Monday funny

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t9floPXNLjs

Some thoughts on dogs

"Dogs are not our whole life, but they make us whole."

-Roger Caras

Dharma

by Billy Collins

The way the dog trots out the front door
every morning
without a hat or an umbrella,
without any money
or the keys to her doghouse
never fails to fill the saucer of my heart
with milky admiration.

Who provides a finer example
of a life without encumbrance—
Thoreau in his curtainless hut
with a single plate, a single spoon?
Gandhi with his staff and his holy diapers?

Off she goes into the material world
with nothing but her brown coat
and her modest blue collar,
following only her wet nose,
the twin portals of her steady breathing,
followed only by the plume of her tail.
If only she did not shove the cat aside
every morning
and eat all his food
what a model of self-containment she
would be,
what a paragon of earthly detachment.
If only she were not so eager
for a rub behind the ears,
so acrobatic in her welcomes,
if only I were not her god.

Other side

Notes from the Other Side

by Jane Kenyon

I divested myself of despair
and fear when I came here.

Now there is no more catching
one's own eye in the mirror,

there are no bad books, no plastic,
no insurance premiums, and of course

no illness. Contrition
does not exist, nor gnashing

of teeth. No one howls as the first
clod of earth hits the casket.

The poor we no longer have with us.
Our calm hearts strike only the hour,

and God, as promised, proves
to be mercy clothed in light.

Seamus Heaney April 13, 1939- August 30, 2013

Doubletake 

Human beings suffer,
they torture one another,
they get hurt and get hard.
No poem or play or song
can fully right a wrong
inflicted and endured.

The innocent in gaols
beat on their bars together.
A hunger-striker's father
stands in the graveyard dumb.
The police widow in veils
faints at the funeral home

History says, Don't hope
on this side of the grave.
But then, once in a lifetime
the longed for tidal wave
of justice can rise up,
and hope and history rhyme.

So hope for a great sea-change
on the far side of revenge.
Believe that a further shore
is reachable from here.
Believe in miracles
and cures and healing wells.

Call the miracle self-healing:
The utter self-revealing
double-take of feeling.
if there's fire on the mountain
or lightning and storm
and a god speaks from the sky.

That means someone is hearing
the outcry and the birth-cry
of new life at its term.

Anton Chechov on the 8 Qualities of Cultured People

Cultured people must, in my opinion, satisfy the following conditions:

1. They respect human personality, and therefore they are always kind, gentle, polite, and ready to give in to others. They do not make a row because of a hammer or a lost piece of india-rubber; if they live with anyone they do not regard it as a favour and, going away, they do not say “nobody can live with you.” They forgive noise and cold and dried-up meat and witticisms and the presence of strangers in their homes.
2. They have sympathy not for beggars and cats alone. Their heart aches for what the eye does not see…. They sit up at night in order to help P…., to pay for brothers at the University, and to buy clothes for their mother.
3. They respect the property of others, and therefor pay their debts.
4. They are sincere, and dread lying like fire. They don’t lie even in small things. A lie is insulting to the listener and puts him in a lower position in the eyes of the speaker. They do not pose, they behave in the street as they do at home, they do not show off before their humbler comrades. They are not given to babbling and forcing their uninvited confidences on others. Out of respect for other people’s ears they more often keep silent than talk.
5. They do not disparage themselves to rouse compassion. They do not play on the strings of other people’s hearts so that they may sigh and make much of them. They do not say “I am misunderstood,” or “I have become second-rate,” because all this is striving after cheap effect, is vulgar, stale, false….
6. They have no shallow vanity. They do not care for such false diamonds as knowing celebrities, shaking hands with the drunken P., [Translator's Note: Probably Palmin, a minor poet.] listening to the raptures of a stray spectator in a picture show, being renowned in the taverns…. If they do a pennyworth they do not strut about as though they had done a hundred roubles’ worth, and do not brag of having the entry where others are not admitted…. The truly talented always keep in obscurity among the crowd, as far as possible from advertisement…. Even Krylov has said that an empty barrel echoes more loudly than a full one.
7. If they have a talent they respect it. They sacrifice to it rest, women, wine, vanity…. They are proud of their talent…. Besides, they are fastidious.
8. They develop the aesthetic feeling in themselves. They cannot go to sleep in their clothes, see cracks full of bugs on the walls, breathe bad air, walk on a floor that has been spat upon, cook their meals over an oil stove. They seek as far as possible to restrain and ennoble the sexual instinct…. What they want in a woman is not a bed-fellow … They do not ask for the cleverness which shows itself in continual lying. They want especially, if they are artists, freshness, elegance, humanity, the capacity for motherhood…. They do not swill vodka at all hours of the day and night, do not sniff at cupboards, for they are not pigs and know they are not. They drink only when they are free, on occasion…. For they want mens sana in corpore sano [a healthy mind in a healthy body].

