I propose a festival to celebrate the fecundity of ignorance. It is to ignorance that a teacher will come. Ignorance is our natural condition. A three year old child will dash headlong, careening through the hallways, delighted with the sensation of his/her play. The child is responding to curiosity of mind and body– learning…
Yesterday was Good Friday. I took a rare weekday off from the office. Since Jesus died inconveniently, ignominiously on a Friday, it seemed right to take the day to consider the way of his journey, and of mine. Do we not all die? Birth and death are momentous events that we all have in…
What an evening at Starbucks! The long table at the end of the room was full. Over an hour and a half of impassioned exchange of ideas followed. The conversation was in the main about the “great chain of being” with a segue into Mandelbrot fractals, a demonstration of which we enjoyed from Gary’s…
There is a gentle rain falling outside. It is supposed to rain all day. The spring rain will encourage the green shoots to emerge, enlivening the melodious birds. Soon they will raise their families. There is a co-joined harmony between seasonal vegetation, and conscious life forms, humans included, that find a habitat, resources of…
There are many Wendell Berry poems that speak to me. A poem has been in mind for several days awaiting posting and comment. This one though takes precedence. There are times with life presents an inflection point, a point of decision forced by circumstances. To do nothing is also an action, but often one…
A Wendell Berry poem, 1988, II It is the destruction of the world in our own lives that drives us half insane, and more than half. To destroy that which we were given in trust: how will we bear it? It is our own bodies that we give to be broken, our bodies existing…
Yesterday, we went to Ninth Street to visit the Regulator Book Shop. It is a small independent place, offering a collection of books appealing to the literary community anchored by Duke University. Many of the older homes in the area have been re-purposed for small business use. The big old tobacco warehouse in the…
Return by Gala Mukomolova There are poets with history and poets without history, Tsvetsaeva claimed living through the ruin of Russia. Karina says disavow every time I see her. We, the daughters between countries, wear our mean mothers like scarves around our necks. Every visit, mine recounts all the wrongs done against her…
The snow lies deep, parking lots remain unplowed. The world has not ended in ice. Not yet. Not today. I am comforted by my customary warm cup of coffee with the green goddess Starbucks logo. Many worship at the altar of the green goddess. There are far worse religious obsessions. With this one, what…
Twitter salvos continue unabated. Talking points of both sides remain unchanged. Trenches are dug deeper, bunker support timbers are laid in. Phalanxes of lawyers prepare further assaults. All will die for honor and country, as the flag waves and the band plays on. The Superbowl is over and the Nation is late in its…
