Algae: Photo collage by Noelle
It takes a lot of courage to release the familiar and seemingly secure, to embrace the new. But there is no real security in what is no longer meaningful. There is more security in the adventurous and exciting, for in movement there is life, and in change there is power. – Alan Cohen
Waterways: photo collage, by Noelle
“Any path is only a path, and there is no affront, to oneself or to others, in dropping it if that is what your heart tells you.” -Carlos Castenada
Glacial Flow: Iceland:
David Yarrow Photography/Getty Images
I first saw this pic on Bing, but didn’t catch the photographer. Later I saw it posted on a number of Facebook pages. It’s quite beautiful and worthy of admiration, both for the photographer, whoever they are and for nature. What a grand display she offers. If anyone knows who the photographer is I’d love to know and credit them.
Continental Divide: Photography by Noelle
“EVERY path may lead you to God, even the weird ones. Most of us are on a journey. We’re looking for something, though we’re not always sure what that is. The way is foggy much of the time. I suggest you slow down and follow some of the side roads that appear suddenly in the mist.” Real Live Preacher
Free Bing stock photos
Today, I send into your meditation an untethered boat. It drifts in the early morning on a slow moving river, just off shore of a small dock. Bits of fog come and go and the sun is not quite up yet. You see glimpses of the opposite shore with trees and brush, but it fades in the mist as quickly. The oars rest in their locks at your feet. Your inclination is to pick them up and row. Row out onto the river and see where it goes or row back to shore and the dock. Three beliefs arise with this plan. The first, is to validate the belief that you must “do” something to get “somewhere”. The second is to affirm the belief that “effort” is also required to reach some destination. It may seem as if “doing” and “effort” are the same thing, but they aren’t actually. Doing means activity and busyness that may or may not take effort or yield any meaningful results. Effort means work, exertion, and definitely implies hoped for results.
What if you didn’t pick up the oars? If you simply let the boat drift in the morning mist? This brings us to the third belief. Can you believe in the river? Trust in its swiftness? Trust that it is going in a direction you wish to go? Trust that the scenic route, will, in fact, deliver the scenes you wish to see? Today, ponder what would happen if you let go of the doing, the effort, and the need to know where it’s all going. What would happen if you just let it all go and drifted on this slow moving river, in an early morning mist, with no idea where you are going at all?
I feel the lapping at the farthest reaches of my mind from a stone thrown centuries ago
Cracking barriers like a dam giving way
It is more effort to hold in, than to break loose
I have nothing to hold onto
Bits of sand and dust
Everything to give
What is this resistance really?
Rubber band girl
It is plain to see that with what goes out only more floods in
A dam letting loose a rivulet that becomes a stream
A river to a great delta water course gushing into the bay
That opens further to an even greater ocean
There is no purpose to these chains that bind when I have only love to give
Let it rain until the floods have washed even the mud away from my feet
I walk freely in the reeds, a great white crane
Sandhill Cranes: re-posted from Bing photo of the day by Patrick Frischknecht of Aurora Photos
Dead leaf beauty. Photography by Noelle
Engulfed by grief I am driven to my knees, until back bent I am little more than a sapling in a hurricane.
Raging, fists to the sky with hunger for death in my heart I pace the hours certain of Divine betrayal. I am Shiva, Goddess of death. Blindly I plot tales of woe poor sirens must be calling to me from the deep. What wretchedness creeps into my soul as I tediously survey my faults, mistakes and missteps; no less a miser at his ledgers. There is no light. I am crawling in gravel up a mountain with no visible peak, but miles of trails that lead no where. I am confused. I am deluded. I am lost.
Still. Still. Time moves grief as a plowman’s mule. Bloodied knees always heal.
All wisps of smoke curling up into the ether now. Formless fog fading down the river of my life. The moment the last breath left my lungs it was already dead and gone, buried as my ancestors in dirt holes. Air fills the vacuum of my fading past, sweet and new.
When did I leave the bridge? What was the step that took me to the other side?
Kneeling to my sorrow now I dance to my joy. Swirling round and round free as the leaf floating on the current. The sorrow has ripped out my moorings it would seem. I drift with the river and worry not where it goes. I have already been where I could not go. With the hunger and vigor I gave freely to my rage I embrace the beauty of my life. I run with pounding heart captured by the power of my body no longer weighed by death and dark shadows. The mountain has gained no peak, but a fool’s laughter is heard along the trails.
