December 24th, 2005

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Merry Christmas Eve!!

Good Morning!!

I am happy to have slept this long, and am now wide awake. I woke in the night not feeling well, and yesterday was another rough day, but I have positive intention for today. We are all gathered, and my brother and his family sent sticky buns from William Sonoma which are rising on the counter, so we will have a most delightfully sweet beginning to this day.

My brother is going to be a grandfather in July!!  Yay!!

Someone asked me why I am resisting sleep.  I believe there is an intensity for life in me right now, a firm desire to fully feel every moment, and so, I wait until I am exhausted to go to bed.  I think it is also why I wake up in the night.  I am wanting to explore every aspect of light and dark, within and without.  I feel like a glacier, calving.   There is so much to know.   I don't want to miss anything.  I want to be awake.  

I give you Octavio Paz this morning.  "El corazon es un ojo."   The heart is an eye.    Wow!

And the eye has its own sense of time.  So, too, the heart.  

Helen Keller said:  "The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even touched.  They must be felt with the heart!"

And, then, there is The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint Exupery, one of my absolutely favorite books.   I give you a key excerpt. 

    "Goodbye," said the fox. "And now here is my secret, a very simple secret: It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye."

"What is essential is invisible to the eye," the little prince repeated, so that he would be sure to remember.

"It is the time you have wasted for your rose that makes your rose so important."

"It is the time I have wasted for my rose--" said the little prince, so that he would be sure to remember.

"Men have forgotten this truth," said the fox. "But you must not forget it. You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed. You are responsible for your rose . . ."

"I am responsible for my rose," the little prince repeated, so that he would be sure to remember.

Perhaps be responsible for your rose today, for your heart. 

Peel fully the grace of this day,  like soft, fragrant petals.

Expose the heart,  the juicy, vitamin C filled hip of the rose. 

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"The essence of all beautiful art, all great art, is Gratitude"

        - Nietzsche

I ponder that this morning, as my grandmother's crystal bowl is now filled with slips of paper with written noticings of gratitude and joy.  Chocolate balls wrapped in colorful foil are mixed among the pieces of paper, to add even more color, flavor, and temptation to peek before the eve of this night. 

We will read them tonight, along with opening the gifts, which also, magically appeared.   We seem to have quite the beautifully wrapped pile, as one did not end up replacing  the other, but certainly augmented it. 

I look forward to going back through the joys of my month. 

I had not thought, when I suggested it,  of the pieces of paper, of the moments of noticing, as art, but perhaps, they are.  Perhaps, every moment I notice, we cherish,  is Art.

I carve now on my inside walls, like cave art.  I feel the bison roam and the horses dance.  We are given imagination and memory to notice,  integrate, honor,  and  hunt the beauty in our lives, and preserve it inside, like the cave of  Lascaux, in France.

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Poem by Miguel de Unamuno

I love this.   Throw Yourself Like Seed!!

Throw Yourself Like Seed

Shake off this sadness, and recover your spirit;
sluggish you will never see the wheel of fate
that brushes your heel as it turns going by,
the man who wants to live is the man in whom life is abundant.

Now you are only giving food to that final pain
which is slowly winding you in the nets of death,
but to live is to work, and the only thing which lasts
is the work; start then, turn to the work.

Throw yourself like seed as you walk, and into your own field,
don’t turn your face for that would be to turn to death,
and do not let the past weigh down your motion.

Leave what’s alive in the furrow, what’s dead in yourself,
for life does not move in the same way as a group of clouds;
from your work you will be able one day to gather yourself.

   Miguel de Unamuno