"Rise, awaken, seek the wise and realize. The path is difficult to cross like the sharpened edge of the razor, so say the wise." Katha Upanishads, verse 1.3.14
SURPRISED TO HAVE MADE IT TO SIXTY-SEVEN
In gratitude today, I celebrate sixty-seven years of life, forty-seven years with my world-class son, and sixteen years of survival beyond my medically predicted expiration date.
In 1999, I was diagnosed with Idiopathic Pulmonary Fibrosis (IPF) and given two years to live. (No, I have never smoked in my life.) Thanks to the boundless patience and kindness of my son and the compassion and good offices of an extraordinary medical team, I'm still here, sometimes home-bound and always bound to toting an oxygen tank. These complications don't keep me from enjoying the CitySon Philosop...
At the flower market this morning
I thought of us and our naked lives
Did you notice the star lilies bowing
and giant calyxes unfurling themselves?
A painter’s pallette of color there
fretting in terra-cotta, feral and windblown
A fabulous fusion of scent and form,
forests of nectar-pots on knobby stems,
the stuff of heaven for the anthophilous
In just a day or two, they’ll be gone
I couldn’t help but think that these
yes! … these are our human days
our days to sow or steal our human joys
Another day will inevitably transform us
The moon will stew us in a soffritto
of tulips and night-blooming jasmine
At dawn on the day I decide to die,
we’ll sip oolong at the Tudor Rose,
but I won’t be there, I promise I won’t
You’ll eat orchids to celebrate our love
and our ...
A little something from Rilke in honor of the celebration of Penticost this past Sunday and for my cousin,Father Dan, and the Congregation of the Holy Spirit...
And yet, though we strain
against the deadening grip
of daily necessity,
I sense there is this mystery:
All life is being lived.
Who is living it, then?
Is it the things themselves,
or something waiting inside them,
like an unplayed melody in a flute?
Is it the winds blowing over the waters?
Is it the branches that signal to each other?
Is it flowers
interweaving their fragrances,
or streets, as they wind through time?
Is it animals, warmly moving,
or the birds, that suddenly rise up?
Who lives it, then? God, are you the one
who is living life?
- Rainer Marie Rilke (1874-1927), Bohemian-Austrian poet and novelist, from The Book o...