Genius

This description of genius is one I'm gathering close to my heart 

to carry with me going forward.

To knit it into the terrain surrounding me

as well as the wilderness within.

To follow, deepen, understand and celebrate

the conversation with the possibility that has not yet occurred.

May we all embrace our genius.

kastilwell

Overture of Rain

 These words seem appropriate as the rain falls outside.

To compare raindrops to the thoughts in our brain?

That's a genius metaphor in my opinion.

Today's thoughts are filled with concern and sadness

for those whose lives have been lost, 

and those who live in imminent danger.

May human decency and goodness prevail 

and end this insanity promptly.

My heart goes out to

all the innocent victims

of the unleashed, ego-driven madness

of those in power.

Let the river of goodness

flood the landscape

washing away the transgressions,

restoring justice and peace.

kastilwell

The To Do List

 This thought is fitting for me as the "to-dos" had their heyday this week so far...

swiping the unfinishable gold hem aside.

It chokes me up a bit to consider.

My intention is to carry

 "what piece of time the list doesn't cover" 

with me going forward.

It's such a new way of looking at things,

it will take some time for it to become habitual.

Being home to myself

no matter where I am.

kastilwell

We Are Earth. Literally.

 This thought was too wonderful not to share 

even though I was unable to get a second opinion on the lineage.

I'm giving A. Marcus the benefit of the doubt.

Google says it was him.

Nonetheless, this is one aspect of being dirt

I fully embrace.  

I adore the idea of being a recycled monarch!

kastilwell

Most Productive Years

 This was reported in 2018.

Here it is 4 years later and I'm just reading it.

4 years I could have been seeing myself 

as in the most productive years of my life,

rather than in the aging mindset 

I'd been trying so hard to ignore.

A huge whack on the head 

to the old programming 

with the deep grooves

etched into my brain matter.

The fact that this is a fact,

studied and reported on by a

well respected entity,

certainly deepens the brand new grooves

being burned in as I contemplate

this encouraging news.  

kastilwell

The Mask Now by Jorie Graham

If you find this overwhelming and challenging, I agree.  I am sharing it because, despite its long length and jumble of phrases, I feel it is a potent expression of what it feels like to be a human being in a crazy, mixed up world. (I also think her writing is uniquely brilliant and immensely intelligent.)  

That being said, I realize she's not everyone's cup of tea.  I'm slowly learning the best way to read her poetry is to do so with my whole being, not just my mind.  To put aside rational thought and read it as though I'm walking an unfamiliar path or tasting something unusual for the first time.  Kind of like a wave washing over me.

The Mask Now 

BY JORIE GRAHAM

Dying, Dad wanted sunscreen. Nonstop. Frantic if withheld. Would say

screen, and we just did it. Knew he was dying. Was angry.

In last weeks wore red sleepmask over eyes day and night. Would

ride it up onto his forehead for brief intervals, then down, pulled by

hand that still worked. A bit. Sometimes shaking too much so just

cried eyes. Cried now now. Once cried out light — more like a hiss — was

there for that. Yanked it quick. Needed it so badly, the bandage, the

world is a short place, wanted the illustration of it gone, wanted to not

see out, wanted no out. But I am guessing. The vineyards down the slope,

each latent bud beginning to plump. In the distance, mountains. Beyond

sea. All of it distraction, but from what. A waste of what. The red

sleepmask. I should have burned it with the rest but kept it. The pane

made trees look painted on. Silky. Not good silky. In the next valley once,

hammering. Thought it human at first. The woodpeckers went on for

days. A carnival of searching for void. How full void is. Small tufts of

grass growing so that I can keep track. Taking root is not an easy way to

go about finding a place to stay. Maybe nothing would happen after

all. The hollowing-out now added to by crickets. Spiders making

roads in sky. I watch. Look at, then through. What is the empty

part? Where. Can find nothing that is empty. Seems I should, and soon, as

where would he go, or what would the indented place on the bed where

he had been be. Be full of. He was a settler in that flesh, that I could see.

Not far from breaking camp. Wrapping up the organs in their separate

parts — skin rolled away, eyes rolled elsewhere, the fingers tossed

aside — ash, ash — the whole like a dime toss, whom do I love, what part,

what’s in the whom, what’s in the late, is there actually a too late — 

because if there is I do not grasp it. Mask he calls, unable to get into

wheelchair any longer, stares for bit of time into the air out front, past

feet, out the glass door, to the olive tree and fig. Is there fire in the

distance. Squints once back up the ray of light, up, back its long road.

