A Tip of the Hat

The smallest act of kindness make change the world forever.

After Archbishop Desmond Tutu won a Nobel Peace Prize for his nonviolent struggle against apartheid in South Africa, he was asked to recall some of the formative experiences in his life.

He replied, "One incident comes to mind immediately. When I was a young child, I saw a white man tip his hat to a black woman. Please understand that such a gesture is completely unheard of in my country. The white man was an Episcopal bishop and the black woman was my mother."

I'm going to see how many small acts of kindness I can give today.

This story about Desmond Tutu is excerpted from a column written by Rev. Gene Nelson for my local paper. Last night my wife and I enjoyed dinner and warm conversation with Gene, who is the Minister of Sebastopol's Community Church.

It's a Small World After All

Many of you know that I'm a kindergarten teacher by day. Sometimes I sing that saccharine song that Walt Disney made famous: "It's a Small World, After All."

This is another way of understanding that idea:

 Small World, an Etheree

our universe holds a hundred billion
galaxies and each galaxy holds
a hundred billion stars most of
them many times larger than
our green earth—we cannot
quite understand just
how small our world
really is
after
all.

Would you like me to read it to you?
Just press the orange play button:

  Small World, An Etheree by Dan Gurney

*********************************
*Consisting of ten lines, the Etheree poem starts with a one syllable line, then adds one syllable per line, ending with a final line of ten syllables yielding an overall syllable count of 55. In other words the syllabic structure is as follows: 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10. It's also okay, and still and Etheree to reverse the sequence from 10 down to 1 and even to combine such progressions into compound forms of Etherees. It’s an uncomplicated, unpretentious form of poetry that has the quality of slowly opening, like a flower.  Try composing one; it won't take you too long. Who knows?  You may like it!

Sun Etheree

We believe what we see to be the whole truth.

The world is whole. It is complete. If we look deeply, the world will reveal to us more and more of its endless wonder, beauty and wholeness.

I took this photo yesterday at sundown on the coast of California.

Day’s sun slides down beyond the horizon.
Night’s cold darkness draws ever nearer.
 Brine breath of wind off the sea chills
my bare ears, cheeks, neck & nose.
Sweet voice calls out. My heart
leaps around the world.
Turning east, Look!
See the warm
rising
sun?

Let me read it to you:

  Sun Etheree by Dan Gurney by Dan Gurney

Like a Jigsaw

This one's for Sabio who wonders if there's any special magic to the Etheree form. I'd say, no, there isn't any special magic; it's more like working a jigsaw puzzle:

No, there’s no special magic in breaking

lines just so to make an Etheree

“poem” (if you insist on using

quotation marks on that word),

but counting syllables

does force me to take

more care writing

“poems” than

writing

“prose.”

*********************************
*Consisting of ten lines, the Etheree poem starts with a one syllable line, then adds one syllable per line, ending with a final line of ten syllables yielding an overall syllable count of 55. In other words the syllabic structure is as follows: 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10. It's also okay, and still and Etheree to reverse the sequence from 10 down to 1 and even to combine such progressions into compound forms of Etherees. It’s an uncomplicated, unpretentious form of poetry that has the quality of slowly opening, like a flower.  Try composing one; it won't take you too long. Who knows?  You may like it!

Shelter in the Dunes

A walk in the dunes close to home....

 we follow a "trail" that leads from the

seacoast town of Bodega out to

Salmon Creek Beach

and find the sort of facility for the public

that California is no longer willing to build

and find this little shelter

built by hand of driftwood

 (at no cost to the taxpayer)

by beach visitors who came before us

we crawl inside

and find it's cramped

and not too comfortable...

 yet the view out the front door is splendid.

Space Etheree

The Rosette Nebula
Credit & Copyright: Brian Lula

When
staring
at deep space
images of
stars, nebula so
distant in space and time,
i marvel at how we can

imagine that we are somehow
not intimately related to
ALL earthlings both human and non-human.

