Lately, I've been thinking of the image of the night and its darkness - and how all light/life comes from darkness. But, if you've ever seen a New Mexico night sky, you know it isn't darkness at all - but that it is ablaze with light and music. As we turn toward winter in the Northern hemisphere, we turn to a time of rest, reflection and - ideally - rejuvenation. The light and growth of spring doesn't happen without the darkness of winter. We hear that to the point of cliché. But what does it mean to practice that in my own life? What should I fallow so that other areas of my life can grow? Can I embrace the dark as a friend and blessing - as a necessary and welcome location within which to rest?
Much of life at home, in my young life, was chaotic and scary. We had large oak trees on our rural property, one of which held a swing with a thick wooden seat. I would swing so high-or at least it seemed that way to me-and I would imagine flying away like a bird, away from the things that scared me, and which I didn't understand.
I love oak trees, their leaves, and the tiny acorns that gather at the base of their sturdy spires reaching to the sky.
My son-a woodworker-turned a cherrywood acorn and gifted it to me last Christmas. Like the bowls of acorns I gathered as a little girl, this single acorn rests in a Raku tea bowl. It reminds me that there is strength in the mighty oak, and in me too.
Padraig, thank you for the question and for providing this raft for collecting thoughts.
It is the moon that holds us all together, an element in nature to which I find myself turning often/nightly to remind me that I am here. And what I like about the moon, in answer to your question, is that it is whole, all the time, the moon is always (italics) full. But that isn't what we see, all the time. Each time we look, it is a slightly different view, constantly changing as the planet spins. It's a reminder to me about perspective, that what we think we see or understand isn't always what's visible, in ourselves or others or the situation. What equally holds me together is the part that is unseen, trusting that it, too, is part of the universe, even though not visible just now. The mystery of it all involves a bit of faith, even though things are out of sight for the moment, the moon is still all there, capable of holding; it is still whole...we are still whole, though we can't always see or understand our own fullness. There is so much more to say about this experience, but it is unique for everyone, which I also like.
Nov 6, 2022·edited Nov 6, 2022Liked by Pádraig Ó Tuama
When I was small our family lived in a row home- the next house had a tree in the backyard and he became my best friend - in the years when I felt most alone. And every school I attended I would adopt one tree to look at everyday and made it my own. Till this day, when I look upon my now 5 trees around my home- I feel peaceful. They ground me and I love each one.
Nature soothes and grounds us no matter our outer circumstances -
Birdsong. Particularly in the early morning, just as the dark is beginning to break up. It always sounds to me like gratitude and celebration, and most of the time it has the power to pull me out of whatever dark or self-absorbed thoughts are clouding my mood. It always makes me think of Henry David Thoreau's quote: "Morning is when I am awake and there is a dawn in me."
At the end of my road lives the 14,000 ft West Spanish Peak. She was born there from the Core Magma and emerged with her radial dike arms to share the kaleidoscope of Life at this SPOT on Earth. Her flanks have held the weight of icy glaciers and melted into boulder-carrying rivers Elk herds nibbled her grasses. Wolves and mountain lions claimed high thrones of power. Sandstone caves were carved for bears to wintersleep. Wildfires have cleaned her closets. She coaches me in holding a broad and steady perspective, participating as is my part and ever-so-steadfastly watching the Unfolding.
I live near the Great Lakes, and whenever I drive past a large lake, I often think about both the danger and large waves crashing during storms, and the peace and tranquility of the surface during times of calm.
It reminds me of how we so often are the same: both danger and peace can flow from our bodies--sometimes within mere moments of one other.
I have a dolphin vertebrae that I picked up while beachcombing a few years ago. As soon as I picked it up it became a talisman. Because it is too big to fit in my pocket it sits beside my oil burner in a corner that has accidentally become a shrine. I have done a painting of it too, to see if I could somehow absorb the contradictory qualities of strength and flexibility that backbones gift a body. I wish it to make me less emotionally brittle and prone to break. Dolphins don't struggle or fight against the water, they propel themselves, leap and glide by making subtle flexes of their spine. I wish I could move through life in this way.
Nov 6, 2022·edited Nov 7, 2022Liked by Pádraig Ó Tuama
When I think of an image that holds me together it is the image of a cradle. To me the Sukkah is a cradle held by the fullness of the moon.
The Sukkah is an ancient jewish structure, built in our backyard every fall. It is a fragile dwelling created and decorated from nature, meant to be open on all sides to the elements, open to the sky above. It is a "container" for people to break bread together in hospitality, with both family and strangers. The holiday of Sukkot is my favorite and celebrates the abundance of the earth's gifts. It is an agricultural holiday "fixed" within the lunar/solar interplay of the jewish calendar, therefore always falls on a full moon. So there is the comforting tension of movement and stability. Sukkot meant as a welcoming abode, a cradle of comfort but also one of vulnerability, a raw and sweet place of thankfulness and abundance. We are to be reminded of both the glory and limits of our human power to create and that we are always guided by, held by and in partnership with a Source greater than we are. The roof is to be covered with branches but not so densely that we cannot see at least 3 starts above. within the expansive sky.
