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Saturday, July 27, 2019

Questions

Questions that can't be answered

are the ones worth asking.

It's the quest that counts,

the delving for the truth

that gives meaning and enlivens us.

Curiosity is not what kills the cat

but what enables its nine lives.

 

The real issue is how to winnow

my innumerable questions

in order to pursue only the few

that will lead me to . . . Nirvana?

A full understanding?

The peace that passeth understanding?

 

I must rise from my bed of comfort

and fearlessly undertake the search for more—

the more found not in material objects

but in the hidden folds of the unconscious.

If answers were obvious and easy to find,

then the flame would not be worth the candle.

 

The tasks:

Keep posing difficult questions.

Keep seeking elusive answers.

 

 

Copyright © 2019 Ann Tudor
Musings blog: http://www.scenesfromthejourney.blogspot.com
Audible.Ca: go to https://www.audible.ca and search for Ann Tudor
Audible.Com: go to https://www.audible.com and search for Ann Tudor




 

Sunday, July 21, 2019

Rainbows

Harriet, at six, asked,

"Where do rainbows come from?"

At last a question I can answer!

I can't tell her how or why

the world came into being

(though I do have a few thoughts about the why).

Or even why the sky is blue.

(I've never understood the science of that!)

But a rainbow?

 

I start by reminding her

that a prism once hung in her window.

She remembered.

A prism, I said,

breaks light into its constituent colours.

And raindrops,

when lit by the sun,

act as prisms, each one singly,

and they refract the colours of light.

 

Harriet was completely, absolutely -- unimpressed.

So okay, I'm not a science teacher.

Maybe I should have gone with leprechauns

and the pot of gold.

Speaking of which,

is there gold at both ends, or only at one?

If the latter, which one?

 

 

Copyright © 2019 Ann Tudor
Food blog: http://fastandfearlesscooking.blogspot.ca
 

Sunday, July 14, 2019

Full Moon

Under the fire of the great moon's fullness I list

what it is time to release.

 

The ember of my pen scrawls across the ivory paper,

itemizing traits too long allowed

to chafe my heart with their unfittingnesss.

 

Once acceptable—

even necessary to who I was then—

this thorny carapace no longer serves,

nor is it the face I wish to present

to the world.

 

So onto the paper goes prickliness,

then joined by the mask of aloofness and superiority.

And when the list is complete,

I fold the paper and light it with the fire of that moon.

And I confine the ashes

to the cleansing waters of a flowing river.

 

 
Copyright © 2019 Ann Tudor
ood blog: http://fastandfearlesscooking.blogspot.ca
 

Sunday, July 7, 2019

Fat Squirrel, a Fable

Fat Squirrel was the kingpin of the neighbourhood. He gathered more nuts than any other squirrel, and there were some who questioned his tactics. A few had seen him spying on other squirrels as they buried, in scattershot fashion, their cache for the coming winter. And as soon as the coast was clear, Fat Squirrel (or so they said) would make a beeline to the newly buried nuts, stuff them into his cheeks, and take off to hide them in his own favourite places.

 

Luckily for him, no squirrel ever remembers where he buried his nuts, so they didn't even realize that Fat Squirrel had made off with their stores.

 

Fat Squirrel, as you might imagine, was not universally liked. Yes, he was sleek and furry, with a pelt that would have been a lovely addition to a squirrel coat, if they were still making such things. And we must acknowledge that Fat Squirrel was aware of his looks. More than once we find him hunkered beside a puddle admiring his beautiful rat-like face, his opulent tail, and the burnished gloss of his flanks. Oh yes. Fat Squirrel was The Man—or The Squirrel—and he ruled over the poor slobs who were less devious—that is, successful.

 

Unfortunately, Fat Squirrel's cleverness was not all-encompassing. He lacked street smarts. He stopped one fine morning to admire himself in a gutter puddle. Others saw it coming, but they didn't warn him (why would they?), so Fat Squirrel had no chance to escape the diving hawk that swept from the sky and hauled him off, screaming, to serve as breakfast for her babies waiting in the nest.

 

Moral: If you insist on being Top Gun, remember that the little guys you cheat aren't going to be watching your back. You're on your own.

 

 
Copyright © 2019 Ann Tudor
Food blog: http://fastandfearlesscooking.blogspot.ca