Summer Meadow

This summer, I have fallen in love with my place all over again. The meadow is a constant source of happiness for both Buddy and me. His smile as he runs through the tall green grass is infectious. He reminds me daily to remember the joy in life. Yesterday was certainly no exception. He waited patiently while I took a bluebell's picture and posed for me as I took a few of him. Okay, several of him. And more than a few of the sky, the clouds, and the field. He sniffed the air, sensing the critters that had passed through earlier, and kept an eye on Ma. He is one fine companion. I may have mentioned this a time or two.

“Ten times a day something happens to me like this - some strengthening throb of amazement - some good sweet empathic ping and swell. This is the first, the wildest and the wisest thing I know: that the soul exists and is built entirely out of attentiveness."  ~ Mary Oliver





The photographs are mine.

Somewhere a Boy Fishes the Morning Away

One of my favorite songwriters is Neil Young. His album, Prairie Wind, is considered by many to be a masterpiece. I agree. It's Americana at its best. Here, from the album, is one of my favorites, "It's a Dream." Happy Sunday, Everyone.



                   



"It's a Dream"

In the morning when I wake up and listen to the sound
Of the birds outside on the roof
I try to ignore what the paper says
And I try not to read all the news
And I'll hold you if you had a bad dream
And I hope it never comes true
'Cause you and I been through so many things together
And the sun starts climbing the roof

It's a dream
Only a dream
And it's fading now
Fading away
It's only a dream
Just a memory without anywhere to stay

The Red River still flows through my home town
Rollin' and tumblin' on its way
Swirling around the old bridge pylons
Where a boy fishes the morning away
His bicycle leans on an oak tree
While the cars rumble over his head
An aeroplane leaves a trail in an empty blue sky
And the young birds call out to be fed

It's a dream
Only a dream
And it's fading now
Fading away
It's only a dream
Just a memory without anywhere to stay

An old man walks along on the sidewalk
Sunglasses and an old Stetson hat
The four winds blow the back of his overcoat away
As he stops with the policeman to chat
And a train rolls out of the station
That was really somethin' in its day
Picking up speed on the straight prairie rails
As it carries the passengers away

It's gone
Only a dream
And it's fading now
Fading away
Only a dream
Just a memory without anywhere to stay

It's a dream
Only a dream
And it's fading now
Fading away
It's only a dream
Just a memory without anywhere to stay

It's a dream
Only a dream
And it's fading now
Fading away

~ Neil Young



Photo of Neil Young as a boy is from the album.

A Light-filled Spoon

My obsession with the poetry of Mary Oliver continues. Her beautiful spirit comes shining through every word she writes. While reading her poem, "Logos," this morning, I was reminded of a poem by another poet, Hafiz, the great Persian mystic. Deciding which to post proved too difficult so I'm including both. I hope you're having a beautiful summer, infused with Love.

 

"Your Beautiful Parched, Holy Mouth"

A poet is someone

Who can pour Light into a spoon,

Then raise it

To nourish

Your beautiful parched, holy mouth.

~ Hafiz   (from,  I Heard God Laughing, translation by Daniel Ladinsky)



"Logos"

Why worry about the loaves and fishes?
If you say the right words, the wine expands.
If you say them with love
and the felt ferocity of that love
and the felt necessity of that love,
the fish explode into many.
Imagine him, speaking,
and don’t worry about what is reality,
or what is plain, or what is mysterious.
If you were there, it was all those things.
If you can imagine it, it is all those things.
Eat, drink, be happy.
Accept the miracle.
Accept, too, each spoken word
spoken with love.

~Mary Oliver






Painting by Andrea Kowch, The Feast (detail).

How To Live In This World

I've been spending a lot of time with Mary Oliver's poetry ... what can I say ... it's teaching me all over again how to live in this world. Each one is like a prayer ...


"The Poet With His Face In His Hands"

You want to cry aloud for your
mistakes. But to tell the truth the world
doesn’t need anymore of that sound.

So if you’re going to do it and can’t
stop yourself, if your pretty mouth can’t
hold it in, at least go by yourself across

the forty fields and the forty dark inclines
of rocks and water to the place where
the falls are flinging out their white sheets

like crazy, and there is a cave behind all that
jubilation and water fun and you can
stand there, under it, and roar all you

want and nothing will be disturbed; you can
drip with despair all afternoon and still,
on a green branch, its wings just lightly touched

by the passing foil of the water, the thrush,
puffing out its spotted breast, will sing
of the perfect, stone-hard beauty of everything.

~ Mary Oliver, from, New and Selected Poems, Volume One



Photograph by Montucky: montucky.wordpress.com