There is something beautiful about believing in the potential of things without needing proof of it; something childlike and loyal and vulnerable. I am not sure I’m capable of it, but I’m glad it exists. It ignites passion and creativity because of all that is possible if you believe it is.
I was never made to be cynical– I don’t think it was ever in my nature– but I have never been the kind who can believe without questioning, either. It’s something about being Buddhist, which tells you to question.
Nonetheless, I’m grateful for faith– it emerges in confidence, knowing we can do something having never done it before; in marriage, vowing to love someone for the rest of your life, not really knowing if you will; in leaps of faith and in trust and in love.
Goodness. When I started this blog, it was an attempt at cultivating the practice of gratitude, in the way that many Buddhists cultivate the habit of meditation or acceptance or non-attachment (all of which I am not very good at just yet! They’re lifelong endeavours, though, I feel, for those of us without Lama-like souls).
I also hoped it would attract people who had been similarly called/forced/dragged kicking and screaming to find a deeper meaning or higher spirituality in life, and vice versa, of course; thus becoming part of a community of those engaged in the search.
I’m very honoured and privileged to be a small and fleeting but regular part of the lives of other travellers through this life, and for their unique insights and often lovely and serene, dark and macabre, practical and clever, or downright beautiful writings and muses.
I’m grateful to you. Thank you for your feedback and encouragement.
I think I’ll try the NaPoWriMo prompt for one of them, and do two tomorrow:
Peter Roberts has been participating in NaPoWriMo for several years now at his blog, Masonry Design. He has the charming and odd distinction of having only written poems about masonry. Today, I challenge you to do the same (for one day, at least), and to write a poem that features walls, bricks, stones, arches, or the like. If that sounds a bit hard, remember that one of Robert Frost’s most famous poems was about a wall.
Cold, high stone arches
Make a mute, ringing silence…
Profound silence that
Pulls the angelic voices up
And ringing to the skies
Like a bell…
Arches that send the wills
Of generations soaring.
Cold, stone walls
Infused with centuries of
Wishes, whispered prayers, wails,
Pleas, bargains, desperate cries…
Such old stone,
Layered with ages
Of swung frankincense and myrrh…
Soaring, sweeping pillars
Echo a thousand cantors,
Hum with a million shy voices…
Old, old stone
Pregnant with candle wax and flame
Of the Virgin Mary.
The day that death is welcome Is the moment a life changes. It’s the point that hope, The last star left in Pandora’s chest, Is put out, a tiny flame In a human heart, That fragile, ever-beating Thing, created from the dust Of endless past, of cosmic time, And no sense of time at all. The first flame, and the last; The flare of all things past.
I know I’ve written about hope before; but specifically, I am grateful for the sun and lovely weather in the place I’m in because it’s revived some spark of hope that things will be better.