You are currently browsing the tag archive for the ‘stillness’ tag.

But it does continue to revolve at its own pace, doesn’t it?  I’ve missed you. I hope I’m back now.

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Denver, Colorado.

Quote of the day: “The joy of life comes from our encounters with new experiences, and hence there is no greater joy than to have an endlessly changing horizon, for each day to have a new and different sun. ” —  Jon Krakauer

Daily gratitudes:
MKL, always
Motion
Rainstorms
Mr. Man
A call from Kelsea

 

Sometimes, it’s hard to tell where the earth stops and heaven begins.

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Topsail Beach, North Carolina.

Quote of the day: “There is no death, daughter. People die only when we forget them,’ my mother explained shortly before she left me. ‘If you can remember me, I will be with you always.” — Isabel Allende

Daily gratitudes:
Blooming things
Lavender oil
Poetry
Snuggly cats
Peaceful passings

 

There were many places for reflection on our quiet side of Cozumel, though I found this one both lovely and surprising. Situated at the edge of the quasi-chill bar, Rasta’s, was this lovely little … chapel? shrine?

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I’m not quite sure what to call it, but inside it was cool and peaceful, with small madonnas in shrines, windows with views of the sea, and a starry map of the island painted on the ceiling. Stepping through that arch, serenity enveloped me like a warm, gentle wave. Most others were heading to the bar or the tables in the sand, so I was happy to stay in here for a few minutes on my own, and soak in stillness, hearing nothing but the ocean and a muted roar of happy voices. I spent quite some time on this trip contemplating my own spirituality, and this was a fine slice of hush.

Quote of the day: “We are not human beings having a spiritual experience. We are spiritual beings having a human experience.” — Pierre Tielhard de Chardin

Daily gratitudes:
Moments of true forgiveness felt
Greening things
Wisdom to avoid fruitless situations that anger me
Kelsea
My beloved

Today’s guest poet  —  Greg Hewitt

Beyond The Pane

The frescoed cloister is closed.
No echo of omniscience
escapes to wind or metaphor.
A cottage holds three bowls,
earthen and chipped, on a table
made of planks smoothed by the surf.
One holds buttermilk;
another, tomatoes pale as moons;
the third, eggs the color of sand.
On the sill you would place a globe
of ivory roses to echo
the dolphin skull beyond the pane,
and think how sonorous, how bold,
this science of solitude.

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