—Dan Gurney

*********************************
*Consisting of ten lines, the Etheree poem starts with a one syllable line, then adds one syllable per line, ending with a final line of ten syllables yielding an overall syllable count of 55. In other words the syllabic structure is as follows: 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10. It’s an uncomplicated, unpretentious form of poetry that has the quality of slowly opening, like a flower.  Try composing one—you may like it!

The Scripture of the Landscape

The Pacific Ocean from Red Hill 2/6/11

Sarah and I have enjoyed several hikes recently. We're planning to go out into nature again today—this time out to the dunes by the Pacific.

Deng Ming-Dao wrote a wonderful book of contemplations called 365 Tao which I include in my daily morning activities. Here's the passage for Feb. 11—

Trail beside stream,

Fragrant pine.

Rocky red earth,

Steep mountain.

Walking may be a good metaphor for spiritual life, but there are times when simple hiking is literally the best activity. When one walks in the woods or climbs mountains, there is a wonderful unity of body, mind, and spirit.  Hiking strengthens the legs, increases stamina, invigorates the blood, and soothes the mind. Away from the madness of society, one is freed to observe nature’s lessons.

Erosion. Gnarled roots. The carcass of a dead deer. A flight of swallows. The high spirals of hawks. Bladed reflections of rushing water. Just budding bare branches. Gray rock, cracked, shattered, and worn. A fallen tree. A lone cloud. The laughter of plum branches. Even a little circle of rocks beside the trail—who put them there, or did any hand arrange them, and no matter which, what are the secrets of that circle?

There are a thousand meanings in every view, if only we open ourselves to see the scripture of the landscape.

Wireless World

winter moon needs no
wireless communication 

to talk to poets

-dan gurney

Myriad Miracles

our playful minds will run—scattering

in a thousand directions.

when we learn to guide our minds

skillfully

with determination and the help of friends on the path

we can decide

to look for and see

to listen for and hear

to know and feel

myriad MIRACLES

at hand right here

right now

with this breath.

What Iris Said

let your feet
take you everyplace you go today



bring along
your ancient animal nose

and exercise your imagination
until it can conjure
 

fruit

from sun and wind and soil
like a flower.



Lift your eyes
up to the azure skies


Let our winter sun
warm your skin


Strum the ukulele you hold
over your heart—

and



from your heart




let your song
come forth

sing to the birds,

the trees,

the breeze


let this sweet spring air
breathe in you
and breathe out you even sweeter
as a melody


celebrate this day
this moment with me as i
nod and dance,

in this wind
on this Earth

join me 

and be beautiful beyond reason

The Moon and Venus in Switzerland

Click to enlarge. Photo taken this past Sunday © by David Kaplan

Sometimes a morning sky can be serene and surreal. This past Sunday a sublime sky appeared above a snowy slope in eastern Switzerland. Quiet clouds blanket the scene, lit from beneath by lights from the village of Trubbach.  Mittlerspitz, the snow covered mountain, posing dramatically on the upper left, hovers over the small town of Balzers, Liechtenstein. The Alps can be seen across the far right, just below the rising sun. Visible on the upper right are the crescent Moon and the bright planet Venus. Venus will remain in the morning sky all month. Text (adapted) and photo are from Astronomy Picture of the Day LINK.

Dread and Bliss

"The person who has not, in a moment of firm resolve, accepted—yes even rejoiced in—what has struck him with terror—he has never taken possession of the full, ineffable power of our existence. He withdraws to the edge; when things play out, he will be neither alive nor dead.

To discover the unity of dread and bliss, these two faces of the same divinity (indeed, they reveal themselves as a single face that presents itself differently according to the way in which we see it): that is the essential meaning and theme of both my books (The Sonnets to Orpheus and The Duino Elegies).

—Rainer Maria Rilke

Wasp Dreams

Awake, thirsty, hungry, I fly
from parchment nest through woods
to the porch where I feasted last night
on shreds of barbecued chicken thigh.

