This is it

If we want to appreciate the mystery of life, it is essential to evade the compulsion of our desires by understanding that there does not need to be anything else in our current situations. There is no greater feeling, state, or condition that we have to achieve. There is no lesser or more limited feeling, state, or condition that we have to be liberated from. This is it. And this poignancy is always here. We can give ourselves permission to experience it; to be right here with it. To be available to it. To be available to the mystery of life is to be free.

    J. Jennifer Matthews, Radically Condensed Instructions for Being Just as You Are

 

 

 

 

 

There's a difference

Man is not a rational animal,
        he is a rationalizing animal.

                Robert A. Heinlein, Assignment in Eternity

 

 

 

 

Connection

Connection for connection’s sake is not the point.
What we want to do is elevate the work of connectors
as the condition that makes transformation possible.

            Peter Block, Connecting for the Common Good    

 

 

 

 

 

Sound of silence

There are all kinds of silences
        and each of them means a different thing.

                 Beryl Markham, West with the Night

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Certainly absurd

Doubt is not an agreeable condition,
but certainty is an absurd one.

        Voltaire, in a 1767 letter to Frederick II of Prussia

Thou mayest

But the Hebrew word, the word timshel—
‘Thou mayest’—
that gives a choice.
It might be the most important word in the world.
That says the way is open.
That throws it right back on a man.
For if ‘Thou mayest’—
it is also true that ‘Thou mayest not.”

            John Steinbeck, East of Eden

 

 

 

 

Poem: Fishing on the Susquehanna in July

I have never been fishing on the Susquehanna
or on any river for that matter
to be perfectly honest.

Not in July or any month
have I had the pleasure—if it is a pleasure—
of fishing on the Susquehanna.

I am more likely to be found
in a quiet room like this one—
a painting of a woman on the wall,

a bowl of tangerines on the table—
trying to manufacture the sensation
of fishing on the Susquehanna.

There is little doubt
that others have been fishing
on the Susquehanna,

rowing upstream in a wooden boat,
sliding the oars under the water
then raising them to drip in the light.

But the nearest I have ever come to
fishing on the Susquehanna
was one afternoon in a museum in Philadelphia

when I balanced a little egg of time
in front of a painting
in which that river curled around a bend

under a blue cloud-ruffled sky,
dense trees along the banks,
and a fellow with a red bandanna

sitting in a small, green
flat-bottom boat
holding the thin whip of a pole.

That is something I am unlikely
ever to do, I remember
saying to myself and the person next to me.

Then I blinked and moved on
to other American scenes
of haystacks, water whitening over rocks,

even one of a brown hare
who seemed so wired with alertness
I imagined him springing right out of the frame.

                            Billy Collins