One of my favorite prose works is written by James Agee: Knoxville: Summer of 1915. And just as the Sukkah is a cradle held by the fullness of the moon, so is the music written by Samuel Barber a cradle for the adapted text of Agee's prose. The final lines with music are glued to my soul:
I begin most days walking along a quiet beach on the Atlantic Ocean. I inventory the trash and treasures that have washed ashore. Every day, something new. There were years when I tried to tame the tides, stood their like a crazed conductor, insisting the waves comply. And the more recent years where "Breathing Underwater" (thank you poet Carol Bieleck!) feels like a worthier practice. There is no place where I feel smaller and no place where I feel more capable of sorting out the big stuff. The ocean teaches me to be with my breath—even when it's erratic, even when a snorkel is required.
Any and all images of plants that insist on growing in the cracks of concrete and bricks - places where it seems impossible to be. And yet - there they are over and over again.
Lately, I've been thinking of the image of the night and its darkness - and how all light/life comes from darkness. But, if you've ever seen a New Mexico night sky, you know it isn't darkness at all - but that it is ablaze with light and music. As we turn toward winter in the Northern hemisphere, we turn to a time of rest, reflection and - ideally - rejuvenation. The light and growth of spring doesn't happen without the darkness of winter. We hear that to the point of cliché. But what does it mean to practice that in my own life? What should I fallow so that other areas of my life can grow? Can I embrace the dark as a friend and blessing - as a necessary and welcome location within which to rest?
Much of life at home, in my young life, was chaotic and scary. We had large oak trees on our rural property, one of which held a swing with a thick wooden seat. I would swing so high-or at least it seemed that way to me-and I would imagine flying away like a bird, away from the things that scared me, and which I didn't understand.
I love oak trees, their leaves, and the tiny acorns that gather at the base of their sturdy spires reaching to the sky.
My son-a woodworker-turned a cherrywood acorn and gifted it to me last Christmas. Like the bowls of acorns I gathered as a little girl, this single acorn rests in a Raku tea bowl. It reminds me that there is strength in the mighty oak, and in me too.
Padraig, thank you for the question and for providing this raft for collecting thoughts.
It is the moon that holds us all together, an element in nature to which I find myself turning often/nightly to remind me that I am here. And what I like about the moon, in answer to your question, is that it is whole, all the time, the moon is always (italics) full. But that isn't what we see, all the time. Each time we look, it is a slightly different view, constantly changing as the planet spins. It's a reminder to me about perspective, that what we think we see or understand isn't always what's visible, in ourselves or others or the situation. What equally holds me together is the part that is unseen, trusting that it, too, is part of the universe, even though not visible just now. The mystery of it all involves a bit of faith, even though things are out of sight for the moment, the moon is still all there, capable of holding; it is still whole...we are still whole, though we can't always see or understand our own fullness. There is so much more to say about this experience, but it is unique for everyone, which I also like.
When I was small our family lived in a row home- the next house had a tree in the backyard and he became my best friend - in the years when I felt most alone. And every school I attended I would adopt one tree to look at everyday and made it my own. Till this day, when I look upon my now 5 trees around my home- I feel peaceful. They ground me and I love each one.
Nature soothes and grounds us no matter our outer circumstances -
Birdsong. Particularly in the early morning, just as the dark is beginning to break up. It always sounds to me like gratitude and celebration, and most of the time it has the power to pull me out of whatever dark or self-absorbed thoughts are clouding my mood. It always makes me think of Henry David Thoreau's quote: "Morning is when I am awake and there is a dawn in me."
At the end of my road lives the 14,000 ft West Spanish Peak. She was born there from the Core Magma and emerged with her radial dike arms to share the kaleidoscope of Life at this SPOT on Earth. Her flanks have held the weight of icy glaciers and melted into boulder-carrying rivers Elk herds nibbled her grasses. Wolves and mountain lions claimed high thrones of power. Sandstone caves were carved for bears to wintersleep. Wildfires have cleaned her closets. She coaches me in holding a broad and steady perspective, participating as is my part and ever-so-steadfastly watching the Unfolding.
I live near the Great Lakes, and whenever I drive past a large lake, I often think about both the danger and large waves crashing during storms, and the peace and tranquility of the surface during times of calm.
It reminds me of how we so often are the same: both danger and peace can flow from our bodies--sometimes within mere moments of one other.
