a man sitting in a lotus position with a lit candle in his hand
a painting of a man sitting in front of a plate of candles
a man with short hair and a black shirt
a painting of two men in military uniforms with their mouths open
a painting of a woman in a green dress
a man in a black tank top is posing for a picture
a painting of a woman with a pearl necklace
a painting of a woman in a green and red dress
a black and white photo of a child wearing sunglasses
a bronze statue of a man holding a basketball
a painting of a man with a disc in his hand
a statue of a man holding a frisbee
a painting of a man with a turban on his head
a statue of a man with a hat on his head
a man standing in front of a wooden wall
a picture of a man's torso made up of words
a bronze statue of a man holding a cell phone
a painting of a man sitting in a niche
a statue of a man standing in front of a column
a statue of a man holding a ball
a painting of a man with no shirt on
Now, we’ll all have our time on the rapid And we may end together, alone, going ‘round and about in an eddy bruised and broken and soaked to the bone. But the eddy keeps silent the wild current’s call alongside those now grateful captains and all we are given reprieve from a death at the fall as we move to and fro’ in the spin. We stand safe, as the spin takes us in.
Now, we’ll all have our time on the rapid And we may end together, alone, going ‘round and about in an eddy bruised and broken and soaked to the bone. But the eddy keeps silent the wild current’s call alongside those now grateful captains and all we are given reprieve from a death at the fall as we move to and fro’ in the spin. We stand safe, as the spin takes us in.
Now, those captains must learn what the river will do when it makes that great turn out of sight. How it dashes them up on the rocks of the shore How it spins to the left and the right. It beats them and breaks them and crushes their pride Leaves them dizzy and sick and all jumbled inside ‘til they’ve all but forgotten that glorious ride lying flat on their deck in the sun. There they lie, drying out in the sun. As you round the point where the river was bent and survey the great wideness ahead, you can see all those captains alone on their decks, beat and broken and very near dead. Then the current takes hold and there’s naught you can do as it drags you down into its maw. Headed straight for those rocks, you make ready to crash but at last, you rise up, roll and yaw. Going back and away, then forward again, fearing each time, the rocks will prevail! You’re trapped in a cycling, circling tide, in an eddy withstanding a gale. But each time you circle that great whirling tide and you’ve not hit the rocks or been thrown to the side and you’re kept from the falls, cascading and wide, for the eddy’s small mercy give praise. Give the merciful currents your praise!
Now, those captains must learn what the river will do when it makes that great turn out of sight. How it dashes them up on the rocks of the shore How it spins to the left and the right. It beats them and breaks them and crushes their pride Leaves them dizzy and sick and all jumbled inside ‘til they’ve all but forgotten that glorious ride lying flat on their deck in the sun. There they lie, drying out in the sun. As you round the point where the river was bent and survey the great wideness ahead, you can see all those captains alone on their decks, beat and broken and very near dead. Then the current takes hold and there’s naught you can do as it drags you down into its maw. Headed straight for those rocks, you make ready to crash but at last, you rise up, roll and yaw. Going back and away, then forward again, fearing each time, the rocks will prevail! You’re trapped in a cycling, circling tide, in an eddy withstanding a gale. But each time you circle that great whirling tide and you’ve not hit the rocks or been thrown to the side and you’re kept from the falls, cascading and wide, for the eddy’s small mercy give praise. Give the merciful currents your praise!
So, you look at those captains and then at yourself and you wonder: “Why them, and not me?” As you paddle along in your pitiful state, a canoe you hope no one will see. But there’s just enough room for those trusted to you for safe passage, provisions, and tare. So, you keep to yourself, and you follow the shore, making passage for those in your care.
So, you look at those captains and then at yourself and you wonder: “Why them, and not me?” As you paddle along in your pitiful state, a canoe you hope no one will see. But there’s just enough room for those trusted to you for safe passage, provisions, and tare. So, you keep to yourself, and you follow the shore, making passage for those in your care.
Out where the river runs wild and free and only the brave dare row; where the rapids are deep, and the challenge is fresh and it takes them where it means to go. With breakneck speed, grinning into the wind, standing straight on the bow of their craft, just a glimpse now and then of those captains you’ll catch flying by, near capsizing your raft. They’ve no time for advice to those standing on shore or to aid the ones just wading out, for their task is to pilot this current, they think, and it’s all they can do to stay out of the drink, and their lives could be gone in the space of a wink should they lose but a moment to doubt. Standing tall, they never must doubt!
Out where the river runs wild and free and only the brave dare row; where the rapids are deep, and the challenge is fresh and it takes them where it means to go. With breakneck speed, grinning into the wind, standing straight on the bow of their craft, just a glimpse now and then of those captains you’ll catch flying by, near capsizing your raft. They’ve no time for advice to those standing on shore or to aid the ones just wading out, for their task is to pilot this current, they think, and it’s all they can do to stay out of the drink, and their lives could be gone in the space of a wink should they lose but a moment to doubt. Standing tall, they never must doubt!