http://www.brainpickings.org/index.php/2013/01/29/anton-chekhov-8-qualities-of-cultured-people/

Happy Birthday Vincent

"What am I in the eyes of most people — a nonentity, an eccentric, or an unpleasant person — somebody who has no position in society and will never have; in short, the lowest of the low. All right, then — even if that were absolutely true, then I should one day like to show by my work what such an eccentric, such a nobody, has in his heart."

Walter Pond, cont'd.

There is a scene of American life familiar to most; it occurs in the evening of a long day, a harried working mother trying to cook and serve dinner for her energetic young, the TV's blaring, homework scattered on the kitchen table, chaos reigns. Soon after the phone was answered in Walter Pond's house, I knew that this was the scene I had interrupted with my strange and bothersome request.
"May I speak to Walter Pond, please?" (sound of pots clanging together, kids screaming, water running."
He's not here!
"Can I leave a message?"
Yeah, I guess you better, because he's not going to be home until really late.
"My name is Megan and I'm calling from Maine."
Yep.
"I have an old photo album that lists his name and an address in West Haven."
Okay.
"I'm wondering if maybe it belongs to him or his father or grandfather and if so, I'd like to get it back to him."
Okay.
"Can I leave you my number?"
Sure, go ahead.

I wondered as I gave her my contact information whether she was actually writing it down. I mean, who could blame her, it was a strange request and she clearly had her hands full. As I hung up, I thought, okay, at least I tried. I had a feeling that even if he got the message Walter Pond wasn't going to be calling back. A week has gone by and he hasn't.

"Pelvis with the Distance", Georgia O'Keeffe 1943

When you take the time to really look at bones up close, it's a religious experience. Recognizing the beauty in the structure of living things gives undeniable proof of the existence of a Divine Creator. God the artist has made each of us a masterpiece.

Walter Pond, Part 1

About 15 years ago I was given a small old bound photo album as a gift. The photos inside detail the life of a family in the early 20th century - a trip to the Statue of Liberty, canoeing on a lake, the friendship of two young girls, perhaps sisters - all yellowed photos glued carefully onto the pages. On the front cover, written in pencil, reads: Walter L. Pond, 300 Noble St., West Haven, Conn. Recently I have become interested in returning the book to its original owner, or his descendants. As much as I have loved looking at the pictures over the years, it just seems the right thing to do - now that I have a child, preserving family history seems all the more important. So the other night I googled his name and address and found a Walter Pond Carpentry and Repair in Guilford, Conn., a few towns over from West Haven. And I decided to give him a call.

Biblical Literalism Over the Top

Happiness

Do not throw away even one "unimportant" day by not noticing the wonder of it all. Be willing to discover and then appreciate the authentic moments of happiness available to all of us every day. - Sarah Ban Breathnach

Favorite Christmas Memory

Under the tree was one end of a piece of white string. I can't remember whether there was a note that read "follow me" or my childhood brain just assumed. We grabbed hold and tracked it through the house, out the door, back in again, and finally reached the other end - attached to an upright piano! Dad had "borrowed" a hymnal from church and we learned to play Amazing Grace and Joy to the World.

