My Own Writings-Two

Our true being consists of thought. Our flesh and bones merely support our thoughts. Our only true possessions are our thoughts, and they don't have any weight, or form, or existence outside of us. A thought cannot be seen or felt, and it can't be known by anyone else if we don't want them to know.

A thought is as linked with the past in memory as with the present, can conceive of a mountain on one hand and a housefly on the other, and can relate to the stars above or the dust at our feet.

Sunset

I like best that time of day when the last birds are seen hastening their way to their nights abode as the sun sets. It is very still, and the air has a hint of coolness, while across the far horizon a few red strips of clouds lie suspended. Behind my shoulder a bright yellow half-moon stands out in the clear blue sky.

For a few moments time seems to stop as nothing moves, and then suddenly it becomes dark. It is those few moments just before dark that I prefer. It is then that I wish to be out so that I can put the finishing touches on my day, and so that I can recover my lost dreams.

After A Rain

How glossy the leaves are after a rain. They shine and seem to emit a coolness. It simply does not seem like the same world after a rain. Luscious scenes replace dry, parched scenes. Particularly a spring or summer rain produces spectacular changes.

The mist fills the valleys after a rain, and the green is so much brighter and the air so much fresher. It is like being witness to a miracle everytime it rains. Right after a rain when the water is still dripping from the trees is a good time to step out and breathe deeply.

The Bad Days

There are days that paralyze us with their venom. There are days that take all the heart out of us. There are days that strike us down like a fallen bird, and it seems for all the world like we are down there to stay.

There are days that slash us to the bone and pain us long after they are gone. There are days that tear down all the dreams that we have ever piled up, and leave us standing there bewildered without anything, anything at all.

A Quiet Place

Our only way to recover from the bad days is to find a quiet place. Finding that quiet place is not always easy. It might be a retreat, our favorite nook, or a place of beauty and serenity in Nature. It might not really be a place at all, but somewhere deep inside us, or maybe even another form of being, kind of like out of the body so to speak, like the other side of the looking glass. So much of what we see and hear, the here and now, drowns and suffocates us with it's noise and furor. If we can't escape it then we will go under the waves.

A Hummingbird

That there exists in our world a hummingbird is ample proof of God's loving spirit. Here is a little bundle of cheerfulness, a tiny ray of beauty, dipped from the finger of the Creator. The little hummingbird with his green back and ruby throat is truly a beautiful sight--that is if we ever get to see him.

Generally we just get a glance of him because he moves too fast and is so tiny. Often our first intimation of the hummingbird is to hear that peculiar whirring noise his wings make. In contrast to other birds, the hummingbird has the knack for standing in mid-air and thrusting his long thin beak into flowers. The wings move so fast that we can't really see them.

Aided by those wings the hummingbird darts about with lightening speed, starts and stops in mid-air, and literally performs unbelievable feats. The hummingbird has two very small specks, black and luminous, for eyes, which see exceedingly well, since it is nearly impossible to sneak up on him as he gives a shrill whistle of fright and flies off to visit another flower.

The Whippoorwill

It has been my pleasure often in the cool of the evening to listen to the whippoorwill. He fairly shatters the stillness with his beautiful song, and yet he not so much interrupts the peace of the evening as he adds to the seeming tranquillity. The whippoorwill seems so much apart of the night and the sounds that are prevalent then, that we often are unconscious of his singing as he blends in with all the other nighttime sounds.

He is a part of the summer night. The night would not be the same without him. The whippoorwill seems to call the darkness as his voice echoes across the countryside and the night slowly descends. Our cares seem lessened as we listen to him, and his song impresses peace to our hearts, the peace of the eternal, omnipresent harmony of the universe.

We expect to hear the whippoorwill as shadows lengthen and the twilight of the evening slowly drapes the land. On a distant hill he begins his serenade, soon to be followed by others until the night is alive with their delightful songs. All winter we miss his song, and find ourselves lonely, oppressed without the hope and joy he gives. His is the song of happiness, divine acceptance, and understanding of life.

We are made to feel at the sound of the whippoorwill a sense of well being, and that the world is yet on an even keel. Perhaps what strikes us so mysterious about the whippoorwill is the fact he sings only at night after all the other songbirds have gone to sleep.

The song of the whippoorwill is unique as there is nothing else like it, a plaintive, sad, yet strangely peaceful song. The whippoorwill sings us to sleep at night as with his rich mellow tones we are lulled to sweet, peaceful dreams. The world is a better place because of the whippoorwill.

The New Generation

To the youth we must yield the scepter. The babe in arms will be our captain tomorrow. Our knowledge, our possessions, our grasp of truth and beauty all goes to them at last. They inherit the best and worst of us. We leave them our wars, our prejudices, our vanities, and our mistakes.

We hand them the world with all that is good and all that is bad. They will tear down much of what we have built to build their own projects. They will forget about us all too soon, and the lessons we have taught, and the maxims we have proved. It is always a new world to the new generation.

Youth

All things stand ready to glorify the youth. Nature unfolds before the youth to reveal secrets we oldsters have forgotten. Youth is wrapped in the magical world of make-believe, and their senses are all alive and attuned to what is fair. Their vision is more perceptive, and their minds more supple than ours.

Beauty that is lost to us is beheld clearly by them. It is that insatiable enthusiasm and curiousity of youth that carries each new generation into the mainstream of life with something extra to give. They bring with them a whole new cargo of dreams and ideas, whereas we have discarded many of ours. Youth is blessed with unlimited promise, and their potential is boundless. Time and destiny await youth ever, await their strength and determination, and await their boundless energy and hope.

