the bell

moving through the qualifiers and details of time and space i find myself consumed by the forethought and afterthought of an experience as much as by the processing of the experience itself. to know that it is almost entirely comprised of the superficial and that the real work is carefully tucked away inside that experience is humbling and reminding of the importance of maintaining an integrity of presence.

i first saw this clip during an evening some fifteen years ago spent watching the documentary "baraka". i was stunned afterwards and unable to articulate the enormity of what is contained within this film. over time, details emerged that not only stuck with me but called out to be re-experienced. whenever that happens, i know that something essential and powerful is hovering waiting to be unpacked and ingested as a feature of my learning. this very brief and sadly truncated clip stands out in that respect.

variation on a theme by rilke

i recently shared a poem here by denise levertov entitled “sojourns in the parallel world”.

i was so taken by her writing, i thought that it might be interesting to dig a little deeper.

it's a great story of course.

levertov was born in england on october 24, 1923 to a welsh mum and to a dad who was a russian hasidic jew who converted to christianity and became an anglican parson.

with a heritage like that, it follows that you might have the opportunity to be extraordinary!

worlds are being welcomed into your life that bear a little attention.

maybe even some care.

levertov claims that she announced at the age of five that she was going to become a writer and in fact at the age of twelve she sent her writing to no less than t.s. eliot who

wrote her a two page letter of encouragement in reply!

so how cool is that?!

later levertov married an american and moved to america where she became an american citizen.

here she came under the influence of (among others) the black mountain poets who worked out of the extremely cool and forward thinking black mountain college.

(just for interest’s sake, you should read the list of faculty who at one time worked at this college!)

it is in her reflective and thoughtful writing that i find the greatest value and resonance.

if you read this poem out loud to yourself,

not in shame or awkwardness

but full in the knowledge

that these words are your own

you'll hear yourself saying something

so incredibly beautiful and true

that you'll find the moment it describes

calling to you from so very long ago,

this present moment,

or most exciting of all -

the future that you are creating

and bringing to be.

variation on a theme by rilke

a certain day became a presence to me;

there it was, confronting me--a sky, air, light:

a being. and before it started to descend

from the height of noon, it leaned over

and struck my shoulder as if with

the flat of a sword, granting me

honor and a task. the day's blow

rang out, metallic--or it was i, a bell awakened,

and what I heard was my whole self

saying and singing what it knew: i can.

in the course of her writing life, she received many awards, scholarships and fellowships, a sort of testimony to one part of the world that was affected by the power and beauty of her poetry.

denise levertov flew away in 1997 at the age of 74.

a beautiful tribute to denise was written by fellow poet robert creeley.

if you would like to read more of her work, a collection of denise’s poetry is maintained by chris corrigan. google books has several of her works including selected poems, a door in the hive, breathing the water, this great unknowing, and several others.

expansions

when i was a teenager, my parents bought their first house. located very close to the edge of the city, it was a simple matter to hop on my bike, ride for ten minutes and be surrounded by fields. i liked that i could see farms, there's a magic about farms that i can trace back to my childhood tagging along with my grandfather who as a methodist minister, occasionally had circuits that took him into the countryside.

not very far from where i sit, an event has taken place ... well, more of an unfolding actually,

for these things take a year or so to fully materialize.

a field, the edge of a woodland and a marsh, have all been altered, drained and reconfigured to make way for a senior's recreation centre. it's the nature of living in a city that this is a necessary feature of the growth in the numbers of its inhabitants, and in the changes of the needs of those people.

indeed i expect most people passing by, perhaps not having contained so many of the sensory and contextual experiences of the field, the woodland, and the marsh, might instead see the benefit to so many seniors living nearby in having a place where they can congregate and engage in healthy pursuits in the company

of similarly aged and possibly like-minded people.

the part i can't reconcile is the reconfiguring of the experiential map that connects my mind to that

little part of the world now changed.

it almost hurts.