How far. Mask now. The cremation-decision driving its roots through us

all — roots spreading wildly beyond the shadows of the head. “Neighbors”

will continue to feed stump, book says, long after it is cut, will send it

sugars, phosphorous, nitrogen, all the surrounding trees will try, via

fungi, root hairs, send carbon, send enzymes, whole forest hears

stress signals, will mourn, like the elephant — “I’ve wrapped stumps in

black plastic when they’ve refused to die” says Leila, location Wellington,

posted 4 years ago on permagardening. But then guard down. Eyes gone.

A red cotton mask. An old TWA one. Elastic gone. Cries out if it slips off.

Wants blue blanket. Says blue. Angry. Who was not angry. Nothing

enough. Wants to see all daily tests. Read the bloodwork. Wants trans-

fusions which we withhold. Would open him to infection. Would buy no

time. I’m wearing the sleepmask now. I’m trying it on. Rubberband soft

with age. Adding more age. American red. Red full of noise, of artificial

time. Feels like my face is painted on. A spirit. Upturned, ancient, without

expression. An old stream flows alongside. Glimmering tongues promise

the vanishing will be swift. It’s a lie. The periphery disappears but I can

still feel it, our knowing what’s coming a thicket we got lost in — till the

only thing is now — mask my spirit screams — mask now — vacancy

not coming fast enough — before we have to traverse the riddling

disappearances — extinction says the mask — go away now I do not want

to see you any longer — beauty you are too near — too near — I hear a

blackbird and the shoo of air where it lifts off — why won’t you just

go, you circling winds leaves birds systems directions visibles invisibles

honeysuckle limbs and rose gaining self-song, motion, entering this

continuum — oh continuum do not lie to me with this delicate weight of

time, this floating of as ifs and further-ons and all your guides to

dreaming, abundance, the coming true of the true. No. From under here,

listening hard, light feels around me almost visible, doused with

benzene, and time goes away, and my eyes feel on them the small weight,

the minuscule no to things, which I can conjure, which I think I know by

heart, but no, I do not, I need the mask. And it feels like an

idea. We are in a cave now. It is a hundred million years ago. They will

bring the meds again now and the urine pot — he yells for it — but for now

under the mask it is a lowly spot, you can make dawn come

you can feel us inherit the earth, the jay shifts in the tree and you can

hear it. There is little. You hear the little. Hear the head snapped on the

stem. Hear the angel trapped in the stone. Hear pure chance which

sounds like a boy marching alongside an army wanting to enlist. The

year is 1490, 380, 1774, 10 BCE. You hear the outline in the tree — why — 

because it touches the other outlines. If I try to raise the mask the hand

he can barely use flutters angry bird wing at me. Would hit me with

finger wings but too broken. Maybe in Lee’s army, maybe in Grant’s. It

made no difference in the end. Maybe in Caesar’s maybe in Christ’s. The

trillions seem more clear than ever in the day behind the mask. The dark

gray of the fever feels every inch of the bark. Freckled, the pure

proclamations being made by the light. It is not day it is saying, bright as

quicklime, text of flames he can hear — no, not day — day sprawls under

to let us flow through over its parched back. Lies flat. Lie flat day he

thinks under the red mask. Spread yourself over us light, the dead at

Antietam yes his people, both sides, the cufflinks in the drawer he will

not see again — they were Lee’s he would say — they were Grant’s — I saw

the will of the Davis side — I did — he says, smell of gravel coming from

the path, day sitting now over us like a lioness. It is neither dark nor

light. As if you are the place where the branch was sawed off — that place

on the oak — and air silently touched your new raw end. You put it on,

you pull it down, and then effort, enlistment, singing, and you are given a

fine practitioner’s absence, you are a purpose surrounded by chance, a

hole in chance. You can feel the clouds move over the sun from here. You

can hear the sun return and insect-hum spray up. You can lie still and feel

this is the ultimate price. You feel it getting paid. By you. It is you.

Two Thoughts In Our Head

 I've had this quote lying in the wings for awhile.  

(I thought his recent conversation with Katherine May 

on the On Being website was provocative.)

It seems pertinent to the discussion

on starting something new.

I LOVE my routine. 

 I've come to realize this more and more

especially when something interrupts it.

Now I'm coaching myself amidst the annoyance

to view it as an experience 

activating neurons in my brain 

which are growing new projections 

and forming new connections.

Its a chance to visit the wilderness

part of my inner territory.

I'm going where this woman has not gone before.

In a way, its like becoming an explorer of the wild inside!

It helps reorient my strong aversion to finding myself

in unexpected and uncertain terrain.

kastilwell

Get Started

 Getting started with something new and unfamiliar is scary. 

Whenever I consider what to do next, I recall

David Whyte's poem, Start Close In.  

(I'll include it at the end.)

What I take away from the poem

is to listen deeply to your own heart.

