It’s not just about pirates…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Self-expression must pass into communication for its fulfillment.

~ Pearl S. Buck ~

 

I don’t usually get into politics here.  Or anywhere, for that matter.  This SOPA thing, though?  It has me really concerned.

The Stop Online Piracy Act would stop a whole lot more than piracy – and we all know how clever pirates are, so who knows if it would fulfill it’s intended purpose?  I’m all for fair play, of course – and hope legislators are able to find a way to protect what needs protecting.  As written, though, SOPA and PIPA would, at worst,  literally stop the internet in its tracks.  At best, it would make it impossible for me and many bloggers to continue this incredible form of self expression.

In the year plus since I started Carry It Forward, I have met some of the most gifted, talented, generous people I know.  Bloggers, like any subset of the species, are all over the map and yet there are so many artists out there, sharing their interpretations of beauty freely.  In my case, and in many others, there is no monetary compensation.  It’s truly a way to share what we perceive in the world and to, well… carry it forward to you.

Today, I hope you will go to my main page and take a few minutes to view the winter slideshow, debuting this morning.  It’s just bits and pieces of the season – little things that appeal to me, and it might bring you a moment or two of peace.

And then, I hope, too, that you will think about taking thirty seconds to protest this bill.  I’d hate to see so much good disappear…

 

 

 

Timeless words…

The one who loses patience with us
is the one who stays and protects.

You are the iris and the rose
and the fall that ruins the flowers.

Sing the spring and admit that you are also thorn.
Everything that exists is talking and not talking at once.
Everything looks at and walks through you.

The nightingale bestows a definite desire.
There is the ocean and the bridge.
There are these two or three numbered days.

I am none of those.
I am more the way you are,
flowers opening and the soul in silence,
but something in you will not let me keep quiet.

I try to hide like a clever quarry,
but you hunt the hunter and the prey.
You purify by staying apart.

The fragrance of everyone’s laughter
is your work and your gift to us,
as well as the weeping.

~ Rumi ~

I always hesitate to write anything after a Rumi poem, but here I go. Again.

On the days when the world is a little much, when things seem backwards or inside out or upside down, when I am sure that I am not in tune with the planet in general, I read Rumi. I read his words and know that nearly eight hundred years ago, somewhere in the Middle East, someone else’s heart felt what mine does. And I take comfort in that.

And on the days when the beauty of the earth almost overwhelms me, when I can’t count the stars because there are so many, when I am startled by what my eyes relay to my soul, I read Rumi. I read his words and know that his heart was open too, that he saw what I see, that there was so much good in his day – as much as there is in mine. And it makes me feel at home.

To me, his beautiful and timeless poems are proof positive that we are never alone. Every day.

Ten years…

 

 

Ten years.

Ten years ago, I got the call.

“Is your husband on a plane?”

No, he was off the plane.

He was in Washington.

“Where is he, in Washington?”

I don’t know.  It’s early.  He flew in last night.

“Thank God.  Where is he?”

I don’t know.  He had a meeting.  Maybe at the Pentagon?

“Oh.  No.”

 

 

Ten years.

Ten years since I was told “Turn on the TV.”  

Like you were.  Like we all were.

I waited.

You waited.

We all waited.

We didn’t wait together, though.

We waited, each of us, floating somewhere outside our bodies, 

alone in our fear, in our disbelief.

 

 

Ten years.

Ten years ago, our worlds changed.

No phone lines.

No emails.

Just silence and the constant images on the television.

Horror.  Fascination.  Fear.

And grief.  So much grief.

 

 

Ten years.

Ten years to learn that our lives have changed forever.

To tell our stories.  And to hear the stories of others.

To put ourselves in the position of those who left us that day.

To feel lucky.

To feel betrayed.

To wonder why.

 

 

Ten years.

Ten years, almost, since I heard his voice.

“I’m here.”

“I can’t come home but I’m here.”

“Everything has changed.  It’s weird.”

“Why are you crying?”

“I love you.”

 

Ten years.

 

~ clg ~

And indeed, my friends, it has been ten years tomorrow since the day when life changed for all of us.

I wrote this for a concert, Voices of Courage,  which will take place in Naples, Florida tonight and tomorrow, the 10th and 11th of September.  I was so pleased to be asked to contribute my voice to this event – by one of my dear readers and friends, Marian Dolan, who is quite a bright light herself in life and in the choral music world.  She has beautifully strung together a wide selection of amazing music and spoken word in a way that will give hope to many.  As she says on the site, “Ten years later, on 9-11-2011, their stories call us to be ‘voices of courage’ here in our own community, to carry forward their love, faith, hope and light into the next decade and beyond.”

And that, my friends, is right up my alley.  It’s what I try to do every day, and I am absolutely thrilled to be a part of this concert.  This poem will be read in the early part of the evening, and I’ll share a second piece here tomorrow, to be read at the close of the concert.

Ten years.

 

 

 

 

Essences of beings…

What wants to follow you in from the woods?

~ from an exercise on retreat with Jen Louden

The spirits,
the vapors,
the very essences of beings
who reside in those woods,
they want to follow me
into my writing space.

They are,
for all their wisdom and strength,
very curious,
even bordering on silly
creatures.
They are.

They know so much,
you would hardly think
they would have room
in the vessel
that spiritual beings might think of
as their brain.

And yet,
and yet…
perhaps that is how
they came upon
those jewels of inspiration
they float through with.

Encased in a mist,
in a shroud of energy,
bringing to us
all that is good,
which we each see
in our own way.