I am still having all of the thoughts and most of the ponders, but not so many things screaming in a ‘solid’ form that seem to express a need to be blazoned upon a page. And, my computer is and has been in the shop again.
I popped on this morning to say that yesterday, before the end of October, it snowed. It snowed angels having pillow-fights snow. Giant and cascading flakes that pour down as if God were busy looking at us all on the inside of His snow-globe. It snowed for six hours. Continuously. The weather station called it a Winter Storm. I am ever so glad that at most it accumulated about an inch or two, with the warm ground compacting the snow into a slush with a sugar coated fluffy snow covering. The weather station stated that on the snow board they measured about 6 inches! The snow board doesn’t have Mother Nature’s Autumn Blanket of Heat, the one that continues to encourage barefoot walking on 60 degree days, upon sun warmed grass. I am to have another chance at this temptation and giving in later this week. Upper 50’s and 60’s are forecasted! Less than half of the trees here are still dressed in green. I wonder if they will still turn brilliant and giggling colors and tell their last stories on the breeze before it is time for them to take a nap.
Dear Reader, I moved all of the Daily Aries Ponder posts to their own blog. In the last weeks and whiles, many of those close to me are having various life on life’s terms experiences–which is the way it is, and, well, today I just happened to look and I found that this particular ponder might be of assistance or some word for somewhat helpful. here follows the repost of The Daily Aries Ponder (52).
Waves like Granny Clampett!~~~
Life on life’s terms WOW!! Moment after moment moving into the next. Sometimes parts of life literally demand that one stop being in the moment that keeps them grounded and sane, and forces them to revert to a horrible behavior of what if and guess guess and forecast far into the future and all of this to people please! GAG!!! It’s interesting to watch systems and people in groups function. Many of them at core, no matter their espoused purpose to begin with, end up with expectations of one sort or another. It amazes me that so many are sad and depressed at all of the hoops and hurdles and shoulds and barriers that oppress, and yet we as people force ourselves into this state of feeling to begin with, with social cliques and norms, ostracizing all that is foreign to us. Even in the help books we read or the lessons people offer, if we see or feel a different way, people feel threatened enough to attempt to shepherd us or shut us up–going against what on the surface seemed to be the reason for publishing the book or teaching the lesson to begin with. None of us are Saints and sh…stuff happens 🙂
I read the reading below, and part of me recalled this weight of oppression. Then, I felt the storm. I shut my eyes, and thought of the freedom of my eyes to create and to view that which is near and dear to me while I move through all of that sand. I lifted me above the storm to see the sun dancing on the clouds in a rainbow of colors. I noticed that when I stopped reacting and figuring what to do, I saw the glint of light that filtered down to my eyes from each small grain of sand who’s faceted surfaces bounced against each other with joy to remind me where I am.
“Sometimes fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing directions. You change direction but the sandstorm chases you. You turn again, but the storm adjusts. Over and over you play this out, like some ominous dance with death just before dawn. Why? Because this storm isn’t something that blew in from far away, something that has nothing to do with you. This storm is you. Something inside of you. So all you can do is give in to it, step right inside the storm, closing your eyes and plugging up your ears so the sand doesn’t get in, and walk through it, step by step. There’s no sun there, no moon, no direction, no sense of time. Just fine white sand swirling up into the sky like pulverized bones. That’s the kind of sandstorm you need to imagine.
And you really will have to make it through that violent, metaphysical, symbolic storm. No matter how metaphysical or symbolic it might be, make no mistake about it: it will cut through flesh like a thousand razor blades. People will bleed there, and you will bleed too. Hot, red blood. You’ll catch that blood in your hands, your own blood and the blood of others.
And once the storm is over you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure, in fact, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.” – Haruki Murakami Kafka On The Shore lassie and timmy
Somewhere, in the middlin-end of the night, a light shadow flicked across the surface of my brain and I knew it was light moving through legs and calves and feet. Feet wearing oxford shoes, manly-type oxford shoes. Flexed a toe, to feel for new, inflexible and squeaky hard bottomed platforms. Flexed a toe to feel for the groove, a careful bend and give, familiarity, soft scuffles and the touch of the earth terrain–lumps and bumps and LIFE!
I heard rain. Gentle drips and splatters sneaking through the canopy of trees, making the slow motion crash from surface to surface slowing down until at last perching upon the perfect tip with minute point awaiting(of course)the touch of my finger that mine eyes might glorify such perfection in drop, for an hour or two minutes, whichever comes first to mind.
To lick manly fur or drop? My mouth IS dry! I neeeeeed a drink! Such treasure hunts for dew, endling-walks at night. Manly fur it is, good choice, thirst quenched. Now.
I contemplate opening one eye. I practice. Definately NOT the left one first today. Where am I going? I am going to open the right eye, just to see. And then, close it again. And be distracted by the manly scent of fur. And pine a moment for the going, and the coming back again. This moment is sublime. What does sublime mean?
Ah! Too late, I am already going down the stairs and making tea as my feet hit the floor and I sigh and I stretch. And I make the tea, and I check the mail, and I see Janet, asking me if I am going…someplace, somewhere. Janet? I am always full of ING things. I do not at this moment know how to provide a more accurate accounting. I will try to shorten it to, I am always going. How can one NOT be always going?
“ 62. [Autumn]1
The yellow forest lies beneath the sun
Quiet, although it suffereth decay
The brooklet to the Ocean-deep does run
With gentle lapse and silent(2) melts away,
The clouds upon the evening sky are bright
But wasting mingle in the glorious light.
So, may my soul in life’s declining hours
Like the still forest never once complain:
And flow unmurmuring, adown its course
Like yonder brooklet to the Eternal Main;
And as the clouds upon the sunset sky
Be mingled with the radiance on high.
1. untitled manuscript,
(My own note. This same poem, punctuated differently, carries a date of 1842. The date is gleened from sequence in his writing books. There is no indication how far apart autumn 1 and autumn 2 are in work nor in writing, by the editor, Marshall B. Tymn.)