Haven't been able to read your essays for too long, what a gorgeous one to come back to. Was just listening (so many hundred of hours) to a Sylvia Boorstein recording from one of her retreats and some of what she had to say was a version of what you've expressed here. Thank you for writing and sharing.
beautiful wordsmithing, important thots for all of us, no matter how old, blessed impermanence! this reminds me of Elizabeth Berg's novel, "Life, A Love Story" - an old lady writes a letter to the woman to whom she wills her house and describes many of the special and unique items included - like a rubber band in a gift box and an old Mrs. Butterworth container. our things may have significance to us, but to others they look like junk, right? thanks for sharing this piece...
Thanks, Shana. I love the history of things and will often stand in the middle of a room and go around telling the story of each artwork, each piece of furniture. Where did it come from? Who made it? Who gave it to me? There's no end to those stories because each one leads to another.
You stated our dilemna perfectly--not so easy to empty out aspects of ourselves. Easier to get rid of extra plates and cups. The rest is something I think of, erroneously, as ME. We are very attached to that made up sense of ME. Would love to be an empty vessel.
It came to me more clearly than it usually does when I recently started to feel it in my body....the bloatedness, the constant need to fill it up. Maybe we are empty vessels operating under the illusion that we're not.
Yes! A blessing if we've lived well, and bonus points (maybe) if we are can travel light towards the end of the journey. This is such a thoughtful, lovely piece.
Even shoes make our feet disappear. Our wet footprints when getting out of the pool stay for a few moments, showing that our arches never touch the earth we walk across. This could go on forever without us as we are. Chaucer died in 1400 and if he whispered to us in our dreams we couldn't understand him without footnotes. And yet traces of his words linger in our every day conversations. The word knife was pronounced ka nee va. Silent e's were pronounced, unheard as our arches can't be seen when we walk across the cement with wet feet. You see what you've caused by your essay? Thanks, Suzie, but I've got to get going.
You might want to ask Frank that question. I don't know who reads Chaucer these days but The pardoner's Tale comes to mind when I listen to Trump's blatant lies. That's the one, you may remember, about the guy that sells religious relics purported to be bones of the saints when in fact they are pig bones. He reveals all his tricks and deceptions but at the end is so intoxicated with the power of his rhetoric he pitches his spiel to the very people he's told that he's a complete fraud. It's snake oil salesman Trump all over.
In addition to Chaucer's liberating music it's amazing to think he served in ambassadorial roles on the continent and oversaw construction projects on the scale of a castle. And then he put English on the international map, ressurrecting it from the status of an illegal language after William the Conqueror made French and Latin the only languages you could use in court.
I endorsed your Substack essays to Tim Kahl this morning. They read so effortlessly and are so adept at pulling all the threads of the day into a comprehending center. Tim and I have been exchanging emails lately. His wide-ranging, obliquely humorous comments, so free of prejudice and self- bloviating opinions are a pleasure to read. His scientific knowledge is rare and the connections he makes are illuminating. How come mankind is in such a mess with such wonderful people?
Very kind of you to bring my writing to Tim Kahl's attention. Is there somewhere I can read his work on the screen? I've heard him in Sacramento but would like to follow up on your remarks about him. Love your comment about Chaucer putting English on the international map. Imagine being that guy in the history of literature.
I suggested he might set up a Substack site but he hasn't gotten back to me. I could send you some things he's sent me, one very interesting poem and the reading behind it. He read a book about Islam's Golden Era, which culminated in the twelfth century and included the enlightened culture the Moors established in Spain, Alhambra and so on. He made a brilliant analogy to Google's potential strangle hold on information. I'll ask him if he minds if I share it. The poem sums it up. But he calls it a 'think piece,' which is too self-deprecating. I can't send it here, though. I think you gave me your email and if I don't have it I'll send it to Frankie.
One "drawer" at a time, caressing what's in there before you toss it.
It's amazing how much stuff is lying around up/down there.
Letting go on so many levels. Beautifully expressed. Thank you!
It's a life's work, isn't it?
Haven't been able to read your essays for too long, what a gorgeous one to come back to. Was just listening (so many hundred of hours) to a Sylvia Boorstein recording from one of her retreats and some of what she had to say was a version of what you've expressed here. Thank you for writing and sharing.
Thank you so much. I'm touched that you thought of me and Sylvia in the same breath. What a lovely, remarkable presence she is.
“So much the essence of a soap bubble” - exquisite image and oh so true.
Thanks, Sonny. It feels like it conveys the lightness that is our true nature.