Seeking, now, a morning meal
I blunder heedlessly, hapless
into sticky woven threads
strung between porch and post

both wings held fast—web sways
who’s this? wrapping me, spinning me
swaddling me tight in silky sheets
bound, secure, attentively embraced

her mouthpart—painless—a spider’s kiss
i liquify, am drunk, a dreadful bliss.


******************
You can listen to this sonnet here:

  Wasp Dreams by Dan Gurney 

Miracles Everywhere: A Moment in Kindergarten

"When we live in awareness, it is easy to see miracles everywhere."  —Thich Nhat Hahn

As snack time got underway, I found a chair at M’s table and sat down with her and three of her friends—four five year olds whose combined 20 years on earth total about one-third of my almost 60 years around here.

M. had brought the apples—crisp organic Galas we had just cored and sliced into wedges.

I lifted one of the apple wedges to my mouth and bit off a small piece. Closing my eyes I slowly crushed it between my molars and let sweet juice mix with my saliva. Slowly, I chewed this little morsel again and again, slowly, until the last of its form liquified into a formless, pulpy juice. I swallowed,  emptying my mouth of all but a lingering sweetness. I let my eyes open and said, “Apple trees are so magical.”

“Magical? Apple trees?”

“Oh, yes!” I went on. “Deep, deep magic—a miracle, really.”

“It’s just a regular apple,” M said somewhat skeptically. I wondered if I had made too much of a spectacle eating this one bite of apple.

“Yes, it’s a regular apple! Regular apples are miracles!  Clouds become millions of raindrops and fall to the earth and soak into the ground. Apple trees have roots that sip the water out of the soil. Somehow trees also know how to pull out of the soil just exactly the right minerals they need to make wood, bark, leaves, and apples, using sunlight for power and ancient magic they got from their ancestors for the how-to-do-it. They made the sweet juice and crispy apple flesh that just filled my mouth. It’s a miracle that apple trees know how to do this.”

I took a second bite of the wedge and closed my eyes again. I decided to simply enjoy the flavorful moment and not to go on about seeds and oxygen.

Seducing the formless into form

My daily practice these days takes about an hour and typically includes:

• waking at 5 AM
• dream journaling (assuming there’s a dream worthy of it),
• a quick yoga routine,
• playing a Native American flute,
• reading poetry—Hafiz, Rumi, Rilke, for now
• 20 minutes or a little bit more of Samantha (concentration) meditation.

I finish up by cultivating the intention to awaken kindness, compassion, and wisdom throughout the day ahead.

From there it’s off to the living room for tea with my wife.

Today this poem by Hafiz spoke out:

only

 

that illumined 

one
 

who keeps
 

seducing the formless into form
 

had the charm to win my

heart
 

only a perfect one

 

who is always

laughing at the word

two
 

can make you know

of

Love

Arachnid Dreams

How I wish that in the space of one
night’s darkness I could weave a spiral galaxy of silk
designed by my ancestors
and mysteriously bestowed to me from some deep

time before time. I would doze in the morning sun,
amid my particular array of glistening dewdrops
and—rocked by soft morning breezes,
and at the edge of sleep—

snooze until some flighty insect blunders into my gossamer-spun
dream. Waking, I would swaddle my breakfast in silky attention
wrapping and comforting this trembling body before sipping
guts gently inside me and swallowing them deep

the better to digest heedlessness into filaments
that I can string in the sun to be jeweled with dew.

—Dan Gurney


  Arachnid Dreams by Dan Gurney 

Polar Bear

My friend, Sandy Eastoak, had a poetry reading at one of my town's tea shops this evening. She read praise poems.

