4tIP8g3rohrc_orCBglfvwJBBHW7EUzNv_Wqr-EdUj8o70GDDufK4U/s200/giveaway-winner.png" width="200" /></a>Happy news for H.J. of Norfolk, Virginia (USA)! She has been randomly selected as a recipient in our End-of-Project Giveaway. Her gift will be <i>Ask Me: 100 Essential Poems</i> (William Stafford).<br />
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H.J. describes herself as a photographer "intent on looking at the familiar and seeing the universal." The practice of reading poetry on a regular basis, she says, "sharpens my mind's eye to be alert for imagery in the everyday. Poetry, like music, acts as an ever-broadening sphere for my work. Some of the poets like Billy Collins and Naomi Shihab-Nye are reminders to laugh at myself. Poets like Loren Eisley, Rumi and Wendell Berry are always reminders to stay actively engaged with our chaotic world because it is my home."<br />
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Enjoy your reading of Stafford's poetry, H.J.!<br />
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Deep peace,<br />
Phyllis<br />
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Phyllis Cole-Daihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12860589719995205974noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2988313475311500328.post-33489432399142204562015-12-18T00:00:00.000-06:002015-12-18T07:20:34.890-06:00Emily Dickinson: "#875" ["I stepped from Plank to Plank"]<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfgRc9ee6Hf40M8fZz0FEFzPXrcOQ-nFEoTURxq7ajyk0APesqpLwZdGbG5ThyphenhyphenpoIpedeUmuGriU3RxERNqxxWniTluBkh1KopHszFzXs6Q6P2uy_V5uMe5ktroVTBeE6YhZsZx7mgYrU/s1600/hb5-640x400.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 0em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="325" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfgRc9ee6Hf40M8fZz0FEFzPXrcOQ-nFEoTURxq7ajyk0APesqpLwZdGbG5ThyphenhyphenpoIpedeUmuGriU3RxERNqxxWniTluBkh1KopHszFzXs6Q6P2uy_V5uMe5ktroVTBeE6YhZsZx7mgYrU/s400/hb5-640x400.jpg" width="520" /></a><b></b><br />
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I stepped from Plank to Plank<br />
A slow and cautious way<br />
The Stars about my Head I felt<br />
About my Feet the Sea.<br />
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I knew not but the next<br />
Would be my final inch—<br />
This gave me that precarious Gait<br />
Some call Experience. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdlzn9Qo1W-_nRg5lx91txkPJpAg8pvIkSG75SBR5Z1p4ABfaWNxnx-TSTOezAw2XqK5pBDuyWr-_IgcIHGONJhnFbmYN-K1kHv9LigNpiw921Yh-oCQ2jCWhyphenhyphenJHfiQztgEX3twRXOGrY/s1600/emily+dickinson.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 0em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="100" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdlzn9Qo1W-_nRg5lx91txkPJpAg8pvIkSG75SBR5Z1p4ABfaWNxnx-TSTOezAw2XqK5pBDuyWr-_IgcIHGONJhnFbmYN-K1kHv9LigNpiw921Yh-oCQ2jCWhyphenhyphenJHfiQztgEX3twRXOGrY/s200/emily+dickinson.jpg" width="65" /></a>"#875<b>" </b>["I stepped from Plank to Plank"] by <a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/emily-dickinson" target="_blank">Emily Dickinson.</a> This poem is in the public domain.<br />
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<i>Art credit:</i> "Hussaini Hanging Bridge, Pakistan," across the Hunza River in the village of Hussaini in northern Pakistan, <a href="http://www.travelandleisure.com/sites/default/files/styles/1600x1000/public/201009-w-bridges-hussaini.jpg?itok=Dozbjrnt" target="_blank">photograph</a> by Jonathan Blair/Corbis.<i> Caption:</i> <i><b>"</b></i>Massive gaps between the planks, a wild side-to-side swing: there are reasons this is considered one of the world’s most harrowing suspension bridges. While rickety cable and wood bridges are common in this area, crossing this bridge over the rapidly flowing Hunza River is particularly frightening, as the tattered remains of the previous bridge hang by threads next to the one currently in use."<br />
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<i>Curator's note:</i> Please take my two-minute <a href="https://coledai.typeform.com/to/u4me6g" target="_blank">survey</a> before <i>A Year of Being Here</i> concludes on January 1. It will help me (and any potential publishers) decide upon an anthology of mindfulness poetry.<br />
