violets

though straggly
soon they conquer all…
violets

~ Issa, 1822

I haven’t had time to write my own small stones lately.  You might think it doesn’t take much time to write up a small stone, but for me it does.  I find it challenging to be succinct.

I came across this Issa haiku after spending time with the violets in the woods and meadows.  It was too appropriate to pass up.  I’m hoping it will, when I find time again, lead me towards writing my own small stones (and/or haiku) once again.  It is a challenging, but enjoyable, exercise in mindfulness.

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breakfast

Little birds — sparrows, juncos, chickadees — dance at the feeder, filling their bellies.  A red-tailed hawk hides in the trees at the back of the pond, waiting patiently as snow and wind whirl and howl.  I wonder if he is contemplating the animal tracks in the snow and on the ice, hoping to manifest breakfast.  Pema Chödrön said, “Give up all hope of fruition,” because hope robs us of the present moment.  The hawk abandons hope and swoops.  Breakfast has arrived.

Fairytales

Fairytales were maps formed of blood and hair and bones; they were the knots of the sub-conscious unwound.  Every word in every tale was real and as true as apples and stones.  They all led to the story inside the story.

~ Alice Hoffman

Brighter flame

Autumn light

Yoga is a light, which once lit, will never dim.  The better your practice, the brighter the flame.

B. K. S. Iyengar

celebrate

Celebrate each season, for you too, are transformed with the turns of the earth.

~ Arthur Dobrin

seeds

Is childhood ever long enough, or a happy time, or even a beautiful summer day?  All of these carry the seeds of the same fierce mystery that we call death.

~ Eugene Kennedy

The land of heart’s desire

I look back with gladness to the day when I found the path to the land of heart’s desire, and thank Fate ceaselessly with a loud voice that she did not permit town to sap all the years away while the heart was turning to wind-voices and flower-faces and the hands of kindly earth.

~ Mrs. George Cran, The Garden of Ignorance, 1913