Look around. Let Nature nurture your Soul. I record images I sense and share them here.
NURTURE your NATURE
Nature can nurture our writing, can nurture our soul. What is the language of Nature? And how do we learn it?
We look at the natural wonders around us and do not see them, hear, taste nor smell them. They do not touch us anymore than we dare touch them. And then we wonder why we feel so dead. To breathe in and live like a child again opens the Land of Wonderment. It's still there after all these years.
|You are desperate to use the bathroom. But, you share this with several others. It's down the hall (waaaay down the hall), and it's cold despite the heat being set to the 'normal' temperature. Being an older person, your legs and ability to hold it ain't what it used to be. How do you handle this dire situation?
I may have inspired or even suggested today's 30dbc prompt (above). I don't remember but I responded:
I live in an 'old' hotel built in 1908. Fortunately the common bathrooms (toilet in one, shower in the other) is right next door. The halls can be cold, or on the third (2nd to Brits) hot as hades in July. If it's occupied it's 21 steps down to the one on the second floor. Those steps seem to multiple as the years pass me by.
I hope someone can come up with a humorous response to what can be a 'tragedy' if I don't get 'there' in time. If you are young imagine having to hobble on a broken leg! Of course someone might come up with the old Scot solution: open the window and yell "gardyloo!"
Beware what flies
out yonder window
to the gutters below.
Beware it does not
with its fragrance
malodorous and rare.
the cologne of lilac, vanilla, pine
that greets you on your paths
through glen and garden!
Nor baby powder,
fresh and fine.
Don’t look up!
It stings the eye.
when next you hear the cry:
and step aside.
© Kåre Enga
gardyloo: an old cry in throwing water, slops, etc.,
from the windows in Edinburgh.
In Real Life during covid I would pee in a cup. This building has AirBnB units so I never felt safe and even avoided taking a shower. In summer when it's 100 outside and maybe more inside (my two windows face south) I might be wearing very little or nothing and have to put something on before I use the toilet. Heaven help me if I suddenly don't feel well.
My legs and lungs are having problems with the stairs; but today I took a stiff walk 'to the licker store to git me some vittels'. It's called Orange Street Food Farm but the back wall is full of beer and wine. I got cashews and cherries and pork chops. I don't drink.
I went looking for my scarf earlier and couldn't find it so I asked in two places. Nope. On the way back I was pelted with snow but lo and behold my green knit scarf was hanging from a white picket fence in the 300 block of 5th street. It must've been hanging there for a week. This is the second time I've lost it only for it to find me. I do like it.
|Robert Waltz recently wrote a blog about change. My thoughts (added and edited):
It's the end of September and Autumn is my second favorite season. In Montana it's a mix of green and gold with splashes of red and rust. The bears have been visiting the apple trees to bulk up. I have to remind myself not to hibernate as days shorten. It's a time of change.
We change even as the landscape changes. For instance, those of us of a certain age become wrinkled and then the wrinkles get crinkled. Some deal with it by buying cosmetics, others by surgery, some by proudly embracing every crack and crevice. Blessed is the lover who says "I wish to caress each wrinkle". But what about parts that, like autumn leaves, fall off?
Personally, not all change in my life came about by my efforts. I did not beg to have head injuries from a car accident. And although I suspect it actually helped later with my ability to think in Spanish I shouldn't wish that on others (seems a bit drastic). It may be a factor in my present mental slippage. And yes, I'm at a point that I need to acknowledge that and hope that it's temporary.
In 1849, French writer Jean-Baptiste Alphonse Karr wrote "plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose." Yes, even change can look like it isn't changing as humans tend to remain human over millennia and individual and systemic changes can be very slow. Some folks remain recognizable decades later! Regardless, they have changed.
Part of my personal struggle is remaining flexible enough to adapt to internal and external changes. The River of Time keeps flowing.
Yesterday I wrote a serenade to the sunset I just missed.
Serenade to a dying September
Nothing to say ...
you blush the horizon
and move on.
I'll abandon you then
and descend to the bathtub
where waves lap gentle
and wet warmth soothes,
my worn-out feet
have begged for.
