Misty morning 4 deer in field totally unperturbed by my presence Kestrel hovering, searching for breakfast Dog rummaging in undergrowth Owner appears "Morning, rather chilly today" We go our separate ways Silence returns
[Verse 1] Peace is a word of the sea and the wind Peace is a bird who sings as you smile Peace is the love of a foe as a friend Peace is the love you bring to a child [Verse 2] Searching for me You look everywhere except beside you Searching for you You look everywhere, but not inside you [Verse 3] Peace is a stream from the heart of a man Peace is a man whose breadth is the dawn Peace is a dawn on a day without end Peace is the end, like death of the war
And also - Peace - A Beginning! I am the ocean, lit by the flame I am the mountain, Peace is my name I am the river touched by the wind I am the story, I never end
I just had a rather pleasant walk out this morning and thought it was worth sharing. It is important to be aware that sometimes the most ordinary activity can give one a sense of peace, a sense of joy.
True Etherea and all the more important for ones peace of mind from that which shall remain nameless.
Why mention his name when we are discussing peace? It detracts from the vibe man... Peace is all-important to the soul on many levels. We can not grow properly without a sense of peace, either spiritually or physically.
Well misty again this morning. Dull and depressing but there is a distinct aura of quietness that I like. Anyway, was thinking that it is so difficult ( but not impossible) to keep a modicum of inner peace when there is so much shit going on; politics, war, genocide, poverty, inequality, the list is endless. For me, anger is always knocking at the door as it is almost impossible to ignore all of this. Outside in the quiet is my haven and respite.
Peace is the quiet you see Traffic out the window Noise from the radio It’s all there as your day The sun is out Broken by clouds Forward through the crowds It’s all there as your day Fifteen things to do Your staff is checked out Your hands redoubt the doubt It’s all there as your day
Etherea: Those are my thoughts also when I think of humanity and how childish and immature and inconsiderate "those who control " are ,concerning most aspects of daily life on earth and considering that they are the only ones that could change it all toward a sane world. No interest there.
"He laid his hand upon the tree beside the ladder: never before had he been so suddenly and so keenly aware of the feel and texture of a tree's skin and of the life within it. He felt a delight in wood and the touch of it, neither as forester nor as carpenter; it was the delight of the living tree itself." J.R.R Tolkien
Last night, an owl in the blue dark tossed an indeterminate number of carefully shaped sounds into the world, in which, a quarter of a mile away, I happened to be standing. I couldn’t tell which one it was – the barred or the great-horned ship of the air – it was that distant. But, anyway, aren’t there moments that are better than knowing something, and sweeter? Snow was falling, so much like stars filling the dark trees that one could easily imagine its reason for being was nothing more than prettiness. I suppose if this were someone else’s story they would have insisted on knowing whatever is knowable – would have hurried over the fields to name it – the owl, I mean. But it’s mine, this poem of the night, and I just stood there, listening and holding out my hands to the soft glitter falling through the air. I love this world, but not for its answers. And I wish good luck to the owl, whatever its name – and I wish great welcome to the snow, whatever its severe and comfortless and beautiful meaning. “Snowy Night” by Mary Oliver
Because there was nothing else to do, and the news frightened me as usual, I took a walk on my favorite trail in the woods, and because the snow began to melt as soon as it fell, everything was wet – the lichen a bright lime-green on the bark of each fallen tree, the leaves beneath my feet deliciously soft as they squelched and sank back into the arms of the earth that shaped them. I picked up one of the limp, gold- toned beech leaves, pressed it to my chest then left my despair on a mossy trunk, like placing a lit candle on an altar and saying the only prayer that matters: I'm here, I'm here, I'm here. "The Only Prayer" by James Crews
Have I lived enough? Have I loved enough? Have I considered Right Action enough, Have I come to any conclusions? Have I experienced happiness with sufficient gratitude? Have I endured loneliness with grace? I say this, or perhaps I’m just thinking it. Actually, I probably think too much. Then I step out into the garden, where the gardener, who is said to be a simple man, is tending his children, the roses. "The Gardener" by Mary Oliver
