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SUMMARY:Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue  2/15/23
DESCRIPTION:  \nOpen Road Meditation & Mindfulness Dialogue \n  \nFebruary 15\, 2023 \n  \nJason Beito sent this poem: \n  \nCloud \n  \nBefore you became a cloud\, you were an ocean\, roiled and\nmurmuring like a mouth. You were the shadow of a cloud\ncrossing over a field of tulips. You were the tears of a\nman who cried into a plaid handkerchief. You were a sky\nwithout a hat. Your heart puffed and flowered like sheets\ndrying on a line. \n  \nAnd when you were a tree\, you listened to trees and the tree\nthings trees told you. You were the wind in the wheels of a\nred bicycle. You were the spidery Maria tattooed on the\nhairless arm of a boy in downtown Houston. You were the\nrain rolling off the waxy leaves of a magnolia tree. A lock\nof straw-colored hair wedged between the mottled pages of a\nVictor Hugo novel. A crescent of soap. A spider the color\nof a finger nail. The black nets beneath the sea of olive\ntrees. A skein of blue wool. A tea saucer wrapped in\nnewspaper. An empty cracker tin. A bowl of blueberries in\nheavy cream. White wine in a green-stemmed glass. \n  \nAnd when you opened your wings to wind\, across the\npunched-tin sky above a prison courtyard\, those condemned to\ndeath and those condemned to life watched how smooth and\nsweet a white cloud glides. \n  \n—Sandra Cisneros \n* \n  \n                      Jinx \n  \nTrees spread their arms\, birds open  \ntheir wings\, rain falls on everyone\, \nand the wind brings breath to all. \n  \nWhen I’m lucky\, do I mother my luck\,  \nknowing how fragile fortune can be? \nAm I generous and kind\, letting luck  \nbrim and flow\, spill and splash to wash \neverything I touch\, everyone lucky enough  \nto stumble into this circle of light? \n  \nOr might I forget how happiness shuns \na place of no love\, where luck leaks  \nfrom a fist clenched to keep it?  \n  \n—Kim Stafford \n* \n  \nNow I close my eyes\, \nand somewhere a butterfly \ncontemplates cocoon. \n  \n—Alex Tretbar \n* \n  \nIt’s Valentine’s Day. Love Day. I don’t know what love is\, or where it comes from. It’s a Mystery! Wouldn’t it be lovely if everyone lived in love—if we all loved each other\, and loved all the animals and plants and rivers and clouds and stones? Let’s try it and see what happens!  \n  \nWilliam Blake says: \n  \nLove to faults is always blind\, \nAlways is to joy inclin’d\, \nLawless\, wing’d & unconfin’d\, \nAnd breaks all chains from every mind \n  \n—Johnny Stallings \n* \nHappy Valentine’s Day! \nLoving Kindness Meditation goes hand in hand with Mindfulness says Thich Nhat Hanh.  \nHere is a link to Thay giving a rare Metta meditation for LovingKindness.  \n  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5luvQp–B8U \n Is there a difference between being nice and being kind?  After practicing LovingKindness meditation I’ve been feeling a pull to agree\, to say yes\, to be more present\,..  Kindness itself is a practice that can make us become and feel more engaged – with others\, in causes\, and in our own true self as well.  This feels like what it means to have meaning in our life.   \n“Just being nice will not be enough to save civility in today’s world. It will take the patience and focus of true and loving-kindness.”  writes Donna Cameron.  She has a book about her year of consciously Living Kindly.  She continues: \n“Kindness is how you see the world\, and you be kind because it needs to be done. On the other hand\,  . . . You can remain distant and still be nice\, but that’s not the case with kindness.  \nKindness doesn’t mean becoming saintly!  \nNo\, we all are humans\, and all of us tend to falter now and then. Just because you get angry and upset doesn’t mean you cannot or should not practice being kind.   \nHealth benefits of kindness  \nKindness has a major effect on our emotional\, mental\, and physical health. Studies have shown that kindness raises serotonin and oxytocin levels in our bodies\, and these chemicals make us happier. This surge isn’t permanent\, hence you have to keep practicing kind acts to keep the level up. These chemicals also help in reducing blood pressure and inflammation.   \nNot only that\, kindness eases our relationships therefore drastically reducing our stress levels. Interestingly\, witnessing a kind act also has the same impact on our body as performing a kind act does. Each act of kindness establishes neural pathways\, therefore it becomes easier and more natural over time.” \nInvitation:  Think of a time you received a kindness\, something small that may have changed you\, or that you often think of even though you may have been young.   \nOr join a Monday night LovingKindness meditation with me and others.   Here’s a link if you would like to sign in.  It is free\, every Monday 8-8:30 p.m. Drop in. \nhttps://www.firstunitarianportland.org/events/lovingkindnessmeditation/ \nA metta practice for you:  Thich Nhat Hanh says there is value in practicing Metta even 5 minutes a day. \n  \nMay I be at peace.  \nMay my heart remain open.  \nMay I awaken to the light of my own true nature. \nMay I be healed.  \nMay I be a source of healing for all beings.  \n  \nContinue with loved ones  – You\, We\, then one you may have a conflict with\, then with the whole world.  \nMay we know Peace.   May we know love. \n  \n“Only your compassion and your loving kindness are invincible\, and without limit.” “Smile\, breathe and go slowly.”  – Thay \n  \n— Katie Radditz \n  \nKatie also sent this poem by Juan Felipe Herrera: \n  \nSong Out Here \n  \nif i could sing \ni’d say everything         you know \nfrom here on the street can you turn around \njust for once i am                     here \nright behind you \nwhat is that flag what is it made of \nmaybe it’s too late i have \ntoo many questions where did it all come from \nwhat colors is it all made of everything \neverything here in the subways \nthere are so many things and voices \nwe are going somewhere but i just don’t know \nsomewhere \nbut i just don’t know \n          somewhere \ndo you know where that is i want to sing \nso you can hear me and maybe you can tell me \nwhere to go so you can hear me and just maybe \nyou can tell me where to go \nall those hands and legs and faces going places \nif i could sing \nyou would hear me and i would tell you \nit’s gonna be alright \nit’s gonna be alright \nit’s gonna be alright it would be something like that \ncan you turn around so i can look into your eyes \njust for once your eyes \nmaybe like hers can you see her \nand his can you see them i want you to see them \nall of us we could be together \nif i could sing we would go there \nwe would run there together \nwe would live there for a while in that tilted \ntiny house by the ocean rising up inside of us \ni am on the curb next to a curled up cat \nsmoking i know its bad for you but \nyou know how it is just for once can you turn around \na straight line falling behind you it’s me i want to sing \ninvincible                                             bleeding out with love \n  \njust for you \n  \n— Juan Felipe Herrera \n* \n  \nI keep what is sacred to me \nsafe in the heart of the sun. \nThe path is a maze of stairs \nmade for the ones I love. \nAll are welcome & if you’re \nable all can come. \nJust being yourself as \nyou were always meant to be. \nEveryone is welcomed and \nall are accepted by me. \n  \n—Rocky Hutchinson \n* \n  \nThe Pause \n  \nWhen I read a poem in the mornings \nto the people in boxes on the screen\, \ndear people\, beloved all\, \nthey settle\, they listen \nand when I am done \nthey don’t look at each other\, \nor at me. \n  \nThey look up. \n  \nMany times\, depending of course \non the poem\, there will be a half smile. \n  \nThe threads the words weave \nare a nest for us to rest in together \nto ponder\, wonder\, absorb. \n  \nThere is a pause. \n  \nWe chat then briefly\, \nsometimes seriously\, \nsometimes frivolously\, \nabout an image\, \na confusion\, \nor something else entirely. \n  \nWe learn about each other. \n  \nThen we disperse out into the day\, \nseparate\, yet connected by the resonant \nimprint of a shared moment of apprehending \nsomething we hadn’t thought of ourselves. \n  \n —Elizabeth Domike