I may turn out the light,
may light a candle,
inhale the fragrance
of last season's lavender,
in the quiet
remember your blush,
savor your hush,
and bathe in the moment
of a dying September.
© Kåre Enga 2021 [164.235] (29.september.2021)
Posted in "Blogville "
As underneath the canopy
a trail of leaves I spy,
I bend my body, bow my head
to the parade that passes by.
In obeisance to love of life,
in admiration I can't hide,
I applaud each ant that balances
a piece of green in stride.
© Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.229] (15.septembre.2021)
|I'm dying (we all are). But am I living?
What does being alive really mean? What is the point of staying alive past one's expiration date?
Are we-who-still-live willing to embrace our mortality and immortality?
Out of circulation.
The coins minted the year I was born are scratched, discolored, worn, the copper tarnished, the nickel dulled and whatever was silver melted down long ago. No bills remain that aren't tattered, torn. What was once of some use in exchange for a cookie or a glass of milk, is now deemed worthless and tossed in a jar or abused, flattened on tracks as trains pass or stretched and molded into trinkets at a hot tourist spot (now closed).
Is it my time to go? If so, why do I hang on.
I'm old. Not so much by the calender date. That's just a reminder that I've survived thus far. So many haven't. Am I old because I remember when songs first came out — fifty years ago? Am I old because I remember, albeit vaguely, how things used to be done? No, I'm old because I can't zig and zag and zog like the youth I once was. I just can't keep up as my body gives out.
But I'm not dead yet. Just slowly dying. Like wasps in autumn, a final frenzy before a frost puts their sting to rest. Am I resting when I nap or merely practicing lying prone before I'm laid out? In the morning, do I look like I've slept in a coffin? Some days it takes more than sunlight to get me up and more than coffee to wake me.
My expiration date cometh. Sooner if I don't take better care of myself and fall off the shelf. I'll have to embrace that reality now or later, like it or not. And I will. We all do at the end.
Until then, I may as well keep learning — and living.
But do I look beyond? Realize that my life is a gift not just to myself but to others. What kind words or wisdom, still unspoken, need to be said. What inspiration I wrote for someone will be stuck in a book and forgotten, to be read and bring forth smiles decades or centuries later. Beyond the Veil of Death will my actions still matter in the material world. I remember my mistakes and shudder.
My Muse might know, but he remains as mute as the angels that pass overhead, those who will return at the proper hour to chant the final poem.
|I admire well centered and calm people.
Those that remain unperturbed or oblivious no matter what. Me? I'm always on alert.
I am a wounded person. Layers and layers of woundedness from my own insecurities and sensitivity. ผมอ่อนไหว
I'm not sure why but I suspect I was nervous as a child, shushed, 'half-blind', clumsy, funny-looking, clueless. I was made fun of. My parents protected me but failed to build my self-esteem and didn't quite grasp how I was different. Looking back? I was. In some ways I was more like my grandparents than my parents. But they didn't live close and frankly, no family except for my mother's sister and some cousins of my father lived near. I was to be seen not heard, had to be careful with my glasses at age 6, and was supposed to stay clean. We were poor, but no one was supposed to know that, so nothing could be broken, ripped or torn. None of this helped.
I was chatty and loved playing in dirt.
So I played with close neighbors but admired other kids from afar.
These days? There are so many to admire... from afar: Gare, who is unflappable like my father; Nick who is well centered with a good moral compass; people who glow.
I keep my inner light hidden under a basket.
I fall in love with rational people, centered people, even those who share my passion; but, I can never be them and whether they love me is questionable. I never felt lovable, so even when they do, I have a hard time accepting that.
I fall in love with characters in books and movies. I can even love the flawed characters I create.
But famous people? They are role models for others, everyday people matter to me.
"30-Day Blogging Challenge" PROMPT September 13th: Who do you see as role model of yours, either a professional or 'everyday' person, and why should everyone else know about this person.
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A favorite given to me by Apondia.
Blessings: never to be 21 again. I was blessed to turn 22. The hellish year continued but I survived it. 22 is still my favorite number.
