Oh, we understand our ridiculousness. Our knee socks and plastic bottles strapped to our waists like warriors from the land of mini-vans and family calendars. Our matching jackets. Our lubricants. Our expensive shoes and cheap talk. The watches we buy. All the slaughtered mornings and the final snap of the gun. But run with us…
Oh, hands on bells, your joy brief and ever so slightly disfigured. You stop us with our groceries to wonder. CLICK TO LISTEN TO THE RECORDING
Flour, yeast, salt, sky. Three babies tucked into bed and bread rising in the wood stove. Give us this day. CLICK TO LISTEN TO THE RECORDING
All hell breaking, and a daughter standing. The angry sky twisting in her painterly arms. (Image and audio courtesy of Tara Bryan, www.tarabryan.com) CLICK ON THE RECORDING
The sky falls, the fire licks. Oh, gentling smoke we are all dancing elephants. CLICK ON THE RECORDING
Morning, minding its business. May two-four debris scattered to the wind. CLICK ON THE RECORDING TO LISTEN
The river clears its throat. Shimmies right, then left. The children’s cold fingers pulling at its coat sleeves. CLICK ON THE RECORDING TO LISTEN
Bent to the sickle and feet in the grain. The whole country moves to the rhythm of the rain. CLICK ON RECORDING TO LISTEN
“The sherpas are alert for ways in which to be of use… their dignity is unassailable, for the service is rendered for its own sake — it is the task, not the employer, that is served. As Buddhists, they know that the doing matters more than the attainment or the reward, that to serve in…
I stumble out of a vintage Mercedes to hunker in the stubble, blend into the background like a roman candle, tape recorder tipped in your general direction. You catch my eye as if to say that this spilling of the fruit is only part of it, the grains under your feet and in the cracks…