I have a dolphin vertebrae that I picked up while beachcombing a few years ago. As soon as I picked it up it became a talisman. Because it is too big to fit in my pocket it sits beside my oil burner in a corner that has accidentally become a shrine. I have done a painting of it too, to see if I could somehow absorb the contradictory qualities of strength and flexibility that backbones gift a body. I wish it to make me less emotionally brittle and prone to break. Dolphins don't struggle or fight against the water, they propel themselves, leap and glide by making subtle flexes of their spine. I wish I could move through life in this way.
When I think of an image that holds me together it is the image of a cradle. To me the Sukkah is a cradle held by the fullness of the moon.
The Sukkah is an ancient jewish structure, built in our backyard every fall. It is a fragile dwelling created and decorated from nature, meant to be open on all sides to the elements, open to the sky above. It is a "container" for people to break bread together in hospitality, with both family and strangers. The holiday of Sukkot is my favorite and celebrates the abundance of the earth's gifts. It is an agricultural holiday "fixed" within the lunar/solar interplay of the jewish calendar, therefore always falls on a full moon. So there is the comforting tension of movement and stability. Sukkot meant as a welcoming abode, a cradle of comfort but also one of vulnerability, a raw and sweet place of thankfulness and abundance. We are to be reminded of both the glory and limits of our human power to create and that we are always guided by, held by and in partnership with a Source greater than we are. The roof is to be covered with branches but not so densely that we cannot see at least 3 starts above. within the expansive sky.
One of my favorite prose works is written by James Agee: Knoxville: Summer of 1915. And just as the Sukkah is a cradle held by the fullness of the moon, so is the music written by Samuel Barber a cradle for the adapted text of Agee's prose. The final lines with music are glued to my soul:
On the rough wet grass
Of the backyard
My father and mother have spread quilts
We all lie there, my mother, my father, my
uncle, my aunt,
And I too am lying there.
They are not talking much, and the talk is
quiet.
Of nothing in particular,
of nothing at all.
The stars are wide and alive,
They seem each like a smile
Of great sweetness,
And they seem very near.
All my people are larger bodies than
mine,
With voices gentle and meaningless
Like the voices of sleeping birds.
One is an artist, he is living at home.
One is a musician, she is living at home.
One is my mother who is good to me.
One is my father who is good to me.
By some chance, here they are,
All on this earth;
And who shall ever tell the sorrow
Of being on this earth, lying, on quilts,
On the grass,
In a summer evening,
Among the sounds of the night.
May God bless my people,
My uncle, my aunt, my mother, my good
father,
Oh, remember them kindly in their time
of trouble;
And in the hour of their taking away.
After a little
I am taken in
And put to bed.
Sleep, soft smiling,
Draws me unto her:
And those receive me,
Who quietly treat me,
As one familiar and well-beloved in that
home:
But will not, oh, will not,
Not now, now ever;
But will not ever tell me who I am.
I begin most days walking along a quiet beach on the Atlantic Ocean. I inventory the trash and treasures that have washed ashore. Every day, something new. There were years when I tried to tame the tides, stood their like a crazed conductor, insisting the waves comply. And the more recent years where "Breathing Underwater" (thank you poet Carol Bieleck!) feels like a worthier practice. There is no place where I feel smaller and no place where I feel more capable of sorting out the big stuff. The ocean teaches me to be with my breath—even when it's erratic, even when a snorkel is required.
A bridge between extant realities and imagined alternatives
A butterfly promising metamorphosis and transformation
A tree anchored and reaching for the sky
The many faces of humanity
The moon brightening a dark night
A song bird out of the blue
The ripple and reverberation of a kind deed
Unexpected beauty renewing improbable life, faith and hope..
In different places and different times different images anchor and inspire me.
Any and all images of plants that insist on growing in the cracks of concrete and bricks - places where it seems impossible to be. And yet - there they are over and over again.
The beach in Tofino, BC. Tides rise, tides fall, waves are ever-crashing, but I’m safe.
Trees grounded, strong and flexible trunks to embrace, branches reaching reaching for the sky.
Gentle waterfalls flowing fluid into a calm refreshing pool perhaps a hidden space behind the falls to sit against moss covered rock.
I love your questions!
How timely Padraig! Just wrote this to share w my writing group. Thank you for this space.
Nebraska Sandhills
This prairie sky
edging out the horizon
filling it with great nothing...
but dreams,
wind and dust and
grass shushing, shushing -
a great breath of lung.
It takes my breath,
it gives me breath,
makes me small and small, until
the universe
right in the middle of my chest.
Good morning Pádraig and fellow seekers.
My contribution:
Life events had taken me
Far from home to Nevada
My day off was Sunday
And I was powerfully drawn to hike
The apparent harshness of desert and mountain
On a steep climb one day
I paused to catch my breath
There was a break in the trees to my left
Through that window
Far in the distance
A radiant snow-capped mountain peak appeared
And life made sense again
"All will be well
And all manner of things will be well"
— Julian of Norwich
A beautiful Sunday to all!