I particularly like this one, an arctic love story. I hope you'll enjoy it as much as I did.


polar bears

do you remember
ice fishing

it was maybe six
eight hundred years
ago

a happy life, that one
& simple

we met as children

watching each other
cautiously at
first then running
wild over the meadow
just emerging from piled
snow

small wildflowers
laughing as loud as
we singing
beside the new
rivulets
stomachs grumbling
for our forgotten
dinner

our families traveled
with different herds
so sometimes weeks would
pass then sometimes
you’d come with
mine or i’d go

they all winked
happy at our glad
games & looking toward
fertile

& it came

first ecstasy
then understanding
deeper & easier
season by season

& the small son
who rose the sun in
your eyes & made  you
silly

then the daughter
& you discovered how
your hands could
twist beauty everywhere
in bone fiber dye

she made you known
for craft that became
our people’s as you
taught

one winter day when our children
had grown beyond
we caught five fish against hunger
when the white bear came
we saved ourselves
by losing our
food

but your were angry
even your cool wisdom
left you crazy
over this one thieving
bear

we talked with death
in our lodge
& you went across
the frost hard ground
to meet him
just your knife
you’d carved magic
in the handle
i’d sung the
blade

you tracked the bear
& met him on
the ice
where you baited the
scene with new
fish

& when he came with
fangs roaring
you stood & spat
your secret words

i followed &
watched
the two of you
grappling

i lost the easy man
of innocence
& gained the bear man
of power

you cleaned the skin
& made the robe that
marked you
you gave the meat
to everyone & all
the dogs
songs & sparks
lit the long
night

i was a singer
now everyone wanted to hear
i glowed with
your honor
carried your light like the
sun in my two
hands

love lit winter
bright as midsummer
the taste of berries
was always on our
lips

our grandchildren
were favored & kept
faith with the people’s
fondness
each giving full

their broad smiles
made you laugh &
grow ever more
generous

after years you
weakened
one day you said
i will not pass
another winter
readied me, promising
to stay close
until i

one morning you
lay in my arms
counting every sky
wide & beautiful because
i was there
& i counted every
earth fragrant & solid
because of
you

you stayed close
the grandchildren
were happy to see me
talking with you
i missed your
body

seasons later
i said i’m going to your grandfather
walked over the ice
to find your bear’s
descendant

when she brought her
sharp teeth to my throat
i was already flying
glad & grateful
your welcome big
as the whole sky

do you remember
ice fishing

Karma Etheree*

Some Taoists believe that each of us has 36,000 gods and goddesses living inside us. We please these deities in us when we think good thoughts, eat good food, and take proper care of our physical, emotional, social, and spiritual health. But if we abuse ourselves, they’ll get up in disgust and leave.

Thich Nhat Hahn says that we honor our forebears and our offspring by cultivating mindfulness, compassion, and wisdom.

While thinking about these things, I composed this Etheree.

look.
every
breath i draw
each word i say
every bite i eat
touches for good or ill
my children, grandchildren and
unseen future generations.
each action pleases or displeases
all my forebears, human and otherwise.

—Dan Gurney

*********************************
*Consisting of ten lines, the Etheree poem starts with a one syllable line, then adds one syllable per line, ending with a final line of ten syllables yielding an overall syllable count of 55. In other words the syllabic structure is as follows: 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10. It’s an uncomplicated, unpretentious form of poetry that has the quality of slowly opening, like a flower.  Try composing one—you may like it!

Hope for the Future

Inspiring kid. There's hope in the future. This is proof.

Pro- Procrastination

"Procrastination isn't the problem. It's the solution. So procrastinate now. Don't put it off."

—Ellen DeGeneres

I love epigrams like this.

Another is ee cummings, "Think twice before you think."

Such epigrams amuse me because so much of our human activity seems concerned with undoing some earlier doing.

We get so busy fixing our mistakes and that we make unforeseen new mistakes to fix later. It occurs to me that the most helpful thing to do in many situations is to sit back, take stock, and take a baby step in what you think is the direction to go. Of course, my mind is running pleasantly down this channel because my wife wants to clean out the garage—a task we've avoided for a couple of years—by Monday.

Probably best to get out of my pajamas and get my work clothes on.

Forever

This is something young children know——until they're given an education.

Later on, lucky ones may learn again——from spiritual teachers, poets, or whatever——the nowness they knew before they got to kindergarten.

What a clock looks like to a young child.

"Forever is composed of nows."

—Emily Dickenson