The world slipped bright over the glassy round of his eyeballs like images sparked in a crystal sphere. Flowers were suns and fiery spots of sky strewn throughout the woodland. Birds flickered like skipped stones across the cast inverted pond of heaven. His breath raked over his teeth, going in ice, coming out fire. ~Ray Bradbury from Dandelion Wine
Breath in your nostrils,
light in your eyes,
flowers at your feet,
duties at your hand,
the path of right just before you.
Then do not grasp at the stars,
but do life’s plain, common work as it comes,
certain that daily duties and daily bread
are the sweetest things in life.
And as you sit on the hillside, or lie prone under the trees of the forest, or sprawl wet-legged on the shingly beach of a mountain stream, the great door, that does not look like a door, opens. ~Stephen Graham from The Gentle Art of Tramping
That great door opens on the present, illuminates it as with a multitude of flashing torches. ~Annie Dillard (in response to the above quote) from Pilgrim at Tinker Creek
“There is an indefinable, mysterious power that pervades everything.
I feel it, though I do not see it.
It is this unseen power that makes itself felt and yet defies all proof,
because it is so unlike all that I perceive through my senses.
It transcends the senses”
~Mahatma Gandhi
Under this loop of honeysuckle, A creeping, coloured caterpillar, I gnaw the fresh green hawthorn spray, I nibble it leaf by leaf away.
Down beneath grow dandelions, Daisies, old-man’s-looking-glasses; Rooks flap croaking across the lane. I eat and swallow and eat again.
Here come raindrops helter-skelter; I munch and nibble unregarding: Hawthorn leaves are juicy and firm. I’ll mind my business: I’m a good worm.
When I’m old, tired, melancholy, I’ll build a leaf-green mausoleum Close by, here on this lovely spray, And die and dream the ages away.
Some say worms win resurrection, With white wings beating flitter-flutter, But wings or a sound sleep, why should I care? Either way I’ll miss my share.
Under this loop of honeysuckle, A hungry, hairy caterpillar, I crawl on my high and swinging seat, And eat, eat, eat—as one ought to eat. ~Robert Graves
Under this loop of honeysuckle, A creeping, coloured caterpillar, I gnaw the fresh green hawthorn spray, I nibble it leaf by leaf away. Down beneath grow dandelions, Daisies, old-man’s-looking-glasses; Rooks flap croaking across the lane. I eat and swallow and eat again. Here come raindrops helter-skelter; I munch and nibble unregarding: Hawthorn leaves are juicy and firm. I’ll mind my business: I’m a good worm. When I’m old, tired, melancholy, I’ll build a leaf-green mausoleum Close by, here on this lovely spray, And die and dream the ages away. Some say worms win resurrection, With white wings beating flitter-flutter, But wings or a sound sleep, why should I care? Either way I’ll miss my share. Under this loop of honeysuckle, A hungry, hairy caterpillar, I crawl on my high and swinging seat, And eat, eat, eat—as one ought to eat. – See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/20235#sthash.TQPtnj5D.dpuf
Everyone feels grief when cherry blossoms scatter. Might they then be tears – those drops of moisture falling in the gentle rains of spring?
~Otomo no Juronushi (late 9th century)
Thoughts still linger – but will those who have parted return once again?
Evening is deep in the hills where cherry blossoms fall.
~Shinkei (1406-1475)
If there were no cherry blossoms in the world,
My mind would be peaceful.
~ Fujiwara Norihira
A fallen blossom Returning to the bough, I thought – But no, a butterfly.
~Arakida Moritake (1473-1549)
We cannot find God in noise and restlessness. Look at nature: the trees, flowers, grasses all grow in silence; the stars, the moon, the sun all move in silence. The important thing is not what we are able to say but what God says to us and what he speaks to others through us. In silence he listens to us; in silence he speaks to our souls; in silence we are granted the privilege of hearing his voice. ~Mother Teresa from “No Greater Love”
A soft day, thank God! A wind from the south With a honey’d mouth; A scent of drenching leaves, Briar and beech and lime, White elderflower and thyme, And the soaking grass smells sweet, Crushed by my two bare feet, While the rain drips, Drips, drips, drips from the eaves.
A soft day, thank God! The hills wear a shroud Of silver cloud; The web the spider weaves Is a glittering net; The woodland path is wet, And the soaking earth smells sweet Under my two bare feet, And the rain drips, Drips, drips, drips from the leaves. ~ Winifred M. Letts (1882-1972), English poet
…who still has a controlled sense of wonder before the universal mystery, whether it hides in a snail’s eye or within the light that impinges on that delicate organ. ~Loren Eiseley
A gastropod brave enough
to cross a busy sidewalk
appears in no particular rush,
no hurry toward the grassy expanse
on the other side.
The lawn will still be there
whether an hour from now
or tomorrow.
Its waving little snail eyes
see and smell the future.
To assure it will not be crushed underfoot
I decide to intervene in history
and give it a lift
as Someone did for me.
I came, I saw a snail in danger
and barely heard it huffle.
I didn’t need to hear
to do the right thing.
“James gave the huffle of a snail in danger. And nobody heard him at all.” ~A.A.Milne“When We Were Very Young”
Barnstorming 