Life, anyone’s life, is an endless sea of choices. Sing my hardy voice of love or hear it crack in the silence to a whisper.
Spit and shine, tarnish be gone. I am liquid silver, glinting in the sunlight.
Free Bing Stock images
The apartment is quiet. I breath in slowly, holding it a moment before letting it out. I breath in again and close my eyes.
What separates me from the great explorers? Are we not all voyagers? Am I any different in substance and character then the captains of old? Crusty souls, masters on open seas, with nothing but gulls to mock their misadventures and palms to hail their gold. They hungered deep within their hearts for other treasures, too. Love, beauty, freedom
I breath in and the sound of my heart beats in the distance.
I stand, eyes closed and breath in again. The clock ticks in the kitchen. I hear the rattle of the blinds as the wind slips in. This time comes the scent of the sea. I wait, breathing silently, until the ocean spray touches my face. It heightens my awareness of the flapping sails. I stand ever so still. Breath in, breath out. Tack lines move across my feet as they feed out. This helm holds the trails of so many hours in my pacing.
The wood of the wheel has a warmth to it beneath my palm. Worn, warped, mine. I stroke it fondly for it is my companion, as much as, the means to find my way. Tidal currents move at angles on the water ahead, but I hold the wheel steady. The ocean moves beneath me and I’m terrified by what I cannot know or see and exhilarated with equal passion.
The sextant, too, feels substantial and weighty in my hand. I bring it up to my eye and hold it steady on my future. It is distant, but objects within are clearer to me now. I can set my mark. Breath in. I am not as far off course as I thought. Breath out. A few calculations in my sea journal and I move the wheel slightly to starboard. The spray rises and the wind fills the sails. That distinct flapping comes to my ear, as a switch of an ignition somewhere in my mind. I hold my breath and listen. The rhythm of the hull rising on the sea surf, then dipping below the horizon with a soft flop.
My heart beats in the distance.
The salt and the sea now envelope me. I run my hand lovingly across my map. A map built in sweat and love, tears and anger, missteps, wrong turns, high flying freefalls and laughter. Yes, a rich laughter, indeed. My map. My life is lines of longitude and latitude and strange sea monsters with lolling tongues. Or are they guardian angels? I’ve forgotten or can’t remember. I have been adrift many times. Always, at some point, I catch a wind and find land to regroup and set out again.
Breath in. Breath out.
The sound passing my lips is the only sign the ship is in motion. I look up. Orion is on the horizon. I am a star gazer and my ship has many ports still to see. Master of my destiny, I am. I breath deeply one last time of the saline sweet air. I lay the sextant down, loneliness settling where it filled my hand. The clock ticking in the kitchen persists. Blinds rattle in the dirty apartment windows. My heart beats steadily in the distance. The map folds close as eyes open.
Breath in, breath out.
Late afternoon at Clement Park
“I have come to the frightening conclusion that I am the decisive element. It is my personal approach that creates the climate. It is my daily mood that makes the weather. I possess tremendous power to make life miserable or joyous. I can be a tool of torture or an instrument of inspiration, I can humiliate or humor, hurt or heal. In all situations, it is my response that decides whether a crisis is escalated or de-escalated, and a person is humanized or de-humanized. If we treat people as they are, we make them worse. If we treat people as they ought to be, we help them become what they are capable of becoming.”
— Haim Ginott
Re-posted from Enchanted Nature’s FB page
There are two states of living. One is alive, alert, curious, inquisitive, hungry, impassioned, in love and with the readiness of a child for the next possible moment to play. The other is to let go little by little all of the above, until you find your senses and your extraordinary mind dulled to the point of a plastic knife cutting a two-day old bagel.
Today I am everything I have ever been and in this day I have more than a million chances to discover someone in me I have never met. This is Wonderland and it was all made for me, as it was made for all of us. This is our adventure. Wake up everyone. It’s time to go out into the world and play.
"Nothing Exceeds Like Superfluous Jejunity "
Stories and Musings on Modern Life
Explorations in Authenticity by Michael Mark
Myths, legends, folklore and tales from around the world
❈ Silvia Ganora Photography ❈
Free to Be!
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5-7-5 syllabic haiku in the english language
Love
Intertwined passions ~
Design, Make, Pray, Repeat
Auf einmal ist alles relativ
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Expanding Fully in this moment, understanding ourselves deeply, finding happiness
Meditation Travelogue 
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