Hesitant Light/Hesitancy; Scenes from the Journey, vol. 20, no. 53

This Scene completes Volume 20 of Scenes from the Journey, which means I have been sending an essay or a poem to you every week for the past twenty years. I have always enjoyed it (don't know whether you have), but it is time for a change.I will continue to write and send Scenes, but not on a weekly basis. You may see one every other week, or once a month, or even occasionally two in a row. Who knows? Who can predict how firmly I will be clasped by the Muse of Spontaneity? It will be a surprise event for me as well as you. As usual, I welcome your responses. 

 

Hesitant Light

 

May the light shine boldly.

Let's have nothing hesitant about our light.

We slow our step, our sight, our very minds,

allowing the best and most of light

to enliven us with its glow.

The glow, the shine, the brilliant sparks

will open into our dark places

and by penetrating the penumbra

lead us to a new level of understanding

that goes beyond the mind and

instead

incorporates the slow body.

We need that light to show us slow.

 

Hesitancy 

Having evoked the idea of hesitation, I feel compelled to channel my father, Myron Johnson, whose advice to us was succinct, if ambiguous: Look before you leap, for he who hesitates is lost. This was a typically Myron evasion of the serious, but also a cunning reminder that every folk saying has its opposite. Therefore, don't believe any of them. And on that note, we say farewell to 2023. See you in the funny papers.

 

 

 

Copyright © 2023 Ann Tudor
Musings blog: http://www.scenesfromthejourney.blogspot.com

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Words to Live By?

One day I sat on the subway (many thanks for that last open seat I found) and I thought. I believe I've been asking, listening, and reading too much, for my mind is full of strictures. Do this. Do that. Spine straight (or as much as it can be in a subway seat), chin lowered to raise the crown of the head and lengthen the spine. Tongue gently resting behind the teeth on the soft palate. Breathe—but not partially. Breathe all the way. Let the diaphragm move. Expand your lungs, your belly. Keep all this in mind.

 

Think violet. Did you dot your crown, your third eye, and your heart with that mixture of cedarwood, frankincense, and rose, as was suggested? No, you forgot. Pity. Maybe you can do it later.

 

Drop your shoulders. In Therapeutic Touch they call them "should-ers" because they reflect the tension in our body as we "should" our way through our lives.

 

Each day is a new life, I read somewhere. I like that idea of starting anew every morning. And I'm still greeting that day with "ole" instead of "ohm", though I follow the first with the second immediately. The "ole" wakes me up enough to think, "Oh yes. I'm supposed to (i.e., I should) start the day with an ohm."

 

Last week I heard a quotation that began, "There is no path." I forgot to copy the second line to it, so rather than search it out I made up my own: "There is only an endless series of choices." And there you are: life in a nutshell.

 

In my spirit of striving (oh, stop striving!) to live consciously, I remind myself about joy and the appearance of joy; I remember that it takes more muscles to frown than to smile. Sure enough, it's useful to bring a thoughtful joy to the table when you can. Duh. Words to live by, maybe, but hardly original. Nonetheless, these are what I will keep in mind today: first, life is an endless series of choices, and second, bring a thoughtful joy to the table.

 

 

 

Copyright © 2023 Ann Tudor
Musings blog: http://www.scenesfromthejourney.blogspot.com

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Urban Scene

As I was on a southbound streetcar at 10:30 one morning

the sun crept over the high-rise obstacles

and illuminated every tree in every block

turning black branches to radiance

each twig dipped in diamond dust for the day or,

if diamonds are too extravagant,

dunked into a vat of powdered Swarowsky crystals.

The trees shone, clear and brilliant

for us drab and dreary streetcar passengers

heading to Queen Street West

with its grey skies, grey pavements,

grey passers-by in worn black coats

but how lucky we were

those of us who saw the gleaming trees

to counter the grey

with that bright memory.

 

 

Copyright © 2023 Ann Tudor
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Irreverence

Who knows where I read it. One spiritual self-help book or another. They pass through the house in a stream of ruffling paper. At any rate, here's what I read, more or less: begin each day, just as you awaken, with an "ohm." Then, as your feet touch the floor, intend that they will guide you into/toward the beauty of the day.

 

At least I think those are the two things I was told. But no matter what I was told, here's how it has played out in my mornings. Obviously I felt a need to respond to the suggestion to take an active role in directing my day. So the very first day—and every day since—I have awakened and the first sound that has come to my mind is "Ole!" I'm pretty quick to notice that that's probably not the right "o" word, and "ohm" follows right on its heels. But still, "Ole" is apparently how I want to greet the day.

 

And as my feet hit the floor (as my feet step gingerly onto my bedside rug) I say, sincerely, "Follow the Yellow Brick Road."

 

Again, obviously, the wrong thought. Am I incurably trivial? Eternally frivolous? Unable to be reverent about anything, even in the almost-unconscious state of half-asleep?

 

Irreverence is not a fault, I try to tell myself. I recently read a blurb for Anne Lamott's latest book praising her for being both irreverent and reverent. And when I read that I recognized once again that Anne Lamott is my role model.

 

But I worry that though I have the irreverent part down cold, the reverent part is lagging behind. Try as I might, the Ultimate Seriousness of Life escapes me. So far, anyway. Some people have it in spades and don't need to wait for the vicissitudes of age to drag seriousness up from the depths. (Of course, also, some people are too serious.)

 

All I strive for nowadays is acceptance of my self: this is how I am.

 

Ole.

 

 

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For the Duration

Once upon a time, "for the duration" meant short-term. Now, I find that the duration is long and hard. Endless, even. Enduring from now until the end is something entirely different.

 

The names of things are like tracings in the sand that dissolve with the tide. Nouns are sometimes available, but synonyms are gone forever, as if I'm being told I can have one noun for each thought, each feeling, each sense. Apparently, to ask for more than one is greedy; I must leave some words for others. I've had my turn to play with language and now must give way, contenting myself, for the duration, with one word per idea.

 

 

 

Copyright © 2023 Ann Tudor
Musings blog: http://www.scenesfromthejourney.blogspot.com

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