so many parts of our experiencing are grounded in the fulfillment of expectation.

expectation sometimes comes to life as a picture, framed with hope or desire and then

sealed behind the glass of reality.

change is inevitable.

and strangely, despite the disconcerting off-balance out-of-kilter feelings that accompany change

i am grateful for that inevitability.

i could wish that it felt better.

it is, as it is

these delicate little flowers

are attached to an insidious and pervasive plant

it wants to be everywhere

it wishes to contain

it knows to control

and yet it's gentle blue flowers

and pale yellow sex

compromise me

in my wish to be rid of it

for in its most inviolable

soft and violet heart

beats the soft refrain that

is the simple understanding

that everything belongs here

for some purpose

some reason

some goodness

that may be beyond my capacity

to understand

and so how could it be right

that i

i

determine

the merit

or the value

of the life

of anything else

my ambition

living can be like this

a richly detailed and connected entirety

pierced by the soft glow of insight and understanding

more often

i can know the entirety of a single leaf

my ambition

to know the tree

through the leaf

it seems more reasonable

sojourns

when i first read this poem, i felt as if i was reading myself.

i feel sure that you will see something of yourself in this also.

the edge of the sea at palavas gustave courbet

sojourns in the parallel world

we live our lives of human passions,

cruelties, dreams, concepts,

crimes and the exercise of virtue

in and beside a world devoid

of our preoccupations, free

from apprehension--though affected,

certainly, by our actions. a world

parallel to our own though overlapping.

we call it "nature"; only reluctantly

admitting ourselves to be "nature" too.

whenever we lose track of our own obsessions,

our self-concerns, because we drift for a minute,

an hour even, of pure (almost pure)

response to that insouciant life:

cloud, bird, fox, the flow of light, the dancing

pilgrimage of water, vast stillness

of spellbound ephemerae on a lit windowpane,

animal voices, mineral hum, wind

conversing with rain, ocean with rock, stuttering

of fire to coal - then something tethered

in us, hobbled like a donkey on its patch

of gnawed grass and thistles, breaks free.

no one discovers

just where we've been, when we're caught up again

into our own sphere (where we must

return, indeed, to evolve our destinies)

--but we have changed, a little.

denise levertov

the little breeze

the very softness of the skies held wonder and i sensed some sort of divine hesitation - a pause for thought as if the sky was not wishing to hold my attention as much as it was reaching for something far greater and more meaningful - an undefinable significance - and so when the mother bird (silhouetted against the sky ... wings flung back as she approached the home of her hungry babies) descended - i saw an angel and welcomed the new arrival as one of my own and knew that the long pause was meant to hold the sky so very still that i could feel the little breeze that crossed my face with her passage to earth

the air of heaven

why, if the soul can fling the dust aside,

and naked on the air of heaven ride,

is't not a shame -- is't not a shame for him

so long in this clay suburb to abide?

omar khayam

me and my shadow

moritz von schwind a player with a hermit

while listening

to the songs of life

cleverness throws down shadows

and protects me

from the possibility

that i might tell you

stories

that are very true

and so very real

stories about the dark gems

that make their home

in those shadows

dark gems

that are as much who i am

as the star-crossed jewels that i share so freely

my fear is that

they might

reveal that i

am made of things

you could not bear

to see inside yourself

or someone that you loved

that my flaws would become your only sight of me

and you might let me go

this is a learned process

learned

in order to be

gradually unlearned

i am the product

of my self

sullied in part and places

by the life i've led

i am the dream of all that

i could have been

and done

and said

and left behind

and all that i am

i am a box containing moments

you could hold

before your eyes

and you could

(as i sometimes do)

admire

each and every one

as if it were

a jewel

bending

in its crystalline perfection

the colours of life

but in my cleverness

i hide

unsure

of my intentions

the key to the corridor of shadows

well-hidden

the map

to its hiding place

left out in the rain

has mouldered soft

and gone to earth

the sides of you

the sides

of inside

and outside

of this side

and that side

are you more reflective of your mother's side

or your father's side?