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Phyllis Cole-Daihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12860589719995205974noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2988313475311500328.post-90680831197462452732015-12-17T00:00:00.000-06:002015-12-17T00:00:04.130-06:00Frederick Smock: "Moon"<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><a href="http://writersalmanac.org/author.php?auth_id=2681&elq=bb75b857c3d544a9b4b92f3cdda1f0da&elqCampaignId=9672"><span style="color: #65000c; font-family: "arial"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"></span></a><span style="font-family: "arial"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"></span> <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCVfBj5oSW6Ed-VUOvlY1Aldte4OC9JiukNSVbROZMeyccIluzwxi5MceEGL3VQxwVHGcpEnJDuSivqQiq4tRvWyfX1Q3rQhRF_rb1FUeS57Icbm_ollSaSWguFchqvl3bIWy4fvTWObg/s1600/crescent-moon.jpg.838x0_q67_crop-smart.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCVfBj5oSW6Ed-VUOvlY1Aldte4OC9JiukNSVbROZMeyccIluzwxi5MceEGL3VQxwVHGcpEnJDuSivqQiq4tRvWyfX1Q3rQhRF_rb1FUeS57Icbm_ollSaSWguFchqvl3bIWy4fvTWObg/s400/crescent-moon.jpg.838x0_q67_crop-smart.jpg" width="400" /></a><br />
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The day lengthens, <br />
the old earth tips its hat <br />
to the moon.<br />
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The changeful moon <br />
goes through many phases, <br />
even in a single night, <br />
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though it is the same <br />
moon as ever, we know this. <br />
We are the changes. <br />
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<span style="clear: left; float: left; font-size: small; margin-bottom: 0em; margin-right: 1em;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8f600nURz5tyoq_EkmVMxQAQ6FjIiBMrnyVnlRD3nK3Sc1FJkmFMytE6jRDQx4EGTJcSDU5QBnAOvpPv-BKk5nnj8za7ewWBWDZMFC4_B1jLk4jt09a5rwMFUm1EqyaTHcggYlp5RSCk/s1600/IMG_9249%252Bcopy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 0em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="100" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8f600nURz5tyoq_EkmVMxQAQ6FjIiBMrnyVnlRD3nK3Sc1FJkmFMytE6jRDQx4EGTJcSDU5QBnAOvpPv-BKk5nnj8za7ewWBWDZMFC4_B1jLk4jt09a5rwMFUm1EqyaTHcggYlp5RSCk/s200/IMG_9249%252Bcopy.jpg" width="68" /></a></span>"Moon" by <a href="http://fredericksmock.com/" target="_blank">Frederick Smock.</a> Text as published in <a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-Bounteous-World-New-Poems/dp/1937968049" target="_blank"><i>The Bounteous World: Poems</i></a> <a href="http://broadstonebooks.com/Frederick_Smock_Page.html" target="_blank">(Broadstone Books,</a> 2013). Reprinted by permission of the poet.<br />
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<i>Art credit:</i> Untitled <a href="http://media.safebee.com/assets/images/2015/10/crescent-moon.jpg.838x0_q67_crop-smart.jpg" target="_blank">photograph</a> by <a href="http://www.shutterstock.com/gallery-1143125p1.html">Suppakij1017</a>/<a href="http://www.shutterstock.com/pic.mhtml?id=141449125&src=id">Shutterstock.</a><br />
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<i>Curator's note:</i> Please take my two-minute <a href="https://coledai.typeform.com/to/u4me6g" target="_blank">survey</a> before <i>A Year of Being Here</i> concludes on January 1. It will help me (and any potential publishers) decide upon an anthology of mindfulness poetry.<br />
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</div>Phyllis Cole-Daihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12860589719995205974noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2988313475311500328.post-55798400338339191142015-12-16T00:00:00.001-06:002015-12-16T00:00:21.103-06:00Curator's Note: Giveaway Winner #3 <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid8TcX_IclogztXDloFKmOZ8kWjdfMFCJstBS_mH_9958Ewhs3h1kuPUoEwB47YckC4FXLlVUrywwGCc_u5UB6y4tIP8g3rohrc_orCBglfvwJBBHW7EUzNv_Wqr-EdUj8o70GDDufK4U/s1600/giveaway-winner.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="149" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid8TcX_IclogztXDloFKmOZ8kWjdfMFCJstBS_mH_9958Ewhs3h1kuPUoEwB47YckC4FXLlVUrywwGCc_u5UB6y4tIP8g3rohrc_orCBglfvwJBBHW7EUzNv_Wqr-EdUj8o70GDDufK4U/s200/giveaway-winner.png" width="200" /></a>Happy news for Kevin F. of Seattle, Washington (USA)! He has been randomly selected as a recipient in our End-of-Project Giveaway. His gift will be <i>A Year with Hafiz: Daily Contemplations </i>(Daniel Ladinsky).<br />
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Kevin volunteers with the Seattle Jung Society and with Depth Psychology Alliance. An actor, scholar, teacher and learner, he "enjoys poetry because of its ability to bring me to the heart and soul of a matter quickly, often with breathtaking poignancy and beauty, or with an immediacy which can inspire deeply-felt pain or joy. If a poem resonates with me, it does so in the service of greater deepening, expansion, and connection."<br />
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Enjoy your reading of Ladinsky's interpretations of Hafiz, Kevin!<br />
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Deep peace,<br />
Phyllis<br />
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Phyllis Cole-Daihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12860589719995205974noreply@blogger.com0