My heartbeat, the wind in the trees, the sounds of the squirrels and birds, the sigh of traffic on Interstate 5, the ringing in my ears, the kettle on to boil, the flushing of the toilet, voices in the street — these, along with every whisper within and beyond, are the music of my life. They’re my silence, too. How easily, effortlessly, they will end. . [ 1634 ]
There’s no need to prove my worth. Life has already done so by bringing me here. Proof — according to whose set of rules? according to which belief or philosophy? compared with which saint, hero, or lunatic, widely or privately known? When I’m grateful — truly grateful — don’t I already give joy to the world? . [ 1630 ]
this life’s a child’s balloon / you never know / when she’ll let go . [ 1619 ]
Infinite, perfect, effortlessly unfolding — such is life, such is nature, such is the universe. And when I see myself as apart from it, that is my pain, my unhappiness, my curse. . [ 1612 ]
Tree, bird, rock, child — if things were their names, Life wouldn’t be a happening, it would be an encyclopedia. . [ 1567 ]
Terrible poetry, yet what a joy it is to read, for love is blooming with the weeds. . [ 1532 ]
If I see life as something imperfect in its design, I guarantee my own unhappiness. If I embrace it as it is, on its own terms, I become a participant in its mystery and wonder. As judge and jury, I will never be able to set things right. The thought that I might make improvements to an arrangement so grand that it effortlessly, even casually, includes an inexhaustible number of […]
A slow run, the last sliver of moon just rising, the streets quiet and calm. With the arrival of the summer heat, our former high temperatures are now the lows, even as the days, little by little, grow shorter, and the cloudless, starry nights, as if by their own magic, add unto themselves. The grass in front of the house has yielded again to clover. The bare feet rejoice in […]
Thyme is blooming in abundance along the Goose Lake trail; also Queen Anne’s Lace and poison hemlock. There is less chicory this year. We saw sixteen rabbits on our walk of two and a half miles, watching us and waiting in the path, until their last-second run for cover. Tansy. Blackberries. Thistles. Twice, we ran for a short distance. The volunteer cherry tomatoes at the foot of our garden space […]
William Michaelian 