not that i'm

taking sides

i mean,

whose side

are you or i on anyway?

perhaps this is your good side

and that is your bad side

maybe you walk on

the dark side

the wild side

perhaps you live on

the other side . . .

or maybe it's as simple as

you live on

the other side of the tracks . . .

no matter

because i'm on your side

and i will stand by your side

(keeping my side of the bargain)

even

as i learn about sides of you

i didn't know existed

visual prompt provided by tess of willow manor

give

when the pink trumpets

sing their petalled song

what walls come down

as the bee

bathes

in its downy prize

i'm a dad

back in 1966, i left england and an entire world to join my father in canada.

he had left a year earlier to establish a life for his wife and two children.

i learned more about the process of that much later when, as an adult,

my parents saw that i could better understand

the terms of the trials and tribulations of their own relationship and how they impacted on life-changing decisions that affected not only their own lives but the lives of countless generations to come.

one day i'll write about how that process affected me

and how its echoes are still echoing.

for now though,

it is extraordinary to me to sit here as a pre-mature adult and think on the course of my life

and the emerging lives of my children.

in fact, it's overwhelming and so i think i'll let that settle in its place.

i love to see, to hold, to know, to be with, and to wonder at my children.

i have been gifted with three.

my oldest boy is alan. he's the boy on the left of the picture above.

he emerged from my first marriage.

alan is so clever, so insightful, so creative, so articulate, and so very much himself.

watching him become himself is an extraordinary privilege and a special joy.

dawson arrived as the first child of my second marriage. he's the boy on the right of the image above.

dawson has so much of me wrapped up inside him wrestling to get out. as soon as he lets that all settle where it will, he'll find himself. i can hardly wait to see the look of astonishment on his face when he finally sees who he is for himself. and only for himself.

in the meantime, it's amazing to watch him learn about the world. the processes are so transparent and so convoluted, sometimes so painfully real and sometimes so beautiful.

alexia (lexie) arrived as the second child of my second marriage.

she is entirely herself and then also her mother.

it's extremely cool to have a daughter.

she provides a necessary balance.

vertically, horizontally, inside and outwards.

for her brothers and for me.

the small and large processes of becoming that a girl passes through are so distinct to those of a boy - and i'm using gender to distinguish but not define who they are - and yet dawson and lexie are very very close.

very.

i love that as much as anything in my life.

it must drive them nuts but i feel a flood of pure love when i see them making their way

through the murk and muzz of their lives

they have reached the point in their lives where they are like cats in their "i need you not" relational pieces but they are also so like puppies in their need for attention and adoration.

i could never have imagined the glorious entirety of being a parent in its all-consuming, all-fulfilling totality.

i'm just glad i get to live it.

happy father's day to all you dads out there!

resignation

william merrett chase mrs. chase in prospect park

we usually find

what we're looking for:

an idea that has its basis

in some far-flung moment

some substance

of the most insubstantial nature

corroborated and then held in place

by the most insidious

and unlikely

of all forces -

expectation

sustained over time

and through space

and experience

and wisdom

and perspective

it leads to this moment

of resignation . . .

it is what it isn't.

the crumbling tower

arch of nero thomas cole

i could wish to live in

the crumbling tower

of evermore -

my days filled

with its unparalleled perspectives,

the wonderings

of passersby,

the music of shepherd's flutes,

kisses on my eyelids

from sun and cloud.

and each morning

at the base of the tower

a basket filled with the small

wonders of bakers

and gardeners

vineyards

and candlemakers.

ride for africycle 5.0

forty-six years ago today i left england and landed in canada.

my life hasn't been the same since.

has it mum? ha!!!

as a feature of my life, i like to help raise money for worthy causes.

three causes draw my attention - pediatric cancer, huntingtons, and malawi.

each gets my attention in a different way,but the one i wish to draw your attention to here

is the piece with malawi.