URL:https://openroadpdx.com/event/meditation-mindfulness-dialogue-2-15-23-2/
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SUMMARY:peace\, love\, happiness & understanding  3/2/23
DESCRIPTION:photograph by Kim Stafford \n  \nTHE OPEN ROAD \npeace\, love\, happiness & understanding \n  \nMarch 2\, 2023 \n  \nI invited some friends to… \n…please send me one of your favorite poems and say a little bit about why you like it. Here’s what people sent: \n  \nVernal Sentiment \n  \nThough the crocuses poke up their heads in the usual places\,\nThe frog scum appear on the pond with the same froth of green\,\nAnd boys moon at girls with last year’s fatuous faces\,\nI never am bored\, however familiar the scene. \n  \nWhen from under the barn the cat brings a similar litter\,—\nTwo yellow and black\, and one that looks in between\,—\nThough it all happened before\, I cannot grow bitter:\nI rejoice in the spring\, as though no spring ever had been. \n  \n—Theodore Roethke \n  \nI think why I am so fond of this poem and tend to read it every spring\, often many times\, is that it captures perfectly my delight and joy as the subtle and sometimes not so subtle signs of spring emerge. And yes\, “I (truly) rejoice in the spring\, as though no spring ever had been.” This short poem seems almost perfect to me and brings me joy just as witnessing the first signs of the pussy willows\, the first call of the returning robins\, the glorious scent of daphne wafting over the damp air\, enlivens me and gets my pulse slightly elevated. Roethke masterfully captures the delight that is so available in the ordinary!!. I believe that we all need to pay more attention to these ordinary miracles that reveal themselves if we pay attention. \n  \nCheers my friend! \n  \n—Jeffrey Sher \n* \n  \nAfter an Illness\, Walking the Dog \n  \nWet things smell stronger\,\nand I suppose his main regret is that\nhe can sniff just one at a time.\nIn a frenzy of delight\nhe runs way up the sandy road—\nscored by freshets after five days\nof rain. Every pebble gleams\, every leaf. \n  \nWhen I whistle he halts abruptly\nand steps in a circle\,\nswings his extravagant tail.\nThe he rolls and rubs his muzzle\nin a particular place\, while the drizzle\nfalls without cease\, and Queen Anne’s lace \nand Goldenrod bend low. \n  \nThe top of the logging road stands open\nand light. Another day\, before\nhunting starts\, we’ll see how far it goes\,\nleaving word first at home.\nThe footing is ambiguous. \n  \nSoaked and muddy\, the dog drops\,\npanting\, and looks up with what amounts\nto a grin. It’s so good to be uphill with him\,\nnicely winded\, and looking down on the pond. \n  \nA sound commences in my left ear\nlike the sound of the sea in a shell;\na downward\, vertiginous drag comes with it.\nTime to head home. I wait\nuntil we’re nearly out to the main road\nto put him back on the leash\, and he\n—the designated optimist— \n  \nimagines to the end that he is free. \n  \n—Jane Kenyon \n  \nI like the designated optimist and think of him or her often. \n  \n—Elizabeth Domike \n* \n  \nMy favorite poems….of the moment! \nAnd I’m cheating a bit as I am sending in two short ones\, from two extremely different writers and I list the books they are from as the books are quite spectacular. \n  \nFirst: \nUntitled. From Conflict Resolution for Holy Beings by Joy Harjo. Really the entire book is an intact work but here is a current favorite small poem. Harjo is Creek/Muskogee\, writes intimately from within a native community\, is a former US Poet Laureate and a jazz saxophonist. \n  \nI thought of all the doors that had opened and closed. \nI thought of how so many I loved were no longer on \nThis earth. I thought of all my mother’s songs looking \nFor a place to live. I thought of all the Saturdays in the  \nWorld. I started with G and rounded the bend at B-flat. \nI followed my soul. \n  \n—Joy Harjo \n  \nSecond: \n“A Meadow” from Facing the River by Czeslaw Milosz. Again the book is really a unit\, written after returning to his native village after being in exile for fifty years. He grew up in then-Lithuania\, now Poland\, survived the Nazi invasion\, the Soviet invasion and then Occupation. He first served with the Communist government but soon left. He won the Nobel prize for Literature. \n  \nIt was a riverside meadow\, lush\, from before the hay harvest\, \nOn an immaculate day in the sun of June. \nI searched for it\, found it\, recognized it. \nGrasses and flowers grew there familiar in my childhood. \nWith half-closed eyelids I absorbed luminescence. \nAnd the scent garnered me\, all knowing ceased. \nSuddenly I felt I was disappearing and weeping with joy.  \n  \n—Czeslaw Milosz \n  \n—Deborah Buchanan \n* \n  \nThe Waking \n  \nI wake to sleep\, and take my waking slow. \nI feel my fate in what I cannot fear. \nI learn by going where I have to go. \n  \nWe think by feeling. What is there to know? \nI hear my being dance from ear to ear. \nI wake to sleep\, and take my waking slow. \n  \nOf those so close beside me\, which are you? \nGod bless the Ground! I shall walk softly there\, \nAnd learn by going where I have to go. \n  \nLight takes the Tree; but who can tell us how? \nThe lowly worm climbs up a winding stair; \nI wake to sleep\, and take my waking slow.  \n  \nThis shaking keeps me steady. I should know.  \nWhat falls away is always. And is near. \nI wake to sleep\, and take my waking slow. \nI learn by going where I have to go. \n  \n—Theodore Roethke \n  \nHands down my favorite poem. Every morning when I wake up\, I try to not be in a rush\, or have a plan\, but let life take me slowly into the day\, and learn from where it takes me. \n  \n—Dave Duncan \n* \n  \nHere’s my submission to your beautiful request\, and I will say it might not be my “favorite” poem but it is an artifact in my younger life when I somehow imparted the power of poetry to my two now grown daughters. \n  \nEaster\, 1916 \n  \nI have met them at close of day    \nComing with vivid faces \nFrom counter or desk among grey    \nEighteenth-century houses. \nI have passed with a nod of the head    \nOr polite meaningless words\,    \nOr have lingered awhile and said    \nPolite meaningless words\, \nAnd thought before I had done    \nOf a mocking tale or a gibe    \nTo please a companion \nAround the fire at the club\,    \nBeing certain that they and I    \nBut lived where motley is worn:    \nAll changed\, changed utterly:    \nA terrible beauty is born. \n  \nThat woman’s days were spent    \nIn ignorant good-will\, \nHer nights in argument \nUntil her voice grew shrill. \nWhat voice more sweet than hers    \nWhen\, young and beautiful\,    \nShe rode to harriers? \nThis man had kept a school    \nAnd rode our wingèd horse;    \nThis other his helper and friend    \nWas coming into his force; \nHe might have won fame in the end\,    \nSo sensitive his nature seemed\,    \nSo daring and sweet his thought. \nThis other man I had dreamed \nA drunken\, vainglorious lout. \nHe had done most bitter wrong \nTo some who are near my heart\,    \nYet I number him in the song; \nHe\, too\, has resigned his part \nIn the casual comedy; \nHe\, too\, has been changed in his turn\,    \nTransformed utterly: \nA terrible beauty is born. \n  \nHearts with one purpose alone    \nThrough summer and winter seem    \nEnchanted to a stone \nTo trouble the living stream. \nThe horse that comes from the road\,    \nThe rider\, the birds that range    \nFrom cloud to tumbling cloud\,    \nMinute by minute they change;    \nA shadow of cloud on the stream    \nChanges minute by minute;    \nA horse-hoof slides on the brim\,    \nAnd a horse plashes within it;    \nThe long-legged moor-hens dive\,    \nAnd hens to moor-cocks call;    \nMinute by minute they live:    \nThe stone’s in the midst of all. \n  \nToo long a sacrifice \nCan make a stone of the heart.    \nO when may it suffice? \nThat is Heaven’s part\, our part    \nTo murmur name upon name\,    \nAs a mother names her child    \nWhen sleep at last has come    \nOn limbs that had run wild.    \nWhat is it but nightfall? \nNo\, no\, not night but death;    \nWas it needless death after all? \nFor England may keep faith    \nFor all that is done and said.    \nWe know their dream; enough \nTo know they dreamed and are dead;    \nAnd what if excess of love    \nBewildered them till they died?    \nI write it out in a verse— \nMacDonagh and MacBride    \nAnd Connolly and Pearse \nNow and in time to be\, \nWherever green is worn\, \nAre changed\, changed utterly:    \nA terrible beauty is born. \n  \n—William Butler Yeats \n  \n—Mark Danley \n* \n  \nMy favorite poem has often been one by T’ao Ch’ien (365-427 A.D. )\, translated by David Hinton. Here is this one: \n  \nTogether\, We all go out Under the Cypress Trees in the Chou Family Burial-Grounds \n  \nToday’s skies are perfect for a clear  \nflute and singing koto. And touched  \nthis deeply by those laid under these \ncypress trees\, how could we neglect joy? \nClear songs drift away anew. Emerald wine \nstarts pious faces smiling. No knowing \nwhat tomorrow brings\, it’s exquisite  \nexhausting whatever i feel here and now. \n  \n—T’ao Ch’ien \n  \nI feel T’ao Ch’ien as present as my Great Aunt Emma\, who knew much deprivation but was so joyful that we would arrive for a visit to the Farm. We would sit out in the grass looking for four leaf clovers for hours\, and she would bake us blackberry pies. \n  \nI like to write back to T’ao Ch’ien—over many years now. He has inspired me to stop\, be in the wild\, appreciate the moment as beauty at the same time\, feeling all that’s been lost and is gone. And he led me to the Buddhist sutras!!  \n  \nI also love to find another poet respond to him\, like Billy Collins does\, below. Though it may not be for T’ao Ch’ien himself\,  it’s across time and distance\, enchanted still in the twentieth century by what they wrote in the the fifth.     \n  \nReading an Anthology of Chinese Poems of the Sung Dynasty\, I pause to Admire the Length and Clarity of their Titles \n  \nIt seems these poets have nothing \nup their ample sleeves \nthey turn over so many cards so early\, \ntelling us before the first line \nwhether it is wet or dry\, \nnight or day\, the season the man is standing in\, \neven how much he has had to drink. \n  \nMaybe it is autumn and he is looking at a sparrow. \nMaybe it is snowing on a town with a beautiful name. \n  \n“Viewing Peonies at the Temple of Good Fortune \non a Cloudy Afternoon” is one of Sun Tung Po’s. \n“Dipping Water from the River and Simmering Tea” \nis another one\, or just \n“On a Boat\, Awake at Night.” \n  \nAnd Lu Yu takes the simple rice cake with \n“In a Boat on a Summer Evening \nI Heard the Cry of a Waterbird. \nIt Was Very Sad and Seemed To Be Saying \nMy Woman Is Cruel—Moved\, I Wrote This Poem.” \n  \nThere is no iron turnstile to push against here \nas with headings like “Vortex on a String\,” \n“The Horn of Neurosis\,” or whatever. \nNo confusingly inscribed welcome mat to puzzle over. \n  \nInstead\, “I Walk Out on a Summer Morning \nto the Sound of Birds and a Waterfall” \nis a beaded curtain brushing over my shoulders. \n  \nAnd “Ten Days of Spring Rain Have Kept Me Indoors” \nis a servant who shows me into the room \nwhere a poet with a thin beard \nis sitting on a mat with a jug of wine \nwhispering something about clouds and cold wind\, \nabout sickness and the loss of friends. \n  \nHow easy he has made it for me to enter here\, \nto sit down in a corner\, \ncross my legs like his\, and listen. \n  \n—Billy Collins \n  \n —Katie Radditz \n* \n  \nMay I never be complete \nMay I never be content \nMay I never be perfect \n  \nFrom Fight Club! I remember reading that over 10 years ago and being inspired by the hidden beauty of a concept like willing ones self to never want completeness… I’m going to always be learning growing struggling to figure out what the hell I am on this Giant beautiful rock… It’s not easy to accept flaws… growing… Being content as in settled in\, not striving to learn… it’s a beautiful sentiment… That’s my fav poem… That I’ll prolly get tattooed someday. \n  \n—Jeff Kuehner \n* \n  \nMax Ritvo is one of my favorite poets\, and “Afternoon” is my favorite poem by him. He died young\, of cancer\, and he produced a great deal of work during his final