Don't let others expectations and assumptions

distort your view or make you feel obligated.

Let it be YOUR next step.

(It doesn't necessarily have to be 

the one you don't want to take, 

it could be the one that scares you the most 

or is the hardest one to pull off.)

What matters is that it belongs to you.

kastilwell

START CLOSE IN

Start close in,

don’t take

the second step

or the third,

start with the first

thing

close in,

the step

you don’t want to take.

Start with

the ground

you know,

the pale ground

beneath your feet,

your own

way to begin

the conversation.

Start with your own

question,

give up on other

people’s questions,

don’t let them

smother something

simple.

To hear

another’s voice,

follow

your own voice,

wait until

that voice

becomes an

intimate

private ear

that can

really listen

to another.

Start right now

take a small step

you can call your own

don’t follow

someone else’s

heroics, be humble

and focused,

start close in,

don’t mistake

that other

for your own.

Start close in,

don’t take

the second step

or the third,

start with the first

thing

close in,

the step

you don’t want to take.

…

START CLOSE IN

in David Whyte: Essentials

Many Rivers Press © David Whyte

Solitude is a Place

 The world most definitely feels

bewildering and frightening right now.

I've begun to believe what I hear

coming from the outside world

is designed that way on purpose;

to scare the daylights out of me.

These days, I'm doing my best

to overcome my fears

and not only survive,

but thrive in this world.

I do this by telling myself

no matter how loud and

terrifying and confusing

things look on the surface,

there is a river of goodness

flowing beneath the surface.

where millions of people 

just like me are going about their lives

doing the very best they can

to be decent, fair and kind.

Loving others and themselves.

Doing everything in their power

to live in harmony with the earth,

with other beings while

seeking true justice for all.

This vision is my place of solitude.

kastilwell

 

TimeTravel--Out and Down

 Most of my life, I've lived as if I would be here forever.  

As if there was plenty of time to

fulfill all the things I wanted to do.  

When I think of the books to read,  excursions to take, projects to complete, 

gardens to plant, classes to take, and subjects to study, it's formidable.   

The idea of impermanence has entered my bloodstream 

as an actual living reality only recently.  

I'm looking at things differently now.  

The clock is ticking faster and faster, 

from my current perspective.

(I realize it hasn't changed its speed)  

I'm becoming less fixated on "getting things done". 

It's become more about who do I want to be and 

how do I want to live out whatever time is left to me?  

If I get to be 95 like my mom, 

I want to be cheerful, serene and lively.

While listening to Martha Nussbaum's "The Monarchy of Anger", 

she mentions "an examined life".  

That phrase struck a chord.   

In pondering it, I want to say, examined as in thoughtful and intentional 

rather than prosecuted or persecuted or certified.  

Trees provide a rich reflection on this matter.  

I believe I'm doing fairly well on "out and down".  

Standing still, however, is a fruitful area full of potential.  

Thanks for listening to my thoughts of today.  

kastilwell

Trust Uncertain Things

 Talk about honing straight into what I need to hear.

"openness to the world" and "trust in the uncertain"

are definitely not on the top of my list of attributes.

And "willingness to be exposed"?  

Hard no on this one.

I love the analogy of the plant rather than a jewel 

and beauty being inseparable from fragility.

Aren't we all essentially fragile?

Temporary?  And beautiful?

kastilwell

Tending Our Minutes and Whispering

 

I've only this week discovered Jorie Graham

which stuns me as she's been writing poetry

for over 40 years with much accomplishment.

Her poetry is exceptionally unique.

I'm only now, somewhat, getting used to it.

It's like a mirror of the chaotic thoughts and

conversations going on inside someone's mind.

I'm finding it challenging and astonishing. 

For example:  

"Tending our flock of minutes, whispering till the timelessness

within us is wrung dry and we are heavied with endgame."

I'm now picturing myself sitting in a field on a hillside, next to a rushing

creek tending my minutes like a flock of sheep!  

PS: (there are no biting flies or mosquitos in my reverie.)

This poem can be found here in its entirety 

kastilwell

Light In Darkness

May you see your light.

No matter how dark it seems.

It is there, you can count on it. 

I promise you. It's there.

Glowing softly and gently.

Showing you the way.

Accompanying you in the darkness.

Sometimes it's right behind you.

