Photo by G. dallorto
Without opening your door, you can know the whole world, says the Tao te Ching. And I want to believe that, this Monday, third anniversary of the horror-show we wrought in Iraq. I sit in quiet, in stillness; there isn’t even wind in the trees. Just a sky of flat and white. And the occasional appliance buzz.
We didn’t make it up to Portland to take to the streets. Last week, mired in poetry and soup-making, I didn’t read the newspaper and find out it was going on. But we had a day of peace anyway, never leaving the compound. We used no oil or gas which might be a miniature protest in itself. Aired bed linens and washed clothes. Walked over to the next hill to see the 213 new lambs born at the university sheep research center. Walked back, glorying in the brilliance of a sunny, day-before-equinox day. A day of simple hanging out. Tony Soprano in a coma on HBO, the first half of Bill Maher we missed on Friday night. It does feel luxury, to have the gift of such simplicity, the not having to scrabble for survival. While a half-world away, the dying goes on in all of our names. And our Pace flag droops in no breeze.
Interests: Reading, writing, not arithmetic. The art and craft of poetry. Photography. Vegetable and flower gardening especially heirloom bulbs and dahlias. Movies in real theatres. Theatre on real stages. Art in real galleries. Crossword puzzles and, of course, Wordle. Singer-songwriters like Aimee Mann and Patti Griffin. All kinds of music especially 1930s jazz. Venice, Italy! The Dude abides.
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