Reflections on being blessed with a new sibling at age 39

Mixed with all of the happiness, joy, and love is an odd feeling that comes from being able to objectively watch your parent in the act of parenting someone else. I sometimes find myself trying to remember what he was like when I was a little kid - comparing this new reality with all of my memories. Seeing him this weekend, still recovering from back surgery, in obvious pain, walking with difficulty, a slow feeling of sadness came to me. Not just that he was having a hard time, but that this energetic little brother of mine could not enjoy him at his prime. For my father was the tallest man that most of my friends had ever seen, he ducked under doorways and grazed ceilings with his head. When the conversation on the playground turned to who's dad could beat up who's dad, no one ever questioned who would be at the top of the heap. I danced with him by standing on his feet. I could grab his hands, climb up his legs, and flip over, "skinning the cat." He made his bed an island and he would lift and dangle us over the edge, threatening to drop us into the "boiling oil" (pronounced "boilin' erl"). We had endless wars with rolled up newspapers as weapons. He would chase us with each pointer finger extended yelling "two finger killer karate!", tickling us until we collapsed laughing so hard we could barely breathe. As I think of all of these memories, I can't help wishing for my brother that he could experience this part of our father.

My kind of Mystic

Beach yoga

Added to the lists of the world's greatest earthly pleasures (food, sex, drugs, alcohol, etc.) is Beach Yoga. Come as you are, forget about not getting sandy, and who cares if you have body odor. P.S. it's free. Your teacher will direct your limbs into various shapes and figures, but she will not explain everything, and sometimes say things like "move into an infinite skyward third eye drishti" and you will have no idea what she is talking about, but the person next you doesn't either, so you just go for it. People walk by with dogs and kids and stare. Just when you're burning and shaking and wondering what you've gotten yourself into and how long it will be before it's over, she tells you to lie on your back and close your eyes. You're not sure what happens next but at some point she comes over and pushes your shoulders down into the sand, presses her fingers into your forehead and temple, and pulls down your earlobes. Then it starts to rain. When it's time to get up you've decided that you've fallen in love with everyone in the class with you, even the desperate housewife, even the young bearded man who's engaged to someone's niece, even the thin woman who always seems to get everything right. And especially your teacher, who is usually just a waitress with you on the weekends, but now suddenly seems to be the most beautiful and talented person in the world. You wonder, would it be rude to cry? Transitioning back to the real world is near impossible; you sit in your car with your feet hanging out, trying to wash the sand off with a bottle of water before going in to work.

Late entry: Poem memorization

a selection from Elizabeth Barrett Browning's Sonnets from the Portugese

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach
When feeling out of sight for ends of Being and ideal grace.
I love thee to the level of every day's most quiet need,
by sun and candlelight.
I love thee freely, as men strive for light,
I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.
I love thee with passion put to use in my old griefs,
and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee a love I seemed to lose with my lost saints -
I love thee with the breath, smiles, and tears of all my life!
And, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.

Advice from the soccer coach known as "Great FIFA"

"It is very easy to know how to treat your fellow man. You treat him exactly as you would like to be treated."

"When you make a goal, celebrate! Show some joy!"

"If you do not listen and do not focus, you cannot play."

Coach Great FIFA is a former member of the West Indies National Team and now devotes his time to using soccer (football) to teach the boys of St. Lucia about life.

Haiku Overdoo

It's clear that Haiku is a martial art,
Where the opponent's mind dissloves in unrhymned sylabolls.

The demeanted soul seeks revenge in words,
That wander and rages in prattle.

The end comes ingloriously but unswiftly,
Death on the internet....how just it cometh!

~ Mrs. Haiku

Serious Haiku

Greater love
as lesser love is lost.

Tears of joy from
eyes that sorrow has past.

Divine good
where evil once dwelt.

Haiku made easy!

Twnkle, twnkle, little star,
How wonder what yu are.
Up bve th world so hgh,
Like a dimond in the sky.
Twnkle, twnkle, little star
How I wondr what yu are!