I’m struck by the flowers blooming along the path into the library. The rise seems so effortless. I’m with these words of Bruce Lee from his book, Be Water, My Friend.
Who is there that can make muddy waters clear? But if allowed to remain still, it will become clear of itself. Who is there that can secure a state of absolute repose? But keep calm and let time go on, and the state of repose will gradually arrest.
When I’m outside these days, butterflies are fluttering all about me. It’s springtime, a time to connect.
Saturday, I came upon two Monarchs mating, and stopped to take pictures thinking it would be short-term, but finally exhausted from watching all the fluttering, I left. At home, I read that when monarchs mate, the male uses the claspers on the end of his abdomen to attach to the vaginal groove of the female. Once attached, the female cannot get away, and the male transfers spermatophore components to the female in a process that can take up to 16 hours.
16 hours and without Viagra. Amazing.
As I continue to go to the natural world to counteract the news, I’m with the last stanza of William Stafford’s poem, “A Message from Space” from his book The Way It Is.
And then the green of leaves calls out, hills
where they wait or turn, clouds in their frenzied
stillness unfolding their careful words:
“Everything counts. The message is the world.”
Because I’m too old to be an astronaut viewing our fragile, diverse planet from space, I left the fog to drive up to the top of Mt. Tam, and circle through landscapes.
I walked Tennessee Valley today along with many others who were drawn outside to celebrate the day. It was so warm I felt like a cormorant drying my wings as I walked with arms outspread. Butterflies called by the sun swarmed around me like a cocoon. Water streamed down the hills to join the ocean as one.
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I have to laugh when Trump says:“The cheating is rampant in our elections. It’s rampant. … They want to cheat. They have cheated. And their policy is so bad that the only way they can get elected is to cheat and we’re going to stop it.”
Who’s in office? Is he admitting he cheated to get there? That’s what I conclude.
To anchor myself amidst the lies, I’m reading Evelyn Underhill’s book Practical Mysticism. Written in 1914 to counteract the horror of World War I, she leads us within to nourish, and to bring forth the supple sensing that connects us with wonder and awe.
It’s raining here, inviting an invitation to ground and rise.
This morning at Stinson Beach.
Grandson has been here visiting. Inspired by the work of David M. Bird, he headed out into the yard to create his own additions to the garden. Check David out here: https://www.davidmbird.com
I head outside and walk briskly feeling I’m back in the Midwest where I grew up. No loitering or sitting on benches, just moving along, as I hope the country does as we strive for and implement morality, and cultivate and honor democracy.
I read that salmon are in Coyote Creek near where I live, so I went to check and didn’t see any today, which may be because the tide is pouring in, so no ducks, fish, or otters, only waves in the water and reeds.
I’m with words from Anne Bancroft in Weavers of Wisdom: The Senecas hold a stone and when it becomes warm and pulsing, they enter the silence within.
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