“From winter’s tomb of lifeless blossoms, thou, O Christ, art resurrected in new buds of roses, marigolds, bluebells, jasmine, and worldful varieties of flowers. Ever-mutating, multicolored flowers of lifetrons growing in the gardens of the astral land are fragrant thrones of thy Presence” ~ Paramahansa Yogananda
Hallelujah! He is risen.
Originally posted on Walking with the Alligators:
A bee performing the miracle that keeps the whole world running~
Picture credit: Bob Peterson/ Jacopo Werther
If like us, Spring at your house means working in your garden and/or your yard, here are some things that you may wish to consider before you begin.
In my email this morning was a new round of pleading from one of my favorite sources for keeping our Planet safe, the Cornucopia Institute.
They are once again, repeating a request for us all to stop using a certain type of insecticides in our yards because of the mortal effects they are having on our bees in America.
Bees and all pollinators are dying by the millions and it is having a ripple effect all across our Planet.
On the Weather Channel this week, a sad example was demonstrated live on the set, bees are being born with crumpled wings and only living a day or two, because they cannot fly, the source or cause of this deformity is mites.
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jump across time and space
to another receptive heart
The reverberations of suffering
resound around the earth
picked up by open souls in prayer
The reverberations of Aum
most sacred of sounds
pulses through our minds in meditation
Love brings the possibility of loss
Suffering brings a totality of pain
Aum brings the reality of God within
Originally posted on MOONSIDE:
The Vernal Pool Next Door
It is late afternoon and spring by the calendar, although still quite cool. I have just spent some time at our neighbor’s pond, listening to a form of music that some have likened to the sound to bells. Others liken it to bird song. And still others with unimaginable disdain, to “some kind of nature noise.” For me it is one of the happiest of sounds– the act of creation transformed into sound decibels for all to hear. A sound that comes from the earth and resounds to the heavens, unwittingly praising the Almighty. It is a form of ecstasy when the sound surrounds me totally, filling my ears every evening with perhaps the single-most highlight of spring for me– the siren song of the Spring Peepers.
How have they cast their spell over so many? I cannot say except that their song…
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Spring Peepers peeping
Red-winged Blackbird joining the Peeper Chorus
Sap a flowin’
Ice a goin’
What I loved about this horse is that he looks as if he is about to say, “Tell me all about it!” Actually he is a rescue that became a therapy horse at Lucky Orphans Horse Rescue in Millbrook, New York. He gives handicapped children rides and companionship so valuable to them. Like so many animals, he gives so much for mere maintenance in return. An exceptional soul.
in total vulnerability
openness spread across your face
how can I resist
I am powerless
before such love
before your open heart
and yet you have to go
live life in your world
though we share so much
we remain alone
we make love,
is deep and strong
how can it be that
our two bodies
joined in union
keeping us apart
how can it be that
will break my heart
in the end
for we will die
how can it be that
vessels of union
will keep us apart
that one day two hearts
that beat as one
will leave this bodily union
Death cannot sever
our binding bond
though it rips us
(Dedicated to Thomas, my husband of almost 25 years, with all I have to give)
Originally posted on Green Living London:
Japanese whaling in the Antarctic Ocean was ruled illegal by the International Court of Justice this afternoon. This is a landmark ruling which will stop hundreds of whales being killed each year in the Southern Ocean around Antarctica in the name of “research”.
Australia had asked the Court to stop Japan’s annual whaling hunting expedition, claiming their programme is not scientific but commercial, because of its large scale. Japan catches about 1,000 whales each year for what it calls scientific research.
In a statement, the court said: “The special permits granted by Japan for the killing, taking and treating of whales in connection with JARPA II are not ‘for purposes of scientific research’ pursuant to [the International Convention for the Regulation of Whaling].”
The court’s decision is considered legally binding and Japan has said in the past that it would abide by the court’s ruling. But this isn’t the end…
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I’m in somnia
with jackhammer brain
a buzzing mind
a humming with emotions
thoughts and pictures
memories of joys
lost to death
spirits close to my heart
seemingly worlds away
guilt, loss and happiness
sickness and death
as well as
a bedfellow with
and gnashing nerves
fleeting images from films and
music playing at high speed
in the library of my mind
voices of today, yesterday and
fears of tomorrow
vying for an ear
asking me to listen
to them all
all at once
a cacophony of sounds
in the humming silence
of the specter-filled
with fearsome death dangling
its loathsome threats
before my darting eyes
afraid not for myself
but of losing him
as he lies beside me
breeding worry, sorry
dashing thoughts of love, passion, doubts
a scarily-still lump beside
finally arising out of
of dismal darkness
and deep, dark despair
when death smelled sweet to me
I get out of bed
to lay my face
upon the windowsill
to gaze at the mystery sky
full of twinkling stars
glittering to the rhythms
of the pulsing universe
my only hope for some
semblance of somnolence
my only chance for peace.
For info on my Bipolar memoir, please see: http://www.independentauthornetwork.com/ellen-stockdale-wolfe.html
I am Bipolar. I used to think I was two different people. In the remarkable article below Bipolar Disorder is described as inhabiting two different worlds.
Originally posted on The Bipolar Bum:
Bipolar: How to be in two places at once
Everywhere we go, we occupy two completely separate places. One usually takes priority, emboldened by our current mental state, but nevertheless a person with Bipolar occupies two separate worlds.