With 364 days to celebrate my life there's no need to focus on that one day I reserve for myself. Needless to say, I don't do birthdays. But, if you really don't like me being here then maybe I should schedule my own euthanasia on that day to save space on my headstone. Month/Day will suffice. If not, then my name or no name, just "Fred".
Too late now to die young and leave a good looking corpse. I looked real good at age 23 cutting shatter-cane in the milo fields of Kansas.
Funny... P'Med... died on his 22nd birthday in "He's coming to me". Makes me want to write "Forever 22" (ตลอดไปยี่สิบสอง)
I'll keep posting this until someone watches and comments. *sigh*
Now, this is another kind of blessing.
A surprise from Kittiara. My first awardicon for this 13 year old blog. She liked "Opening the garden ... of the heart  (36 lines)" a story-poem of 36 lines for: "Share Your Faith - Closed" .
Opening the garden ... of the heart
The garden opens its gates each year ...
as the gardener watches in anticipation,
as frost and freeze have finally yielded ...
yet early visitors want a carpet of color
(its not quite spring) and holler to each other,
"How little these bushes, how ugly this stream,
how useless they seem."1
The gardener knows better and calmly explains,
"in time we will harvest bushels of berries.
these will be red and juicy, those black and loved by bears
we'll be lucky if they don't glean them first."
"Well, this one tried to grab my purse!"
"Ah, to love a rose we must forgive its thorns,
to inhale its fragrance we must nourish its nature,
cherish it for whatever it offers... and never scorn.2
They walk through the drizzle under umbrellas,
sidestepping the puddles, avoid every wet frond.
"Why don't you drain this dank muddy pond?"
"I'm fond of the blossoms that rise from the muck each summer."
The visitors wrinkle their noses. "Yuck."
"Well, lets move on and not block the view for those behind us."3
Around the back bare trees overshadow slick paths,
shading the promise of ferns and moss.
"I like flowers. I have no use for forests."
"This tall tree pelts us with nuts by the hundreds; these twigs ease pain;
this straight limb will give its life to provide us shelter;
these beckon with golden leaves come autumn;
they have earned my respect
and deserve to remain."4
And so the gardener gently guides his guests
breathing deep to put his own anger to rest
as he remembers his teacher, a master gardener,
who showered him with patience over the years
and taught him how to overcome inner fears
by showing him how to tend the garden
and make it his friend.5
© Kåre Enga [177.109] (29.juni.2020)
posted in "Blogville "
|It's time to talk hurricanes. In 2005 this weekend there was a storm that some folks only refer to as K.
This year we have Ida brewing. Soon to be a hurricane, maybe before I post this.
I follow Yale Climate Connections. A couple days ago "txhurl" wrote "Iffn' Ida known you was a-comin I'da"
And a poem spewed forth from the froth:
Iffn' Ida known you was a-comin Ida...
battened down hatches
locked all those latches
savored one last look around
put up the shutters
shouted not muttered
and took the train outta town
Ida bought me some floats
invested in boats
and learned how to swim or fly
but I didn't do dat
so now it's a wrap,
time to kiss my sweet-ass goodbye
© Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.215] (24.agosto.2021)
About that K storm:
I'm sure we have lost WDC members to storms and other weather events... just so you know.
Because I grew up in a stormy area known for blizzards I paid attention, delighting in every snowflake. My father, however, had grown up with tornadoes in Oklahoma. He knew what wind could do. We were raised to respect the weather.
Hurricanes aren't as focused as tornadoes. They aren't very picky. They can last for days, not minutes and their impact can be felt far inland. Hazel in 1954 killed folks in Toronto and Agnes in 1972 nearly took out Rochester.
Perhaps we shouldn't focus so much on wind. Flooding kills more people much more effectively. Ask anyone from Houston about the H storm... or maybe not.
So... if you have friends in the path of Ida... make sure they are prepared to hunker down. If they are in NOLA it may be time to leave.
Who at WDC is in the path?
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|I told Joy:
"Gold. Very little will combine with the noble metal. Very offish, in my humble opinion. Thankfully we are carbon based, less pure but also much more complicated and interesting and much more flexible than its cousin silicon which is what [Artificial Intelligence] is based upon."
