I sat in the garden embraced by the evening light, pondering on the day’s experiences. Where does the past go? Does it simply melt away like morning mist in the rising sun, or does it pass into a mysterious, invisible and universal library to be referenced for some great, cosmic recollection; or is it destined to travel endlessly around some karmic circle repeating itself over and over again. I’m not sure, but the one thing I am sure of is that this too will pass.
I marvel at the way people’s gifts have a life of their own. They have an insatiable desire to be expressed and will persistently call until answered and responded to. Generous pathways into meaningful action and deep fulfilment, will always await those positive responses.
Thomas Hardy walked here. Do some of these trees remember him? Did this ground feel the touch of the soles of his shoes, and did the stones hear his literary and poetic whisperings as he conjured up stories and poems? Do the leaves in their cyclical existence of life and death carry within themselves memories of his face in moments of creative struggle and insight? Thomas Hardy walked here and the Woods still remember.
Do Daffodils smile? Poets say they do. Walking on the sidewalk yesterday I came across these. I stopped and watched them rocking to and fro in the wind. I detected an expression of glee in their yellow faces, and then I saw it – they were smiling.
Space between trees, space between stones, space between people. Without space – the tyranny of the communal.
Misty scenes always appear with an inherent promise that all will be revealed.
Looking at the way these leaves have tenaciously held on throughout the Winter, I couldn’t help but ask myself – at what moment does tenacity start to become futility? To what extent can stubbornness disguise itself and look good in the clothes of tenacity?
There are times when beauty is shy and hesitates until it can trust the worthiness of the beholder…Beyond the traffic of voyeuristic seeing, beauty waits until the patience and depth of a gaze are refined enough to engage and discover it.
John O’ Donohue
Funny how, without any invitation, certain memories just pop into your mind. The other day it was the case with “Ronny.” I knew him well. The normal thing for him was to be out of the normal. I admired that until I saw his aggressiveness towards the world going beyond the bounds. I knew then something was locked up inside of him. Tragically, “Ronny” never lived a full life. He turned his aggression onto himself. To this day the haunting questions yearn to be answered.
To gaze on a landscape is to see the immense patience kneaded into its ongoing shaping and formation. Nothing is rushed, no forced deadlines, only an interminable working. My little impatiences always gain enormous perspective in such a gaze, and something in me retreats into rest and peace.