nessie

our very own version of the loch ness monster!

school's back!

school starts here today. 

my twenty third class.

i put this image (the one above)

on my whiteboard at the front of the room.

i tell the students it's a picture of me

teaching my first class.

i'm old enough to be these kid's grandfather ...

so they believe me!

stopping in at the pastry peddler

i love that goodness can shine out from people.

a bakery about twenty five kilometers from home - the pastry peddler - an unassuming and very good place, always filled with good people - the bakers and their customers!

our bikes watching the passing street scene . . . 

billows and hummocks

“the most beautiful thing in the world is, of course, the world itself.”

wallace stevens

this morning

the morning opens with silence.

the sort of silence that says so much more is going on than meets the eye.

simple things.

quiet things.

lovely things

fog

the morning sky is opening up somewhere above the shroud of mist that has settled over the trees ...

this view from my back porch . . . . 

change

somewhere southwest of peterborough - we were sort of lost (!) - this stunning tree says as quietly as can be "i've got to change" . . . .

disappearing into distant hills

there is

in the sight of a road

disappearing into distant hills

something of the lure

of magic

of mystery

of the possibility of fulfilling

the unfulfilled wish

of childhood

to keep on going

with no regard for the practicalities of life

wake

crossing a bridge

and seeing the wake

of a passing boat

so like life

sometimes in the open

sometimes in the open you look up

where birds go by, or just nothing,

and wait. a dim feeling comes

you were like this once, there was air,

and quiet; it was by a lake, or

maybe a river you were alert

as an otter and were suddenly born

like the evening star into wide

still worlds like this one you have found

again, for a moment, in the open.

william stafford

good in everything

And this, our life, exempt from public haunt, finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything.

william shakespeare

a farm across a field

through the ample open door of the peaceful country barn,
a sun-lit pasture field, with cattle and horses feeding;
and haze, and vista, and the far horizon, fading away.

walt whitman

this little flute of a reed

little flute

thou hast made me endless, such is thy pleasure. this frail
vessel thou emptiest again and again, and fillest it ever with fresh life.

this little flute of a reed thou hast carried over hills and dales,
and hast breathed through it melodies eternally new.

at the immortal touch of thy hands my little heart loses its limits in
joy and gives birth to utterance ineffable.

thy infinite gifts come to me only on these very small hands of mine.
ages pass, and still thou pourest, and still there is room to fill.


rabindranath tagore

the sun of grace

"when the heart is open to the sun of grace, we see flowers blossom in their fragrance..." 

the writings of marguerite bourgeoys

sacred spaces

i love the colour

and the symmetry

of man-made sacred spaces ...

 these are from a visit we made tuesday morning to the basilique notre-dame de montréal . . . 

i was last inside this beautiful place forty five years ago!

the simple extravagance

i love that nature's abundance extends into colour.

well taken care of

an abundance of fruit is appearing on trees and bushes which usually suggests that the animals 

that call this place home for the winter will be well taken care of!!!

i don't want to think about the other part of that equation relating to the severity of the coming winter!

why i love to ride my bike

a single moment in a day of bike riding.

can you imagine the sum of all the moments in a day of riding if this is just one?!!!!

remembering my first home

church street, altrincham

afternoon on a hill

i will be the gladdest thing 

   under the sun! 

i will touch a hundred flowers 

   and not pick one. 

i will look at cliffs and clouds 

   with quiet eyes, 

watch the wind bow down the grass, 

   and the grass rise. 

and when lights begin to show 

   up from the town, 

i will mark which must be mine, 

   and then start down! 

edna st. vincent millay

verdant

i remember as a boy visiting a place called lymm dam.

a dark green thick pool of water where
(i was told)
several people had drowned.

somehow the shade of green
and the apparent thickness of the water
lent credence to the very real possibility
that the story i was told was
entirey true.

i cannot walk into bodies of water
unless i can see the bottom.

in seeing the bottom
i see my life continuing as i wish it to.

the metaphor extends into my larger life.

i wish to see my feet
metaphorically

in order to know that i will not
leave this place
unnecessarily
and before my work is done,