31.1.12


One evening an old Cherokee told his grandson about a battle that goes on inside people. He said, "My son, the battle is between two "wolves" inside us all. One is Evil. It is anger, envy, jealousy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority, and ego. The other is Good. It is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion, and faith." The grandson thought about it for a minute and then asked his grandfather: "Which wolf wins?" The old Cherokee simply replied, "The one you feed."
Cherokee Indian

27.1.12

    Meditation   Animals full of light walk through the forest toward someone aiming a gun loaded with darkness.   That’s the world: God holding still letting it happen again, and again and again.     —William Stafford (1914-1993)  

22.1.12

for some children getting to school is death defying

21.1.12

video
Here I am sledding down our steep driveway 2012

19.1.12

I am still loving the snow!

15.1.12

grazed by wolf

There is a wolf in my neighborhood...her name is Sisha. Her owner, Phyllis, let me photograph her yesterday. Apparently Sisha is lower in the pack as she sniffed my knees and I looked into her eyes. They are gray, blue, green and brown flecked. Extraordinary. Phyllis invited me to stop by sometime. Then I could take better pictures. I must admit to have been afraid when the wolf walked right up to me. Clearly not a dog. her long nose, her layers of fur in varied shades of gray and black and silver. Unusual eyes. Magnificent. Where do you get a wolf? It seemed so passive. Phylis said she has had three wolves, one was an Alpha...very different behavior. Think I should read Never Cry Wolf again. I am looking forward to going to Phyllis's house.

7.1.12

prefloss era knitter, Joan Crawford

2.1.12

photo: Susan Wray, recent snowstorm

Winter Thanks

To the furnace—tall, steel rectangle
containing a flawless flame.
                     To heat

gliding through ducts, our babies
asleep like bundled opal.
                     Praise

every furry grain of every
warm hour, praise each
                     deflection of frost,

praise the fluent veins, praise
the repair person, trudging
                     in a Carhartt coat

to dig for leaky lines, praise
the equator, where snow
                     is a stranger,

praise the eminent sun
for letting us orbs buzz around it
                     like younger brothers,

praise the shooter's pistol
for silencing its fire by
                     reason of a chilly chamber

praise our ancestors who shuddered
through winters, bunched
                     on stark bunks,

praise the owed money
becoming postponed by a lender
                     who won't wait

much longer in the icy wind,
praise the neon antifreeze
                     in our Chevrolet radiator,

and praise the kettle whistle,
imitating an important train,
                     delivering us

these steam-brimmed sips of tea.
by Marcus Jackson