Gold conducts heat and electricity. ...
Gold is ductile: It can be drawn out into the thinnest wire. ...
Gold is highly reflective of heat and light. ...
Gold is malleable, so it can be flattened into extremely thin sheets.
Gold is prized for its beauty. ...
How are humans like gold then?
Do we conduct love [heat] and emotion [electricity]. Do we conduct our inner being by speech and touch.
Are we capable of being stretched like a wire [ductile] to cover distance and time. Is our essence never reduced to nothing.
We reflect what's around us. But the void reflects nothing. Do we reflect goodness [heat and light] when it is present?
Can we be fashioned [malleable] into something useful knowing that no matter how thin we may seem or become our essence remains intact.
Are my metaphors too suspect?
Are we beautiful? Are we prized? Do we feel that our humanity falls short somehow. We are carbon-based life forms after-all. But what about our souls?
I think this quote from ‘Abdu’l-Bahá (23 May 1844 – 28 November 1921) may be comforting:
"Be thou not sad, neither be thou unhappy; although the divine tests are violent, yet are they conducive to the life of the soul and the heart. The more often the pure gold is thrown into the furnace of test, the greater will become its purity and brilliancy and it will acquire a new splendor and brightness. I hope that thou art thyself in such a position."
‘Abdu’l-Bahá, Tablets of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá v2, p. 302-303
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|The graves in Norway are marked by flowers planted in May and many tombstones engraved with Fred6 and Takk for alt7 appear well maintained.
There is no sense of gloom around the old stone or wooden churches. Perhaps in the pine forests where the huldra still lurk, perhaps in the stone caves of the trolls. Not in Solvorn where grass grows and horses graze. Not even in Gamle Oslo.
In Sweden where my ancestors are buried there remains not a trace. Graves are reused once the family stops paying for their upkeep. In a corner next to the church in Hesselby there's a tomb for old graves stones, stacked neatly.
Nothing remains of the scars left by The Plague that killed off families and towns, killed the Kingdom of Norway8. Even left some with resistance to the modern plague of AIDS9.
But Norway and Sweden took divergent paths to controlling the covid pandemic. Norway has a death rate per million of 148; Sweden, 1438. Montana is 1639 with the not-so-honorable ranking of #34 out of 50 US states.
Norway closed its border with Sweden, imposed mask mandates, shut down, took an active approach to combating the disease. Sweden was more laissez-faire, depending on the 'common-sense' of its population.
Both were slow to vaccinate, but 56-57% are now vaccinated. Montana is at 49% and not rising. I'd be safer in Sweden these days, safer still in Norway this past year.
The battle lines have been drawn in the USA. Americans would rather retreat to their tribal enclaves than seek solutions. I don't see how one side can live with the other if they are perceived as killing them off.
Rather than politicians and media, I suspect it's traditional dogmatism versus investigative science. This schism runs deep in American society. It morphs with every generation but it's underpinning is an us-versus-them zero-sum mentality that in my opinion goes back to the Old Testament. There are modern nations that don't play this tribal game.
Personally, I don't have much of a choice because of where I live10 I'm feeling trapped again. A tourist town is a curse when the tourists show no respect.
So, let them rest-in-peace. All those who curse the sun and choose to live in the darkness of ignorance. May they die soon and allow the rest of us to live in peace.
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|A white pall shrouds Mount Dean Stone. The weak sun tries to break through, carressing the yellowing locust leaves lighting the way towards an early autumn. The river runs slow and whispers low as the flag hangs limp and listless. Smoke stings my eyes as they shutter. I abandon this lost day to others.
beyond the smoky haze
that chokes us
KE [178.205] (15.08.21)
With an Air Quality Index (AQI) of 167 it's hardly safe to go out. 150-200 is considered hazardous.
Tuesday may bring forth rain and a few days of cooler temperatures. Wednesday 61°/46° may feel like autumn. We'll try to send some relief east to bless QueenNormaJean HoHoHumbuggery .
It's 10 a.m. There will be no Pulitzer Prize blog posted today. At least not by me.
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