it's a little country, very far away.

of course it's very poor.

but. there are people there.

people with spirit and ambition that doesn't easily compare to that of their western counterparts because the model on which their scope and expectations are based is much different.

my work to support their work is very simple and in my own view very lovely.

because it involves bikes.

visitors to the golden fish may not know that i have never owned a car driver's licence.

a strange and yet irrefutable fact that becomes more incredible when you learn that my family used to own and race vintage jaguars and has always had a taste for nice cars.

i own two bicycles.

one is a road bike.

a really good road bike that propels me around the countryside at great speed and in comfort.

that's the one i'm using to get me around lake ontario in august of this year.

the plan is to complete the 1120 km journey in nine days.

eight days of riding and one day of rest.

oh boy!

the ride for africycle is in its fifth year.

i blogged last year's ride

if you'd like to read and see that ride then you can start right here.

the ride for africycle supports africycle who in turn support the zomba shop, and grace orphan care.

my goal is to raise money, so i am posting this as a shameless request for you to consider supporting my ride and the work of africycle by heading over to my fundraising page which is right here.

if that one plays hard to get then try here.

because i choose to place no expectations on your financial support,

given that i know nothing of your circumstances,

i would ask in all humility that if you cannot or choose not to support the ride,

and would rather provide blessings and prayers

that you feel comfortable in doing so

knowing that they will be received with equal gratitude!!!

steven

the leading edge

and down the valley through the crying trees

the body of the darker storm flies; brings

with its new air the breath of sunken seas

and slender tenuous thunder . . .

but i wait . . .

wait for the mists and for the blacker rain--

heavier winds that stir the veil of fate . . .

the images are from the leading edge of a storm that passed through here a few days ago.

the words are excerpted from "a poem amory sent to eleanor and which he called "summer storm""

f. scott fitzgerald

the golden horn

the golden horn sanford robinson gifford

the murmur of evening water
holding and shaping

the soft edges

the slow moving air

cinnamon speckled
whisperings of cloth and wood

that was the wall

yes i remember,

that was the wall

where all thoughts of ever after fell

evening was colder

than the season might suggest was fair

the flowers had closed their mouths

for night was dark and unrelenting

my thoughts kept to themselves

as lone birds flew overhead

later i puzzled over the untimeliness

what had seemed complete

yet so unlikely

unravelled like

so much ribbon

caught in the wind of my imagining

now woven into the hair of my remembering

i should not dare

i should not dare to leave my friend,

because ... because if he should die

while i was gone ... and i ... too late

should reach the heart that wanted me ...

if i should disappoint the eyes

that hunted ... hunted so ... to see ...

and could not bear to shut until

they "noticed" me ... they noticed me ...

if i should stab the patient faith

so sure i'd come ... so sure i'd come ...

it listening ... listening ... went to sleep ...

telling my tardy name ...

my heart would wish it broke before ...

since breaking then ... since breaking then ...

we're useless as next morning's sun ...

where midnight frosts ... had lain!

words emily dickinson

i should not dare (david sylvian) available from samadhisound

inside a riddle (ii)

hope so wishes to enter this world

that it will stand

at the doorway

of the little house of possibility

until someone

makes their way

through the woods

and knocks on the door

no matter

that there may not be an answer

they must open the door

and step inside

arms

wide open

no matter that they will see an empty room

lit by a wedge of light

passing through a small window

no matter that they will look around

in bewilderment

looking

for some thing

hope has no form

until it leaves the little house

in the form of you

inside a riddle (i)

by the terms of this world

hope is placed inside all things

to give it life

to help it pass

through and overcome

the darkened days of sighs

and the lonely whispering nights

-

in a world

that has hope staring into the mirror-filled

face of itself

each and every moment

why are

the maps to its location

so often missing?

why are the paths often overgrown and shy?