Think of it as two narratives being played out on speakers. Periodically the volume shifts heavily from one to the other but you are left with the sometimes dreadful knowledge that it WILL oscillate at some point in the future. Just acknowledging this can be a stressor in and of itself and many people with Bipolar require that they are CONSTANTLY vigilant observing their mental garden, and pulling out the weeds as early as possible.
As white-hot, humming mania begins to recede I become anxious and pre-emptively disheartened at the potential of how low…
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A tribute to my beloved brother, Tony, who loved this song.
Originally posted on Green Living London:
A petition has been launched to save Britain’s Barn Owls, which are dying off in their thousands. The changing climate and a loss in their natural habitat is part of the picture, but these iconic birds are also being killed by powerful rat poisons used on farms across the country.
In 2013 across Britain, the number of Barn Owl nests varied between 45 and 95% lower than normal. Changing climate and habitat loss is part of the picture but Barn Owls are also being killed by powerful rat poisons used on farms across the country. Indeed, the latest scientific research shows that 84% of Britain’s Barn Owls feed on poisoned prey. Some die as a direct result.
The Barn Owl Trust has launched a petition which calls on the Government Minister responsible for the review, Mike Penning, and the Health and Safety Executive to impose stricter controls on these powerful poisons, restricting…
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The marsh is melting
all the turtles in their hibernacula
deep down under the melting ice
will soon emerge
and the marsh will sing
the chorus of the Spring Peeper
and the salamanders will emerge
with the urge to murge
and joy and the life force
will fill the air
and lift the fog
enveloping my soul.
Long ago, when I was very young, we used to go visit my great grandfather in Vermont. “Pop,” we called him, was a minister. He was a minister at Riverside Church in New York City, just two blocks from where my husband and I have lived for the past 25 years. Pop and Nana, my great grandmother, spent summers in Greensboro, Vermont, right on a lake, facing the White Mountains of New Hampshire. The lake was pristine. So clean you could drink the water. So cold even in summer, you had to wait until afternoon to swim. So cold fires burned in the fireplace in the mornings. I was scared of fire back then and remember crying and Pop took me back to his little office in the woods where he often had a fire going, to give me a lecture about fear. He told me if you were careful and knew what you were doing and had respect for it, fire was safe in the fireplace and I should not be afraid.
Early in the mornings my Dad and Pop and a neighbor would go fishing for perch for breakfast. They would come home with many fish and then would clean the scales into a bucket off the kitchen. Nana would cook them and serve the fish with fluffy eggs, and soft, buttered toast. And there was sweet, home-made marmalade with bits of peel to relish. We would eat out on the sun porch at a long table in the warm, but not hot, bright yellow sun.
Usually I went to Greensboro with my parents but sometimes Pop would drive me up at nighttime. Twelve hours on old back roads, passing through dark, sleeping towns. There were no highways then. I loved Vermont, and Nana and Pop’s house on the lake. I loved walking along the brook that flowed through their backyard. I loved looking at the blood-red poppies in their garden. But I didn’t like the swarms of gnats that hung in the fresh, warm air. Nor the snakes. Neither did Nana. I remember Nana using a garden tool to cut a garter snake in half. This seemed horrific and puzzling at the time, and seems even more grizzly today. I didn’t understand why we had to kill the snakes.
Nana was very strict, an old New England schoolmarm. My pajamas had to be neatly folded under my bed pillow or else they wound up in the “pound”, a big wooden chest, filled with other untidy things. A child had to pay money to get things out of the pound. I had almost no money then so this was a very effective form of punishment. It is true I was given a modest sum of money when we went to the general store in town. With it I would buy colorful fake wax miniature soda bottles. You would bite off the waxy top and drink the sweet liquid inside the pretend soda bottle. I learned a valuable lesson. The liquid was gone in a second– there was a flash of intense pleasure– and then you were left broke, with an unpleasant wad of wax in your mouth.
Town was miles away. The mail boxes were far away but you could walk to them along the driveway. And the nearest neighbors were far away, too. You had to walk along the lake, through the woods, to get to their house. Upon arrival, the grown-ups would have drinks and play cards and talk about this disease you got in the winter when the snow would cover the front door. It was called “cabin fever.” My mother tried to explain to me what kind of sickness it was but I never understood.
The neighbors had a young teenage boy named Andy and I had a crush on him, declaring him my boyfriend. He barely spoke to me but nevertheless when Nana gave me chocolates, I saved them and brought the bag of chocolates through the woods to the neighbors’ house for Andy. The gift went unacknowledged. Even in those days of relative innocence, I had found my first of many love obsessions. It would be several failed relationships and 30 long years spent in pursuit of love before I would find someone I loved. Someone who has loved me back, mental illness and all, in a marriage of almost 25 years. Not that long in the scheme of things.
Pop dying was the first loss I experienced. I remember not understanding death at all, sitting on Nana’s lap and asking where he had gone. She could not answer me. Nana and I corresponded by letter after that until she died many years later.
It was in those days of cool summers that I fell in love with nature and the countryside, although as a city girl, I was scared of the pitch black nights. It would take me 50 years before I would escape the city when my husband and I got a little barn in rural upstate New York.
As I sit recuperating from a recent illness, I ponder the turns my life has taken and wonder what lies ahead, not without fear, but with growing equanimity.
For memoir continuing the above click on:
Winter is weary
and we are wary
of yet more snow
and ice to come