Thursday, April 20, 2017
flower of today
not mine.
this is a flower in my garden,
also not mine.
the poem is in my heart.
Kierkegaard, an impulse: meditation
Kierkegaard,time,moment,eternity, brainpickings.org
i am alive.
there is no time
but the very individual and constantly changing perception
of my time
and the one in which i can see another in another time.
i am alive. i move, i change , i grow, i shrivel, i live, i die, and i am here and there,
seen or unseen.
who can hold the moment?
the moment, here with Kierkegaard, i am the moment,
i am eternity showing as a reflection in time, just now.
a wave, an atom, a song, a colour.
i am the name i give me and i am not i
but a mutation and a revelation of the root of pi moving
and i am in it as a part
which is not a part.
so i started to meditate, naked, un-dressed.
and now i know and i will not know the same after
as there will never be the same again ,
not even the ripples on the surface of the water
nor the shadow of clouds, now i know:
beauty,
the asymmetrical flow of a river
echoing its borders,
the pattern of dance of
birds' feathers in the wind,
the scent of
women in love,
the perfume of plants,
the noise of caterpillars munching leaves,
the fragrance of wild herbs,
the salty taste of sweat and of tears,
the memory of the tongue on kisses,
the sweetness of love making,
the silence of stars and moon,
the pull of the tides,
the immenseness of the sun,
the sound of the wind in trees,
the roaring of the sea
and the murmuring of water in caverns,
the softness of skin, of breasts,
the taste of honey,
the moss on stones,
the rough and resinous bark of pines,
the whiteness of doves,
the golden light of autumn,
the fragility of spider webs,
the sparkling of dew drops, of frozen snow and ice,
the innocent eyes of deer,
the structures of timber,
the pollen yellow on wet roads,
the buzzing of bees,
the humming of hymns and bumble bees,
the shades of red of roses,
the variations of a voice,
the blueness of sky and the shapeshifting of clouds,
the drumming and splashing of rain,
the unfathomable depth of wells,
the bubbling laughter of springs,
the joy of horses running the fields,
the darkness and openings of forests,
the wideness of heaven,
the circling of buzzards,
the old paths in the hills,
the barking of dogs in empty houses,
the vibrating fur of cats purring,
the warmth of the fireplace,
the substance of hot bread,
the melting of horizons at dawn and dusk,
the almond and the apple and the cherry blossoms
and all the bitter roots and the colours of soil,
the secret ways of birds from continent to continent.
beauty
is a mystery, here now, unveiled and veiled.
i am a mystery and you are.
and i will never know more.
faith is grace and all love is nothing without it.
the night falls, it is time to sleep.
i am alive.
there is no time
but the very individual and constantly changing perception
of my time
and the one in which i can see another in another time.
i am alive. i move, i change , i grow, i shrivel, i live, i die, and i am here and there,
seen or unseen.
who can hold the moment?
the moment, here with Kierkegaard, i am the moment,
i am eternity showing as a reflection in time, just now.
a wave, an atom, a song, a colour.
i am the name i give me and i am not i
but a mutation and a revelation of the root of pi moving
and i am in it as a part
which is not a part.
so i started to meditate, naked, un-dressed.
and now i know and i will not know the same after
as there will never be the same again ,
not even the ripples on the surface of the water
nor the shadow of clouds, now i know:
beauty,
the asymmetrical flow of a river
echoing its borders,
the pattern of dance of
birds' feathers in the wind,
the scent of
women in love,
the perfume of plants,
the noise of caterpillars munching leaves,
the fragrance of wild herbs,
the salty taste of sweat and of tears,
the memory of the tongue on kisses,
the sweetness of love making,
the silence of stars and moon,
the pull of the tides,
the immenseness of the sun,
the sound of the wind in trees,
the roaring of the sea
and the murmuring of water in caverns,
the softness of skin, of breasts,
the taste of honey,
the moss on stones,
the rough and resinous bark of pines,
the whiteness of doves,
the golden light of autumn,
the fragility of spider webs,
the sparkling of dew drops, of frozen snow and ice,
the innocent eyes of deer,
the structures of timber,
the pollen yellow on wet roads,
the buzzing of bees,
the humming of hymns and bumble bees,
the shades of red of roses,
the variations of a voice,
the blueness of sky and the shapeshifting of clouds,
the drumming and splashing of rain,
the unfathomable depth of wells,
the bubbling laughter of springs,
the joy of horses running the fields,
the darkness and openings of forests,
the wideness of heaven,
the circling of buzzards,
the old paths in the hills,
the barking of dogs in empty houses,
the vibrating fur of cats purring,
the warmth of the fireplace,
the substance of hot bread,
the melting of horizons at dawn and dusk,
the almond and the apple and the cherry blossoms
and all the bitter roots and the colours of soil,
the secret ways of birds from continent to continent.
beauty
is a mystery, here now, unveiled and veiled.
i am a mystery and you are.
and i will never know more.
faith is grace and all love is nothing without it.
the night falls, it is time to sleep.
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