-

each signpost

points earthwards and skywards

inwards and outwards

the task of finding and following

the routes they point to

is left entirely

to the chance occurrence

of you

the tree world

i like to walk through the woods.

the avenue lets me in.

i call it "the avenue", but of course it isn't an avenue.

it's a human-made pathway.

what i like is

it lets the trees know i'm coming in.

it let's me get to know the trees that are there.

waiting. thinking. watching.

i like the feeling of their eyes on me.

i like the leaning in of their tall green-leafed bodies.

i love looking in to their world.

it tells me so much about my own.

a sudden flurry

the sun

still new to the day

rose soft

and orange

over the river

a breeze passed

in a sudden flurry of movement

like the soft panic of a small bird's wings

catching at my shirt sleeve

causing it to pull

ever so gently

in the eddies and whorls of her passing by

a whispering voice

soft as the falling of petals

avenues

all my beginnings

pass through eyes

that like green avenues

unfold inwards

so like the sudden

pale light

of a lantern's glowing shafts

across dusk's river

all my beginnings

pass through ears

that feel the world

as the gentle cadence of

songs without words

so like the wavering

of a lantern's glowing shafts

across dusk's river

all my beginnings

pass through my fingers

and my mouth

sweeping the vibrating planes

for the trembling gifts

that are so like the soft quelling

of a lantern's glowing shafts

across dusk's river

.

our stories tell themselves

all about us

arriving at simplicity

arriving at simplicity is a very complicated process

i find that i have to discover, live, and then leave

all the complexities

both

you

and

i

can see that in my writing here

(i saw in the mist a little village of a few tiled roofs and joyfully admired it.)

there's a stream, and there's bamboo,

there's mulberry and hemp.

mist-hid, clouded hamlet,

a mild, tranquil place.

just a few tilled acres.

just a few tiled roofs.

how many lives would i

have to live, to get

that simple

yuan mei

the map

i twist as you turn

with your every thought

with my every thought

we shift the whole

i sense

the subtleties

of a sea-change

as the sparkling cloud

of energy that is

the all

of us

wavers ever so slightly

and adjusts itself

contracting and expanding

with each moment

each choice

each birth

each death

-

even the simplest and most reasonable wish

is danced out as precisely

as the tiniest cogged wheel

spins

in the finest watch

and you know and i know

that these worlds that we are

whirl

in deference

to the whole

to the similarly turning billions

i am not naturally circumspect

i am not inclined towards the deferential

and yet

i turn

my sensitive cog

in the greatly and entirely conjoined whole

as i come to recognize

my becoming self

and in those tiny glories

so very much

becomes nothing and then everything

in a way that the surface of this world

has suggested for so very long

i am

repeatedly

i am

-

the lovely blossom cloud at the top of this post is courtesy of my bruvver david in vancouver

forming the air

henryk siemiradzki

just as

there are eyes that cannot see

and mouths that cannot say

there are words that cannot be sung

and sounds

that cannot be played

the music

that passes

through the musician

arrives without expectation

it plays the musician

much

as in our purest moments

we are all God

opening in joyous humility

goodness and kindness

while

learning to play

our

selves

incarnate

she grows at the entrance to one of the little places

from her pursed mouth

come welcome words -

lip-blown and sure -

"oh come child, come and see what awaits"

and so, i follow the sweetness of her breath

drawn in by her petalled whispery words

along the wind-furrowed leafy channels

i crawl and tunnel

past the soft shiverings

and sweet touches

of moss and lichen

where i am brought to exclaim at each and every

of their small wonders

somehow made large in my eyes -

large enough to make me exclaim out loud

"hush"

she implores

"let me wonder at your passage

through a world you must come to know.

you are welcome to be present,

but in angelic guise"

first dance

new red maple leaves catch the first light of day

it's as simple as that

light

colour

life

seeing

one tiny iteration

of the love that connects

trillium woods

entering the trillium woods

i can't help feeling the calm

of the trees

while all around me

i can hear the thrilled whisperings

of the little-mouthed flowers