Death

Herein exists our unease, the thought that we are between two eternities, the past and the future, the thought that we the simple and weak, flesh and blood, man and mortal, are so precariously lodged. Our position lends itself to untold peril and vulnerability.

We are pivoted by a mere heartbeat, a breath of air. Regardless of our turns in life the thought hangs over us that our lifetime is only a speck in infinity, a flicker in the darkness of eternity.

The immortal dreams are locked in the mortal brain. One day the blood that rushes through our body like some subterranean river will cease to flow. The flesh which covers our bones will one day dry up like an October leaf, the thoughts that are formed somehow, I know not how, out of this conglomeration of flesh, and blood, and bone will stop forever, and the being, the I, will lose itself and all contact with conscienceness on this earthly plane. One day the life force, that impulse which sparked the infant, will have gone out leaving only the inanimate ashes.

A little flower

I beheld a little flower nestled among a host of leaves, as tiny a flower as I have ever seen. It was just a lttle gleam of clear blue, a little pinpoint of blue in a world of dreary brown. Chill was still in the air, and life in winter's cruel grasp still was held, yet here a herald of spring bravely dared to shine like a bright star amidst all that austerity.

Could I behold that little flower bearing its tender petals to a cold, cruel world to proclaim life's glory, and not feel a gladness, yea, a sense of awe? When life becomes burdensome, and I think the world is more than I can bear, then my thoughts harken back to that humble little flower in that dark and lonely forest with all around alien and austere, yet who courageously chose to dwell in beauty, simple and free.

My Favorite Things

Some of my favorite things are: maple trees all aflame in autumn, the bay of a hound in the night, grasshoppers bounding in a field, bees hovering over clover blossoms, forked lightning in the June sky, frogs peeking from a waterhole, wild geese honking overhead in their familiar pattern, an insect scaling a blade of grass at my feet, rain water dripping from the eaves, mayapple patches in the spring, those little gray lizards that hang around on old gates, a preying mantis on a tree trunk, a willow bending in the wind, the smell of dogwoods and redbuds when in bloom, the smell of plowed earth, the green grass stretching over the top of a hill or filling a valley, quacking ducks and cackling chickens, old houses with great big trees around them, children with a fishing pole over their shoulder, and windows with the sun shining in them.

Summer Evenings

As a child on summer evenings I loved to climb the hill above the house and sit and watch the darkness come. If there were clouds I would watch them drift and gradually change colors as the sun slowly slipped behind the trees on yonder hill. Then, if at any time, I felt happiness. I felt it was a good world after all, and that life was good too.

I felt I was being honored, and that the magnificent spectacle was being displayed for my benefit as a form of welcome to me as a member of the universe. The heavens seemed truly to smile at me, and I smiled back at that expansive view contentedly.

Life Without Her

Life without her is like a day without sunshine, like a morning without dew, like a rose bush without a bloom, like a butterfly without wings, like a bird without song, like a storm without rain, like a night without the stars.

Life without her is like a tree without leaves, like a house without people, like an ring without a finger, like a river without water, like a yard without grass, like a winter without snow, like a lake without fish.

Life without her is like a marriage without children, like a field without grain, like a life without dreams, like a man without hope.

Life

Life, how wonderful to be alive. Nothing can equal the miracle of being alive. Nothing can compare with waking up in the morning and being alive. I feel glad not because of anything I have done, but because I am still alive, because the sun still shines down on me, because I am still able to view the flowers and birds flying in the sky.

I feel fortunate because life still throbs away in my veins, and because life is still enjoyable to me. I still wonder at the world like a child. It still moves me. Curiousity has not yet abandoned me, and the gift of laughter has not yet departed. Those same old longings are with me yet, though perhaps less intent. My trust has not yet abated, though a trifle tattered. Most important of all I still look forward to tomorrow.

You Remind Me

You remind me of flowers in May, and of stars in a summer night's sky. You remind me of the eyes of baby calves, of sprightly fledgelings about to abandon the nest, and of fireflies in the first warm nights of the year.

You remind me of all the things I love, and I seem to love them more because of you. You remind me of frosty mornings sparkling in the sun, of snow covered hills in their robe of white, and of full moons and lightning storms. You remind me of the tranquil forest, of leaves and vines and crystalline stones, and of the infinite in repose.

A Dog

Once a dog becomes your friend he always seems to like you. It don't matter what you have done or whether anybody else likes you or not, he likes you. He comes over to you and you pat his head, and think "I wonder what he sees in me worth liking?"

You get down on your luck, and you don't seem to have many friends, then you step out the gate your heart rather low, and that bright-eyed, happy old dog comes bouncing up to meet you somehow making the day seem brighter. You can even call him names and mistreat him, and he will come back in a little while trying to make up, and begging your forgiveness.

Planting A Tree

One of life's most rewarding tasks is planting a tree, and particularly the planting of a fruit tree. There is this fascination at its yearly growth. We often walk about the yard and note its progression. We anxiously await the spring blossoms, and on the first warm days are out inspecting its boughs.

Because we planted it we feel a certain greater attachment to it than otherwise. When it thrives and prospers we are elated as at the prosperity of a dear friend. Few actions in life give more pure pleasure and simple joy than planting a tree.

The Little Things