Dishing the dirt on diaries

Went through some of my old box of diaries in the garage and was quite depressed by the groaning complaining tone of many of them.  Adolescence can be so totally self-centred that even reading one’s own personal perspective makes you want to smack your younger self!  At this particular age, you are generally the hero of the movie and every other person in your life is an extra.  Not of great importance and usually ignored, resented or actively disliked by the perpetually embarrassed adolescent.  One friend pointed out that her 13-year-old daughter told her, across the dining table, that she couldn’t stand the sound of her mother’s breathing!  But along with the growing recognition of one’s self-preoccupation over the years the diaries have occasional gems.  I found this interaction with my teenage eldest son, captured as we wrote in the diary to each other as we sat side by side at a summer school talk in Greece.  It was fascinating to see his handwriting and mine on the page as we discussed stuff.

Me: What makes for a good speaker?

Son: Authenticity, systematic but also give an interactive presentation.  They should be confident, and knowledgeable and speak loudly with excitement. 

I have a vague memory of the speaker we were listening to as we wrote was quietly speaking in a monotone as he read head down from his notes.

Me: What is the reaction of an audience to a good speaker?

Son: They don’t try and correct the translation.

It was a Greek Summer school and any English talks were translated into Greek.  Unfortunately, some of those in the audience who could understand both languages would often complain about poor translations.  Such interruptions could entail ten minutes of excited arguments about the correct words to be used.  The visiting Speaker would stand confused as shouting and arguments in Greek seemed to follow everything they said. 

Me: But what should the audience get from the experience?

Son: It shouldn’t show until they check the sources used themselves and reach their own level of understanding, I guess.

Me: Is spirituality equivalent to following the Will of God for the age in which you live? 

Son: Nope! I think spirituality is the quality of human consciousness and soul on a level that equates with the harmony animals have with nature.

Me: Thanks, I think I understand you, but deep stuff!

My Son just drew this in response.

Here are an assortment of entries from all the years of writing that resonate still.  They remind me of so much I’d forgotten but also allow time for reflection. We live in such a reactive mode these days that it is rare to have time to really look back and learn the many lessons life has schooled us in.

• Some plants can only be distinguished by the differing parasites that infest them. Some mindsets can only be distinguished by the differing prejudices they exhibit.
• Strange, but I can see for the first time quite clearly why there is a need for an integrity of nature in those with whom we live. There is an honesty and dignity with which they carry themselves despite what they encounter. You know with certainty that even if you fell out with them and never associated with them again they would never backbite about you. It is because their code of behaviour is not dependent upon the fragile bond of human fellowship, but draws its strength from a higher source.
• A joy, intense and wonderful lifts my heart, and makes me smile at it all. How glorious is life, how intense, how abiding! Love should be like sunlight, blinding all, with its glory, curing all with its bounties.

Ruins, trees, leaves and poetry that awakens

Robert Burns struggled to make ends meet for much of his life and died aged only 37.  He suffered from bouts of despondency and when describing himself he was as direct and honest as ever.

"My life reminded me of a ruined temple.  What strength, what proportion in some parts!  What unsightly gaps, what prostrate ruins in others".

Robert Burns

Alfred Joyce Kilmer wrote this lovely poem about trees; He was killed by a sniper's bullet at the Second Battle of the Marne in 1918 at the age of 31.

"I think that I shall never see

A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest

Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,

And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in Summer wear

A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;

Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,

But only God can make a tree."

Oliver Wendell Holmes (August 29, 1809 – October 7, 1894) was an American physician, poet, and polymath based in Boston.  He wrote a poem entitled The Last Leaf, here is a verse from it.

"And if I should live to be

The last leaf upon the tree

In the spring,

Let them smile, as I do now,

At the old forsaken bough

Where I cling."

    

"Every now and then let us answer the forest's call,

To come see life's beauty and the miracle of it all;

If we listen with our hearts as we walk among trees,

We may understand the message carried on a breeze,

For us to blend with the forest's spirit so it will beguile

Us into walking under its lovely trees for just a while."

from a poem by Belinda Stotler

"Everything I touch

with tenderness, alas,

pricks like a bramble."

Kobayashi Issa (June 15, 1763 – January 5, 1828) was a Japanese poet and Buddhist priest famous for his haiku poems.  It is of ancient Japanese origin and every Haiku contains 17 syllables in 3 lines of five, seven, five.  Their shortness and conciseness mean they can pack a real punch.

Enos A. Mills (April 22, 1870 – September 21, 1922) was an American naturalist, author and homesteader. He was also the main figure behind the creation of Rocky Mountain National Park.  He had high hopes for what trees represented and what they could contribute to the world. 

"The forests are the flags of nature.   
They appeal to all and awaken inspiring universal feelings.  
Enter the forest and the boundaries of nations are forgotten.  
It may be that some time an immortal pine will be the flag of a united peaceful world."

-   Enos A. Mills  

Sitting put, Restless ripples

I sit in silence

the sun sets

Tiny ripples on a blue bedspread

easy, easing thoughts

erasing my mind gradually

until I feel only my weight

on this bench

heavily substantial

anchored to the spot

my mind roaming free

in need of purpose and direction

stationary and abreech

making little headway

rocking on one spot

the line of the horizon

measures out my being

the sea beckons

but my anchor has stuck hard

going nowhere fast

restless ripples of

useless endeavour

blank

I used to have lists of things to do, written on crisp white sheets in a fine jotter.  Then as each job was completed I'd score it off with satisfaction.  A list of accomplishments to mark the passing days.  Being a productive a measure of my purpose in life.  Progress tallied on each fresh page.  but now I spend ages searching for a pen, I had a second ago.  If only I could find my glasses I'd stand a better chance.  My new skill seems to be able to make things disappear instantly.  Vital pieces of paper, phones, purses can all be magically transported.  It's not restricted to material things either.  My thoughts too have begun to delete themselves, like a hard drive wiping out sectors at a whim.  I've begun to doubt myself, forget why I've entered a room and names have evaporated as well.  I am being positive about the whole affair.  I choose to think it is all about reaching a stage of detachment.  Removing oneself from all without and even that within.  Perhaps, I'll come full circle and will end up being the crisp blank sheet I once wrote on.