I estimate I’ve seen an indigo bunting about four, five at most, times in my life, always without searching for them. Today was one of those times, thanks to my first grader who is sort of being home-schooled at the moment given the virus. Each time I can’t quite believe the intensity of the blue.
Young Waldo comes of age, packed with ideals and oats, spends a decade on love’s battlefield, confronts the sinister edifice of romantic indifference and torpitude gone viral, goes back to the drawing board and resolves to double-down on his humanity, his mantra: “yes”…
So many precious moments I’ve lived, putting him to sleep after a long story. That sweet sweet interlude afterwards as he drifts off to paradise.
It is absolutely impossible to do certain spiritual exercises if you are habituated to an alarm clock. That most insidious of imaginary necessities. And that’s all I am going to say about it…
Every year he comes briefly and faithful like wild violets, 8 or 9 seasons now, long as I defy the clock and occupy astounded this abode. It’s not true, how things seem, that he projects staunch solitude and won’t converse. But you must approach with reverence for nature, and show you’ve learnt how human natures all command respect. Else most you’ll get is a tipped forehead and good day.
Advisory messages heard at the edge of an early spring’s rushing mountian stream, swollen and forceful with surging transformed snowmelt… Tell of what you’ve seen and know, living waters!
Westernized Neo-Buddhism is eager at every opportunity to point out that Self is maya, an apparition, while the doctrine of no-self, anatta, is an early gleaned fruit on the path. I think this is both wrong and an incomplete interpretation. In truth, the conception of Self is evolving, and must do so more, especially now. This is the openly secret message behind the radical Gospel indication of I AM, most clearly evidenced in John. There are stages of I-ness which unfurl to the aspirant, qualities shed and cultivations added. A faucet spills liquid ceaselessly in a theater of consciousness. First we are the water; then with considerable effort we may become the faucet; perhaps later still the force of will which regulates the whole meshugina. But this is still only a beginning… Happy Easter!
Where did IT (Information Technology) come from? And what is it’s underlying premise? The factually inclined rush to their Wikipedias and mime out the history. But suppose you wished to distract two or three generations of logically oriented career seekers away from reality? Could you do better than to ‘invent’ IT?
First you don’t see
this light within,
you intend it.
You make word flesh.
_______RS
[ Image : I came upon this image within the past week or so, but cannot for gold, frankincense or myrrh recall where. If you’ve seen the source kindly tell me so I can acknowledge the creator. ] (link)
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I heard that story, a month ago, about some radio station in Ohio or somewhere proclaiming they’d banned any further airplay of “Baby It’s Cold Outside” due to its supposedly Neanderthal take on #me-too morays. Don’t really like the song that much, but my gut reaction was to organize a marathon podcast featuring every cover of the song I could find. Then a dream came a few nights later, resolving the matter in a different direction. Adapted below… it takes place probably somewhere in the mid 2030s.
