June 28th, 2007

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Good Morning!!

Can it be that we are enjoying another incredibly beautiful day?   Yes, it can.  I do not remember ever such a spring to summer.  Wow!!  I am enchanted.

Mark Twain said:

    There is something fascinating about science.  One gets such wholesale returns of conjecture out of such a  trifling investment of fact.

Hmmmm!   Is this so?   However it is, have fun with your brain today.  Take it out for a walk and puzzle a play with facts. 
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Jane's poem of the morning!

The nomad arrives unbidden, without caution.
It hands me its small suitcase full of the familiar and the strange,
Bits and pieces searching for the whole.
Curiosity has called it here.
I am the one who lets it in.

- Jane Flint

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Morning Nibbles, Uncaught!

Morning Nibbles Rather than Flow



Morning light lifts my eyes to the sky.

Leaves fluff like pillows shaken awake.

Green factories function around me.

I peer into lakes.



Warmth already this morning,

a pillow wrapped around

and squeezed -

lemons to lemonade,

I make the sweet.



Moats call to me

moats and bridges.

Bridges open and close.


Lift water from the well

veiled and unveiled

like lubrication and fears.



Brain says hmph this morning to linear thought

spreads cells like leaves in sun

kelp on sand

pretzels and salt. 



Wings of eagles seek to soar

round thermals like turbines

ground air

to pour. 



It’s summer when one has nothing to say,

only to pour

flesh to fruit

seed to core. 



Today I cast

and get nibbles

no catch and release -

no cache and eat.




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stillness -

Tis another night to watch the expanding moon and think of Thomas Merton and his exploration and some of his words.

I came up here from the monastery last night, sloshing through the cornfield, said Vespers, and put some oatmeal on the Coleman stove for supper. It boiled over while I was listening to the rain and toasting a piece of bread at the log fire. The night became very dark. The rain surrounded the whole cabin with its enormous virginal myth, a whole world of meaning, of secrecy, of silence, of rumor. Think of it: all that speech pouring down, selling nothing, judging nobody, drenching the thick mulch of dead leaves, soaking the trees, filling the gullies and crannies of the wood with water, washing out the places where men have stripped the hillside! What a thing it is to sit absolutely alone, in the forest, at night, cherished by this wonderful, unintelligible, perfectly innocent speech, the most comforting speech in the world, the talk that rain makes by itself all over the ridges, and the talk of the watercourses everywhere in the hollows!

Nobody started it, nobody is going to stop it. It will talk as long as it wants, this rain. As long as it talks I am going to listen. But I am also going to sleep, because here in this wilderness I have learned how to sleep again. Here I am not alien. The trees I know, the night I know, the rain I know. I close my eyes and instantly sink into the whole rainy world of which I am a part, and the world goes on with me in it, for I am not alien to it…

—Thomas Merton, from the essay The Rain and the Rhinoceros