January 19th, 2012

alan - joshua tree bloom


I love the comedic wit of Steven Wright.  As I sit here, squirming around ways to distract, I am brought to light by this quote.  I wonder if this is how we live a life.  The pages are numbered.  What do we place on the lines?  

          I'm writing a book. I've got the page numbers done.

                                            Steven Wright


Marion Rosen

Marion Rosen passed last night, transitioned.  She was 97.

I am reading an intriguing book, A History of Ancient Britain, by Neil Oliver.  

He writes: “Fernand Braudel, leader of the Annales School after the Second World War, developed this as the concept of the longue duree – the long term. He imagined time like an ocean. On the surface are bubbles and flecks of foam that come and go in the blinking of an eye. These are the moments we humans can perceive, the actions of individuals and the stuff of years. The bubbles and flecks ride on waves that are like the lifespans of nations and empires, and the substance of centuries at least. Finally, down in the dark are the great, impossibly slow ripples within the deep that support, and occasionally move, everything above.”

I believe Marion's work will go on, as more than the actions of an individual.  She touched deeply into the human body, the human soul.  Her work, Rosen Method Bodywork and Movement,  evolves and ripples within a deep place that supports, and occasionally moves, everything above.

My head is deeply and reverently bowed to a woman who has had an incredible impact on my life.   I am grateful to her, and for her.   Today a huge community grieves the loss of this woman who lifted and opened the soul.

She was always approachable, always deeply human, even as she lived revealing layers of light. 


mission blue butterfly

Jane Hirshfield

I sit here tonight, candles lit, a fire in the fireplace.  The rain has returned, and the "spare the air" days are gone.  I think I feel  "largeness pass through me".    

The Supple Deer

The quiet opening
between fence strands
perhaps eighteen inches.

Antlers to hind hooves,
four feet off the ground,
the deer poured through.

No tuft of the coarse white belly hair left behind.

I don't know how a stag turns
into a stream, an arc of water.
I have never felt such accurate envy.

Not of the deer:

To be that porous, to have such largeness pass through me.

- Jane Hirshfield