years\, while he was very sick. I find much to admire in this poem\, but perhaps what stays with me the most\, and will always stay with me\, is the fountain. I won’t spoil it. Just read the poem and see for yourself. \n  \nAfternoon \n  \nWhen I was about to die \nmy body lit up \nlike when I leave my house \nwithout my wallet. \n  \nWhat am I missing? I ask \npatting my chest \npocket. \nand I am missing everything living \nthat won’t come with me \ninto this sunny afternoon \n  \n—my body lights up for life \nlike all the wishes being granted in a fountain \nat the same instant— \nall the coins burning the fountain dry— \n  \nand I give my breath \nto a small bird-shaped pipe. \n  \nIn the distance\, behind several voices \nhaggling\, I hear a sound like heads \nclicking together. Like a game of pool\, \n  \nplayed with people by machines. \n  \n—Max Ritvo \n  \n—Alex Tretbar \n* \n  \nValentine \n  \nOn the eve of the apocalypse\,\nthe wild turkeys are tuning up for their dance\, flared\nstately stepping upon the new fallen snow\nI continue to ponder \n  \nRuby Crowned Kinglet.\nHe is fixed in my mind because\nunknown to him\,\nset upon a background of olive green feathers\nembering with gold and\nfloating above his brain there glows\na fire ruby jewel. \n  \nLike the mandalas radiating from ancient bodhisattvas\,\nthe feathered crown of hunter gatherer peoples\, branched trees on\nthe halos of saints\, the heads of shamans\nthat they say all together\,\nlook how I see you.\nSee how you look through my open heart. \n  \n—Ken Hunt \n  \nKen Hunt is an artist\, saddle-maker\, horse-trainer living in a remote canyon in NE Oregon\, and he has a vibrant sense of his place and the creatures there. He lives close to all kinds of wild beings\, and in this poem brings them close to us\, so close they can see through our eyes and hearts. \n  \n—Kim Stafford \n* \n  \nDeb thought another poem would not go amiss\, so she invited me to join your party this once. \n  \nAmong lots of favorite poems\, Frost’s “Mending Wall” has grown in depth to me for my whole life. Frost’s simple example demonstrates how we sabotage unity by drawing thick lines between groups and positions\, and then fighting over them. The poem details how we carefully resurrect these divisions\, where they aren’t needed. The conflict is merely hinted at. \n  \nOnce\, after I had written about the poem in my weekly blog\, a friend told me that the PM of Israel\, don’t recall which\, had recently cited the poem to justify their apartheid: “good fences make good neighbors.” Of course\, this is the antithesis of the poem\, but how many tumultuous patriots would have known this? On behalf of Frost’s dignity and immense compassion\, I humbly offer perhaps his greatest poem\, though it does have competitors in his oeuvre. \n  \nMending Wall \n  \nSomething there is that doesn’t love a wall\, \nThat sends the frozen-ground-swell under it\, \nAnd spills the upper boulders in the sun; \nAnd makes gaps even two can pass abreast. \nThe work of hunters is another thing: \nI have come after them and made repair \nWhere they have left not one stone on a stone\, \nBut they would have the rabbit out of hiding\, \nTo please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean\, \nNo one has seen them made or heard them made\, \nBut at spring mending-time we find them there. \nI let my neighbor know beyond the hill; \nAnd on a day we meet to walk the line \nAnd set the wall between us once again. \nWe keep the wall between us as we go. \nTo each the boulders that have fallen to each. \nAnd some are loaves and some so nearly balls \nWe have to use a spell to make them balance: \n‘Stay where you are until our backs are turned!’ \nWe wear our fingers rough with handling them. \nOh\, just another kind of out-door game\, \nOne on a side. It comes to little more: \nThere where it is we do not need the wall: \nHe is all pine and I am apple orchard. \nMy apple trees will never get across \nAnd eat the cones under his pines\, I tell him. \nHe only says\, ‘Good fences make good neighbors.’ \nSpring is the mischief in me\, and I wonder \nIf I could put a notion in his head: \n‘Why do they make good neighbors? Isn’t it \nWhere there are cows? But here there are no cows. \nBefore I built a wall I’d ask to know \nWhat I was walling in or walling out\, \nAnd to whom I was like to give offense. \nSomething there is that doesn’t love a wall\, \nThat wants it down.’ I could say ‘Elves’ to him\, \nBut it’s not elves exactly\, and I’d rather \nHe said it for himself. I see him there \nBringing a stone grasped firmly by the top \nIn each hand\, like an old-stone savage armed. \nHe moves in darkness as it seems to me\, \nNot of woods only and the shade of trees. \nHe will not go behind his father’s saying\, \nAnd he likes having thought of it so well \nHe says again\, ‘Good fences make good neighbors.’ \n  \n—Robert Frost \n  \n—Scott Teitsworth \n* \n  \nThat Walt Whitman’s “Song of Myself” is my all-time favorite poem is a well-known fact (among my friends)\, but I have many favorite poems. In the not-too-distant past (five years ago\, maybe?) I had the great good fortune to come upon the writings of Thomas Traherne (1637-1674). His poems and meditations were first published in 1903\, ten years after they were rediscovered in manuscript—229 years after his death. I often start the day by reading a poem and/or a meditation by him. His wild delight is contagious. He helps me to get the day off to a glorious start. The first four poems in The Collected Works of Thomas Traherne are all sublime: “The Salutation\,” “Wonder\,” “Eden\,” and “Innocence.” Here’s the first: \n  \nThe Salutation \n  \n         These little limbs\, \n    These eyes and hands which here I find\, \nThese rosy cheeks wherewith my life begins\, \n    Where have ye been? behind \nWhat curtain were ye from me hid so long? \nWhere was\, in what abyss\, my speaking tongue? \n  \n         When silent I    \n    So many thousand\, thousand years \nBeneath the dust did in a chaos lie\, \n    How could I smiles or tears\, \nOr lips or hands or eyes or ears perceive? \nWelcome ye treasures which I now receive. \n  \n         I that so long \n    Was nothing from eternity\, \nDid little think such joys as ear or tongue \n    To celebrate or see: \nSuch sounds to hear\, such hands to feel\, such feet\, \nBeneath the skies on such a ground to meet. \n  \n         New burnished joys\, \n    Which yellow gold and pearls excel! \nSuch sacred treasures are the limbs in boys\, \n    In which a soul doth dwell; \nTheir organised joints and azure veins \nMore wealth include than all the world contains. \n  \n         From dust I rise\, \n    And out of nothing now awake; \nThese brighter regions which salute mine eyes\, \n    A gift from God I take. \nThe earth\, the seas\, the light\, the day\, the skies\, \nThe sun and stars are mine\, if those I prize. \n  \n         Long time before \n    I in my mother’s womb was born\, \nA God preparing did this glorious store \n    The world for me adorn. \nInto this Eden so divine and fair\, \nSo wide and bright\, I come His son and heir. \n  \n         A stranger here \n    Strange things doth meet\, strange glories see; \nStrange treasures lodged in this fair world appear\, \n    Strange all and new to me; \nBut that they mine should be\, who nothing was\, \nThat strangest is of all\, yet brought to pass. \n  \n—Thomas Traherne \n  \n—Johnny Stallings \n* \n  \nI Corinthians\, Chapter 13\, which ends: \n  \nLove never faileth: but whether there be prophecies\, they shall fail; whether there be tonguers\, they shall cease; whether there be knowledge\, it shall vanish away. \nFor we know in part\, and we prophesy in part. \nBut when that which is perfect is come\, then that which is in part shall be done away. \nWhen I was a child\, I spake as a child\, I understood as a child\, thought as a child: but when I became a man\, I put away childish things. \nFor now we see through a glass darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part: but then shall I know even as also I am known. \nAnd now abideth faith\, hope\, and love\, these three; but the greatest of these is love. \n  \n—Ken Margolis
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