June 6th, 2007

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Good Morning!!

The sun is out.  The sky is clear and blue.  What a shock after so many days of fog.   What a lift to the mood.

Barbara Kingsolver is interviewed in this month's Shambhala Sun.  I believe that most of us have become aware that buying local produce is the way to go.  There is always something jubilant with season.

She says it is not hard to eat in season, that every month there is something to celebrate. 

I have not read her new book Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, but plan to do so after reading this interview.  She discusses in the book the miracle of the asparagus.  Here, she discusses the miracle of the peanut.   It is a good way to begin the day, with miracles.   May yours be rich.

"Peanuts are a miracle.  Most people understand that peanuts are seeds, and most people understand that peanuts grow under the ground, but not many people stop to ask themselves how a seed gets under the ground. The answer is that the plant plants the seed there. The plant has a flower above the ground that looks like a little orange pea blossom; it's in the pea family. The flower is pollinated by an insect, and then the stem of the flower goes crazy. It turns downward, and grows really fast, driving the fruiting body of the flower into the ground, where the seed matures. So the peanut is the overachiever of the vegetable world: it plants its own seeds.  But pick any vegetable and I could wax lyrical about it. I never get tired of these fascinating processes. That's the most interesting thing about food - that it's a process, not a product. Everything in the grocery store has had a fascinating life, but most people only see a moment in the cycle of each food."

Be like a peanut today and plant your own seeds.   Celebrate the miracle you are!!
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Childhood -

When I was at Esalen, I wrote about the child I was before I went to school and entered the world of rules, judgment and competition.  My early years froliced in an idyllic neighborhood where children ran between doors and homes, and all seemed open and easy.  That is my perception anyway.  I know I painted the side of the house one time with mud and I was not punished, because my dad said I was never told not to do that.  My friend who shared the experience with me was forcefully spanked, and I remember her howls, so I know my idyll was mine, and I have been spending these weeks since I left Esalen returning to that place, to that girl who was so mature even at 1, 2, 3, and four.

As Jane and I spoke this morning, she was reminded of this quote:

From “Markings” by Dag Hammerskjold
Maturity: Among other things, the unclouded happiness of the child at play who takes it for granted that he is at one with his playmates.

Perhaps that says it all.   Jane is going back also, feels I have given her permission to remember this place of innocence in her own life, of wholeness.

May we all live Mature, aware of innocence, joy, oneness, and grace.

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My Morning Poem!



After weeks of fog, the sky is blue,

startlingly so

and the trees shrink in the open air.

There are so many held in a bouquet

that I notice the shape of the hill and how

it waits like a bow for arrows to place

and strike some new knowing,

pierce the rocks tumbling now

in me.


My goal is to know how to move

among landscape, to sing a song

of memory, finding firmness

even as I bounce and pounce,

examining bones left open

after skin and flesh have turned

into comfort, zest, and flight,

for the other, not an other,

a slice of the maze. 


I peel myself like an orange,

sit with seeds

and drink the juice,

make then and now one scroll

buried and unburied

over and over again

as time waves with tides,

waits like grain

to leaven in bread.  


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Jane's Morning Poem!

Past the palisades, the river, there is a left turn through the corn
where the highway runs straight to the lake
a tear drop in the plains, fringed by grassy lashes, home to the bones
of the old people.
It never was mine. It was mine only for a moment.
I stand, still, on the edge, outside, at the instant I chose to turn away.

    - Jane Flint

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Summer nears!

The days are getting longer, and soon will stand on tippy-toe, and then, tilt the other way.  Tis quite a world at play.

Summer gathered in the weather, the wind had the proper touch, the breathing of the world was long and warm and slow.
    Ray Bradbury

We have no more serious business today than watching the clouds drift by.

    Edwin Way Teale

Summer is a new song everyone is humming.

    Diane Ackerman, Cultivating Delight

            In summer, the song sings itself.
                      William Carlos Williams

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Poem by John Updike -


by John Updike


From our terrace at the Taj Garden Retreat,
the city below belies its snarl of commerce—
men pushing postcards on the teeming street,
and doe-eyed children begging with their words
so soft the language can’t be understood
even were we to try and were not fleeing
the nudge of stirred pity. Can life be good,
awakening us to hunger? What point has being?

Vishnu, sleeping, hatched the cosmic lotus
from his navel. The god-filled polychrome
great temple towers—glaring, mountainous—
assume from here a distant ghostly tone,
smoke shadows in the sleeping cityscape
that dreams a universe devoid of shape.

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Mindfulness -

Alan Watts:

    The art of listening is neither careless drifting on the one hand nor fearful clinging on the other.  It consists in being sensitive to each moment, in regarding it as utterly new and unique, in having the mind open and wholly receptive. 

Charlotte Selver:

    The question is not what you do, but how you do it.  You can't be in a higher state of being than to be there for something.

And so it is!