I love cleaning out the attic and/or basement of the mind.
beautiful wordsmithing, important thots for all of us, no matter how old, blessed impermanence! this reminds me of Elizabeth Berg's novel, "Life, A Love Story" - an old lady writes a letter to the woman to whom she wills her house and describes many of the special and unique items included - like a rubber band in a gift box and an old Mrs. Butterworth container. our things may have significance to us, but to others they look like junk, right? thanks for sharing this piece...
Thanks, Shana. I love the history of things and will often stand in the middle of a room and go around telling the story of each artwork, each piece of furniture. Where did it come from? Who made it? Who gave it to me? There's no end to those stories because each one leads to another.
it's a gift to be a part of your process and accumulated self-awareness and wisdom, so very human.
Welcome, dear Risa....You are a gift to me.
Susie, back atchya! ((hugs))
Susie, this is brilliant!
Like kindred spirits, I recently also felt in myself the image of snake shedding its skin!
Thanks for your kind appreciation for my writing. Funny for both of us to identify with a snake of all things.
You stated our dilemna perfectly--not so easy to empty out aspects of ourselves. Easier to get rid of extra plates and cups. The rest is something I think of, erroneously, as ME. We are very attached to that made up sense of ME. Would love to be an empty vessel.
It came to me more clearly than it usually does when I recently started to feel it in my body....the bloatedness, the constant need to fill it up. Maybe we are empty vessels operating under the illusion that we're not.
Oh gosh. The emptying out - so much needs to go!
One "drawer" at a time, caressing what's in there before you toss it.
“Make your life a good trip for God.”
Yes! A blessing if we've lived well, and bonus points (maybe) if we are can travel light towards the end of the journey. This is such a thoughtful, lovely piece.
Thank you, Toni. I really like the way it feels to be light-filled, light-hearted. All the priorities shift, don't they?
Me too. And oh, how they do shift.
Even shoes make our feet disappear. Our wet footprints when getting out of the pool stay for a few moments, showing that our arches never touch the earth we walk across. This could go on forever without us as we are. Chaucer died in 1400 and if he whispered to us in our dreams we couldn't understand him without footnotes. And yet traces of his words linger in our every day conversations. The word knife was pronounced ka nee va. Silent e's were pronounced, unheard as our arches can't be seen when we walk across the cement with wet feet. You see what you've caused by your essay? Thanks, Suzie, but I've got to get going.
Still, I like the idea of Chaucer whispering to me. I wonder if he's still read outside of the academy? And what's he doing in my dream?
You might want to ask Frank that question. I don't know who reads Chaucer these days but The pardoner's Tale comes to mind when I listen to Trump's blatant lies. That's the one, you may remember, about the guy that sells religious relics purported to be bones of the saints when in fact they are pig bones. He reveals all his tricks and deceptions but at the end is so intoxicated with the power of his rhetoric he pitches his spiel to the very people he's told that he's a complete fraud. It's snake oil salesman Trump all over.
In addition to Chaucer's liberating music it's amazing to think he served in ambassadorial roles on the continent and oversaw construction projects on the scale of a castle. And then he put English on the international map, ressurrecting it from the status of an illegal language after William the Conqueror made French and Latin the only languages you could use in court.
I endorsed your Substack essays to Tim Kahl this morning. They read so effortlessly and are so adept at pulling all the threads of the day into a comprehending center. Tim and I have been exchanging emails lately. His wide-ranging, obliquely humorous comments, so free of prejudice and self- bloviating opinions are a pleasure to read. His scientific knowledge is rare and the connections he makes are illuminating. How come mankind is in such a mess with such wonderful people?
Very kind of you to bring my writing to Tim Kahl's attention. Is there somewhere I can read his work on the screen? I've heard him in Sacramento but would like to follow up on your remarks about him. Love your comment about Chaucer putting English on the international map. Imagine being that guy in the history of literature.
I suggested he might set up a Substack site but he hasn't gotten back to me. I could send you some things he's sent me, one very interesting poem and the reading behind it. He read a book about Islam's Golden Era, which culminated in the twelfth century and included the enlightened culture the Moors established in Spain, Alhambra and so on. He made a brilliant analogy to Google's potential strangle hold on information. I'll ask him if he minds if I share it. The poem sums it up. But he calls it a 'think piece,' which is too self-deprecating. I can't send it here, though. I think you gave me your email and if I don't have it I'll send it to Frankie.
Beautiful, love this, thank you
Thank you, Selene. It's moving to me to think of all of us unburdening.