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Archive for November, 2011

The Passing of Time

Mark time with life.
How do you mark the passing of time? Is it the changing of the leaves that announce the rotations of the earth? What awakens you to the fact that you are older than last year? We live so much of our lives in streams, beautiful thoughts which grow and evolve without stopping, thousands of emails and Facebook updates daily which have no memory, they only know more. How do you know when time passes then, is it when the day turns to night? And then do you greet the morning? Do you say hello when the night shifts from light blue to dark blue to black, do you?
I’m pictured here with my one year old niece. Last time I was home, she was less than 10 pounds. Since then has learned to walk and talk. Recently she said “cat.” How nice it is to mark time now. No longer am I measuring on the how long ago did I graduate college or high school, or the distance between now and 9/11.  I am now marking my time as she grows.
Mark time with life.
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Here Again



Colour and Snow, originally uploaded by TORIMBC.

Before there was urgency, there was the silence, and before that, the hum. I never knew what called to me, and now I still do not know: The empty heart full of snow; a mountain of ash; skies looking up to see cities. Here again is the dream. I have opened myself to all the things that frighten me, the death of this body, the opening of this mind, there is nothing here: a fallen leaf against my head. Answers, at last, answers and not questions leave me empty – a universe swallowing itself to safe face – a star needing to but refusing to explode.

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And End Like This



Sunday Is Gloomy, originally uploaded by Hamed Saber.

At some point you arrive at the end. There is always more beyond the end; there is more to sort and more to see. But the end must be greeted with the still pause of life, must be welcomed, a final and needed stillness within the motion surrounding everything, the silence within the noise, the place where the brain rests inside a hammock of peaceful pondering unbound by time, free from agendas, and protected from ever being perfect–perfectly content in the solitude of an ending fit for such a day.

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