You're simply blocking its radiance.

kastilwell

 

A Brave and Startling Truth

A BRAVE AND STARTLING TRUTH

We, this people, on a small and lonely planet
Traveling through casual space
Past aloof stars, across the way of indifferent suns
To a destination where all signs tell us
It is possible and imperative that we learn
A brave and startling truth

And when we come to it
To the day of peacemaking
When we release our fingers
From fists of hostility
And allow the pure air to cool our palms

When we come to it
When the curtain falls on the minstrel show of hate
And faces sooted with scorn are scrubbed clean
When battlefields and coliseum
No longer rake our unique and particular sons and daughters
Up with the bruised and bloody grass
To lie in identical plots in foreign soil

When the rapacious storming of the churches
The screaming racket in the temples have ceased
When the pennants are waving gaily
When the banners of the world tremble
Stoutly in the good, clean breeze

When we come to it
When we let the rifles fall from our shoulders
And children dress their dolls in flags of truce
When land mines of death have been removed
And the aged can walk into evenings of peace
When religious ritual is not perfumed
By the incense of burning flesh
And childhood dreams are not kicked awake
By nightmares of abuse

When we come to it
Then we will confess that not the Pyramids
With their stones set in mysterious perfection
Nor the Gardens of Babylon
Hanging as eternal beauty
In our collective memory
Not the Grand Canyon
Kindled into delicious color
By Western sunsets

Nor the Danube, flowing its blue soul into Europe
Not the sacred peak of Mount Fuji
Stretching to the Rising Sun
Neither Father Amazon nor Mother Mississippi who, without favor,
Nurture all creatures in the depths and on the shores
These are not the only wonders of the world

When we come to it
We, this people, on this minuscule and kithless globe
Who reach daily for the bomb, the blade and the dagger
Yet who petition in the dark for tokens of peace
We, this people on this mote of matter
In whose mouths abide cankerous words
Which challenge our very existence
Yet out of those same mouths
Come songs of such exquisite sweetness
That the heart falters in its labor
And the body is quieted into awe

We, this people, on this small and drifting planet
Whose hands can strike with such abandon
That in a twinkling, life is sapped from the living
Yet those same hands can touch with such healing, irresistible tenderness
That the haughty neck is happy to bow
And the proud back is glad to bend
Out of such chaos, of such contradiction
We learn that we are neither devils nor divines

When we come to it
We, this people, on this wayward, floating body
Created on this earth, of this earth
Have the power to fashion for this earth
A climate where every man and every woman
Can live freely without sanctimonious piety
Without crippling fear

When we come to it
We must confess that we are the possible
We are the miraculous, the true wonder of this world
That is when, and only when
We come to it.

Maya Angelou--1995

If you made it through to the end of this powerful poem, I congratulate you.  It is worth the time spent, I believe, although it depresses me it was written 27 years ago yet feels especially pertinent today.  But what a world to aspire to!   

"A climate where every man and every woman

Can live freely without sanctimonious piety

Without crippling fear"!  

BRING. IT. ON!!  

kastilwell

Fingers Crossed

I thought this might provide a cheerful note to our winter days.

kastilwell

IMPORTANT NOTE:   Timothy Donnelly is the poet who wrote these words.

It must be a glitch that David Lehman is credited for them through Scribd.

He is the editor of the book, NOT the writer of the quote.

I suggested they correct their system.  

Tender With Our Moments

 This prompts me to tend more alertly to my flower pots.

I love the phrase "each moment beading the rosary of our mortal lives";

as it connects deeply with my upbringing and 

my mother's deep reverence for her rosary. 

It is the first thing she does in the morning

and her "go to" when things trouble her.

It's what her caregivers reach for 

to comfort her distresses.

Her diminishment at 95 

and her oft repeated question

as to why she is still "here" 

is a study in time and timelessness

and how to be tender with our moments,

and each other.  

kastilwell

Feast On Your Life

I returned to "The Best American Poetry of 2020" to find inspiration and something to share.  It was not a fruitful interlude.  While they were technically impressive, I didn't find myself connecting with that burst of resonance that signals connection.   Of course it was 2020.  It was a tough year.  

Maria Popova's Marginalian led me to what I was looking for in Love After Love.  

Something else she said also struck that chord of connection.

"I found myself spending more and more time in archives, perusing increasingly older books, reading fewer and fewer of the new — partly because such are my subjective passions (of which The Marginalian has always been a record and reflection), and partly because our present culture seems to treat books as little more than printed “content” (that vacuous term by which we refer to cultural material and thought-matter online), self-referential and preying on the marketable urgencies of the present. With each passing year, more and more books seem to be written and sold as commodities than composed as torches of thought and feeling for our own epoch, but also for epochs to come."

I may do some digging into "The Best American Poetry" from years past to unearth those sweet spots of resonance and wisdom I am on the lookout for.  

kastilwell

 

Power = Being In Charge Of Your Own Life

 

This is the first time I heard of a bird called a rail.

I love the idea she shows us what power is:

being in charge of your own life!  

kastilwell