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Learning to love a landscape, like learning to love anything, means learning its details and noticing the way in which one’s involvement with those details is interesting and influential. Davis, Luce-Kapler & Sumara

 

I awoke from a dream in which the world outside was in the midst of an intense storm whose high winds sounded like they might topple the loft. When I got up, I saw  that the farm was being assailed with furious gusts of quickening snow, adding breath and breadth to the already foot-high ghost land.

I arose, made a fire and settled quietly on the couch, grateful to be inside, feeling warm and safe. As I stared out the sleeted windows, I wondered at the horses in the pasture, standing firm within the thick-swirling brightness, their bodies holding steady to the dense-cold ground.

The Buddha taught that in the cycle of life, every being experiences both success and failure, pleasure and pain, joy and sorrow. We never know what will happen next. The Gate of Interconnection reminds us to honour  our passionate and compassionate relations with others, to feel gratitude for this life we have been given, and the moment in its isness or suchness.

In this poem, I “sing” of the joy of life, for the love of language itself and of the mystery of being.

Sing I Must

sing I must
of trees

of larch
and poplar
true cedar and apple
fig and cherry
walnut and plum

sing I must
of grasses

of clover
and chickweed
nasturtium and tiny tree
frogs leaping across
towers of basil

sing I must
of flowering

of oriental lilies
roses dahlias
black-eyed susans
lobelia  daisies
and snapdragons
irises and magnolia

who named all these
trees, grasses, flowers?

For I sing not just
of them themselves,
though they are many,
and lovely, in colour
shape and scent

but of their names
too, of the litheness
of language,
its luminous letters
and the paths they
have traveled
to their given
landings,

those they
inhabit and
grow from
and will eventually lose
becoming something  
else entirely,

as everything that lives.

I sing of all things named
and unnamed, of the well
of names, how each thing
takes up another and another.
drawing them forth like bees
to nectar.

I sing of the ceaseless game
of naming, its pathos and
thanatos. Of temporary
roosts, and glorious hosts,

each a different
kind of rhapsody.

 

What do you love? How do you share that love?

Take some time this week to honour and express your joy and interconnection with others.