Treading lightly the path to enlightenment.

In Days of Winter

Sumac Snow

 

In these, our bitter days of winter,

As bare trees stand, their feet ice cold in the snow,

Above our heads icy North Winds blow,

And from my eaves hang frozen crystal splinters,

 

 

Stalagtite Ice

Let us then retire to our rooms.

Where we’ll sip hot tea and clasp our hands

And know the warmth of love still stands,

While overhead, the Winter Rage looms.

 

Blizzard of ’18

 

No embers of wood, nor burning coal,

As their fire radiates its heat

Upon our faces, upon our feet,

Can, as the heart, so warm the soul.

 

 

Embers

 

Seek peace,

 

Paz

Learned

As I learn more

I realize

Just how little

I know.

 

Seek peace,

 

Paz

Welcome the New Year!

Here we are again. The shortest day of the year draws to a close.

With the Solstice my new year begins.

Sure, we’ll have a party in 10 days and we’ll turn that paper hanging in the kitchen.

(Or rather, we’ll hang a new calendar for the “paper new year”.)

 

My celebration began yesterday. A kind of New Year’s Eve feeling filled me as the 20th expired.

Today the Big Blue ball on which we ride crosses imaginary lines that would be measured in the millions of miles.

As we conserve our angular momentum on our course around the gravity anchor of our solar system, the tilt of our wobbling globe begins to be exposed to increasing amounts of daylight. Starting tomorrow.

Each year, the time lapsed between my longest day and my shortest seems to pass more quickly.

This cannot be, of course, in a system that has had 14 billion years to find its rhythm.

For me, each day is a page in The Book of A Thousand Seasons that makes up my life.

I clearly recall standing under a warm, June sky, setting my sights on this next milepost.

In the past three hundred sixty-five and one-quarter days I have filled my countless hours with more beauty than can be related in a single volume.

From the sky to the water, from the valleys to the mountains.

With family and friends. With my speechless canine companion.

With children and grandchildren and siblings and nieces and nephews.

I have exchanged correspondences with some of the finest people I have ever known.

I have felt kindred.

I have spent silent hours in nature’s lap.

Watched the moon and stars transit the sky.

Waved hello to the Robins of Spring, and goodbye to the Geese of Autumn.

I have taken down from the shelves of the past the warmest memories of my dearest friends.

Lingered over them. Let them fill my spirit.

I have cried.

For my people. For the people of the world.

For my planet, and the delicate living things that inhabit it.

I have laughed.

With the snow. With the sparrows.

With the sun and moon.

I have loved.

All that is laid before me.

All that which my wondering eyes behold.

 

And the Great Cosmos has lived and loved and laughed and cried with me.

For another year.

 

And, starting tomorrow, I shall do it all again.

 

Happy New Year!

 

Seek peace,

 

Paz

 

Reading Rabbit

 

Which came first: the writer, or the writer’s heart?

The act of composing our personal journals causes us to examine the contents of our lives, their impact and influence and relative values. To recall and relive the truly meaningful parts, both high and low, winnow them to their bare essentials, and draft them into ordered and concise prose.

The act of living our lives as “writers” causes us to reflect constantly, day in and day out, on the river of life as we ride along its smooth, wandering courses, run its rapids, or plunge helplessly over its waterfalls.

How will we perceive ourselves, our writers’ hearts, when we boil this down to our barest truths? How have we learned and grown from such self-knowing and reflection? How will it bear us up through our days ahead?

Over time, the writer and “the writer’s heart” continue to blend, until this becomes second nature to us.

To view our world as filled with colors and wonders bright and dark,

and living moments that shall, for better or worse,

be indelibly inscribed upon our souls.

 

Seek peace,

 

Paz

Happy Halloween!

Bone White Moon


Little stir has the air,

Yet a great noise it makes

as it rattles – like  bones –

The leaves on dry skeleton trees.

A veil of vapor rises

From a bog not far away,

Like a specter drifting skyward,

Aloft on nightly haunts.

Underfoot the leaves crunch,

Arid and bleached,

Like the dry, taut skin

of Rigor Mortis.

 

Alone in the sky flies a

Bone White Moon,

Peering out from behind

Passing shrouds.

Silent, and steadfast,

As The Reaper.

———————–

photo-supervisor

Photo Supervisor

Happy Halloween!

 

Seek peace,

 

Paz

October Piece

As an October tradition here at ACZ, the annual posting of “October Piece”

– Paz

 

(Click any image to begin slide carousels)

 

October Piece-

 

O! To be that Canada Goose, and see through those geese eyes,

That patchwork carpet below arrayed,

All Nature’s vainglorious color displayed,

As I fly through blue-gray October skies.

Ah! To be that white-tailed deer,

Browsing ‘mongst the elms and pines,

Walking the tumbled-down rock fence lines,

As I bid the first snowflake “Appear!”.

 

Oh! To be that fox of the glen,

Who seeks all manner of food and forage,

To fatten his flanks with winter storage,

When drifting snows will surround my den.

Alas! To be that little boy,

Raking leaf piles, carving pumpkins,

Stuffing a scarecrow country bumpkin,

Awaiting Halloween with joy.

 

Seek peace,

 

Paz

Cowlture Clash

They say that a gallon of milk costs $15 US in Alaska.

People decry the cost of living so far north.

 

Inuits lived here for 25,000 years without ever seeing a dairy cow.

 

Use your head for something more than a hat rack.

 

Seek peace,

 

Paz

Embryonic

 

 

Cousin Jameson

 

 

For the

Young Mother,

Everything

Lies ahead.

 

 

 

Seek peace,

 

Paz

Helpless

The real world is a constant distraction.

I can’t pass a window or go out to the dumpster or drive to lunch without tracing the patterns of clouds in the sky, the passing sparrows, the shape of the spider’s web in the grass.

She calls to me on the wind, sweet fragrances dousing me, the gentle breeze embracing me, “You come, too.”.

She is the brilliant sun, she is the pale moon, she is the soft pillow of stars on which I lay my head to sleep.

I am deeply, helplessly, hopelessly in love with her.

She commands my senses always.

 

Seek peace,

 

Paz

Now

Now

 

 

To these sheep grazing on the hill,

It is not Wednesday.

It is not 6:34, or July,

Or our pinnacle days of summer.

 

It is not infancy or maturity,

Youth or old age.

Nor a workday or holiday,

Not weekday or weekend.

 

To these sheep grazing on the hill,

To these calves basking in the sun,

To these birds that soar above me,

It is Now.

Seek peace,

 

Paz

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