The San Gorgonio Pass, Mt. San Gorgonio) rises in the North, all hoary-frost and granite. Snake-like clouds adorning her peak, I gaze past the big white house toward her uplifted boulders. And at the South, Mt. San Jacinto has lost his head in cloud. Burned bones against a blue sky backdrop. Between the two, another sunrise gleams and beams of brilliant, white-hot day flash forth: They accentuate the Sonora desert’s west extreme, and last night’s moon, high up on the left, forgot to go away.
The San Gorgonio Pass, Mt. San Gorgonio) rises in the North, all hoary-frost and granite. Snake-like clouds adorning her peak, I gaze past the big white house toward her uplifted boulders. And at the South, Mt. San Jacinto has lost his head in cloud. Burned bones against a blue sky backdrop. Between the two, another sunrise gleams and beams of brilliant, white-hot day flash forth: They accentuate the Sonora desert’s west extreme, and last night’s moon, high up on the left, forgot to go away.
The San Gorgonio Pass, Mt. San Gorgonio) rises in the North, all hoary-frost and granite. Snake-like clouds adorning her peak, I gaze past the big white house toward her uplifted boulders. And at the South, Mt. San Jacinto has lost his head in cloud. Burned bones against a blue sky backdrop. Between the two, another sunrise gleams and beams of brilliant, white-hot day flash forth: They accentuate the Sonora desert’s west extreme, and last night’s moon forgot to go away.
The San Gorgonio Pass, Mt. San Gorgonio) rises in the North, all hoary-frost and granite. Snake-like clouds adorning her peak, I gaze past the big white house toward her uplifted boulders. And at the South, Mt. San Jacinto has lost his head in cloud. Burned bones against a blue sky backdrop. Between the two, another sunrise gleams and beams of brilliant, white-hot day flash forth: They accentuate the Sonora desert’s west extreme, and last night’s moon forgot to go away.
a painting of a man holding a ball
The monster (Mt. San Gorgonio) rises in the North, all hoary-frost above behemoth shoulders. Snake-like clouds adorning her, I crane my neck, Gaze fixed past the big white house toward uplifted boulders. And at the South, like his namesake martyr, Hyacinth (Mt. San Jacinto) has lost his head in cloud. Burned bones against a blue backdrop he wears that legacy proud. Between the two, another sunrise gleams and beams of brilliant, white-hot day flash forth: Accentuate Sonora’s west extremes, and last night’s moon forgot to go away.
This day, though, I hiked another autumn wood. Eastern Europe ancient; overgrown. So thick the view was dark at just a few feet off the path. All red and yellow; orange and brown, a million trees, each one in blazing preparation for long, frozen winter. I cannot but recall my friend’s words, lasting long, though he did not, and the instant truth that follows. Looking upward at the fiery canopy, matched against the bright cerulean sky beyond, I embrace autumn! Winter surely comes one day, but spring beyond. I have a winter to prepare for, but it is not yet.
This day, though, I hiked another autumn wood. Eastern Europe ancient; overgrown. So thick the view was dark at just a few feet off the path. All red and yellow; orange and brown, a million trees, each one in blazing preparation for long, frozen winter. I cannot but recall my friend’s words, lasting long, though he did not, and the instant truth that follows. Looking upward at the fiery canopy, matched against the bright cerulean sky beyond, I embrace autumn! Winter surely comes one day, but spring beyond. I have a winter to prepare for, but it is not yet.
In days to come I stood amazed, walking through that forest, at the blazing symphony of color it brought forth, seemingly just for me. I grew to love my friend’s words in a new way, through the astounding beauty of the spectacle he knew was coming when he said them. I was young then, and didn’t know I had many autumns ahead of me.
I sat, long ago, on an Asian hill with a Shakya Mundi friend, and watched the autumn leaves fall down from high above, giants in the forest casting off their wakefulness, falling progressively into winter’s long, white sleep. “The important thing to know about trees” he said, “is that they are most beautiful in autumn; just before the winter snow. They live and grow through the entire year just for these brief moments of stunning beauty. We are like that.” He said, “but we have only one autumn, and a very long winter.”
In days to come I stood amazed, walking through that forest, at the blazing symphony of color it brought forth, seemingly just for me. I grew to love my friend’s words in a new way, through the astounding beauty of the spectacle he knew was coming when he said them. I was young then, and didn’t know I had many autumns ahead of me.
a painting of a roman warrior holding a sword and a shield
I sat, long ago, on an Asian hill with a Shakya Mundi friend, and watched the autumn leaves fall down from high above, giants in the forest casting off their wakefulness, falling progressively into winter’s long, white sleep. “The important thing to know about trees” he said, “is that they are most beautiful in autumn; just before the winter snow. They live and grow through the entire year just for these brief moments of stunning beauty. We are like that.” He said, “but we have only one autumn, and a very long winter.”