“The health of the eye seems to demand a horizon. We are never tired, so long as we can see far enough.”
~Ralph Waldo Emerson
Living in the city, weeks can go by without sight of the horizon. No panoramic views. A lack of vastness in which to feel inconsequentially small.
I grew up on the coast of Maine. As a kid, wading in the cold shallows, looking out across the Atlantic to where the ocean met the sky, I imagined England was on the other side of the horizon, the same way I believed that if I dug far enough in the gray sand, I’d fall through to China. Continue reading Nothing (or a Dragon)
Here we are again. Up against a deadline. Self-imposed, yet honored. By oneself for oneself.
When the task is complete, I’ll touch the top of the Daruma doll, a birthday gift from Maggie.
Every week since, a new post. It’s not that the roly-poly doll, a likeness of Bodhidharma, gave me the idea; rather, it’s become a touchstone, a geegaw of encouragement.
Every week, good or bad, another post. In fact, the badder the better. I’m breaking up with perfectionism. Consistency over quality. Just do it, the Swoosh instructs. Continue reading Still in the Chair
I get annoyed when someone says, “I’m on a spiritual path.”
If someone says, “I have a spiritual practice,” I’m interested. I want to know what the person’s practice consists of and how consistently it’s practiced. When did they begin to practice and how has the practice changed over time?
I’m not against paths. As a devout walker and hiker, I appreciate well-marked trails. I’m grateful for those who cleared and maintain the pathways along which I tread. Though I love the thought of bushwhacking, my poor sense of direction (and having got lost in the woods after dark) has convinced me of the usefulness of paths, as well as maps. Continue reading Why I Dislike the Term “Path”
I walk to the law school library to see if the Ruth Bader Ginsburg memorial is still there. It isn’t. Only a few fresh bouquets where all the photos, notes, drawings, flowers and candles had been.
Sitting at a picnic table, I wait for something to happen—a scene of some sort. Big drops of rain begin to fall. Not many, but enough to make the ink run on the notebook’s lined page. Not enough to make me run for cover. Not yet. Continue reading RBG and the Bugs