So many hills I have seen
That grow so soft and thick and green.
Though jagged rocks sit down below
The grass and shrubs and weeds that grow
Through cracks and gaps, in mud patches --
Sprawling wide from tight-knit batches
That stone cannot constrain or kill.
through the Autumn,
one tree holds leaves longer,
then drops them faster.
1.) Remaining incognito. (I conceal my identity by being no one of interest.)
2.) Calling animals. (They do not come, but I maintain that I'm effective at getting their attention. They give perplexed looks and seem to be thinking, "Why is that dumb-ass human making strange noises?")
3.) Slipping on ice. (It's effortless to me.)
4.) Conveying an air of indifference. (At any given moment, you'd probably conclude that I don't give a shit.)
5.) Eating rotisserie chicken. (It's not pleasant to watch, but I leave not a scrap of meat. It's like a sun-bleached skeleton when I'm done with it.)
chilly winter day,
prismatic splotch in sky—
no bow, no ring.
I think about this in yogic terms. In the niyama of yoga there are two guiding ideas that – at first – seem contradictory. Santosha is contentment. Tapas is discipline. So, on one hand, Patanjali was suggesting one needs to accept what one is (santosha,) but, on the other hand, he was suggesting that one needs to keep the fire of self-development burning (tapas.) [Note: I realize there are different readings of these two concepts, these are the versions that have resonated with me.]
These two ideas did seem at odds until I realized that they answer different questions. Contentment is the answer to “Am I enough?” Tapas is the answer to “Can I be better?”
Long story short, I see wishes such as the desire to be six inches taller or to be a celebrity as a waste of time and mental energy. However, I see the need to be a healthier and more equanimous version of myself as an ever-present driver.
The suppressed poems by Ernest Hemingway
Tiger Riding for Beginners 