Your voice dispels the clouds of unknowing simply by its ongoing. It has the love and stamina it takes to look at things the way they are without going under, a voice that mysteriously becomes our own. It’s our chance. This must be the Awareness buddhists speak of when we can turn, stop spinning the hamster wheel of inertia governing our lives. It sings. It reminds me of my little sparrow when forest fire smoke filled California air for days. Well done, Susie.
Love and stamina go a long way, don't they? Your poem means a lot to me. Especially the sparrow drinking from the puddle of condensation and the hunting magazines. I feel empty and full at the same time after reading it.
Hello, Susie, I'm finding it a little hard to post here. But here is my message: in this particular existential moment, you might enjoy two of my forthcoming books, The Reenchantment of Meaning and Existential Nomads. Existential Nomads speaks to your post today. Let me know if you'd like to see either or both. Best, Eric
Susie, as always your ability to express the inexpressible is both a blessing and a curse. I could feel my anxiety growing as I read each sentence. I only found relief in your description of the cottonwood tree and my own grounding in a cup of morning coffee. I look forward to our walk tomorrow if we can find each other in the maze of life.
Breath-taking is the word that comes to me about this piece. It is deep dharma wisdom. The teacher Pema Chodron reminds us that we are groundless and you put flesh on what that actually feels and looks like. Reading this, and also the appreciative comments, I feel I am not alone.
Very dear Sharon.....It's such a delicate proposition...Touching one another out of a shared experience of emptiness. I can't imagine navigating this without kindred spirits. I will be in Great Barrington the first week in October and will be at sangha on the 1st. Hope you're on this side of the ocean.
As I wrote in the piece, it's hard to explain that you no longer feel called to explain. But some people, such as yourself, seem to have picked up the scent. Thank you.
You have fully captured the mundane (worries about misplaced items) versus the existential (anxiety about mankind’s survival in the face of all that ails the world in this moment).
The sudden and momentary glimpse of the cottonwood, in its brief mention, belies that which keep us moored (Nature). 🙏
Your words reflected my feelings of being in another country and without a language to voice my constantly changing landscape. 'Existential emptiness' captures some of this.
Thank you, Mary. I'm in the unusual position of being a person who lives and breathes words and is at the same time starting to want more space without them.
Glad to include you in this conversation with Gene, a new friend in California. We saw a heron on our walk today. Better yet, he was reflected in the lake so there were two of him. Great good fortune.
I really like this essay and it's serendipitous since I'm writing an essay about road trips. I am learning to be okay with not knowing, to not be afraid of the uncertainty. Thank you for this insightful and inspiring reflection.
I just love you, (which is a lesson in self-regard). It’s as if you decode my experience, perspectives and emotional/spiritual world. I used to love to do that work myself, but my cognitive skills of excavating, ordering and expressing my inner life is rapidly failing, along with my 73 year old body! Thank you for the powerful satisfaction and comfort that feeling connected to another person brings, especially where we find ourselves now.
With deeply felt appreciation for the work you do,
Caroline Forsman (back here in your old Berkshire haunts)
Many thanks for this gracious endorsement, Caroline, and for the Berkshire connection. I find myself less and less able to negotiate elaborate in-person encounters. But this THIS, brings such joy.
The combination of the quandary of the last paragraph with Frank's comment in the first that we would go out in a wave of boomer self-regard are a potent cocktail. You are brave; I don't know if bravery is helpful in these circumstances.
Your voice dispels the clouds of unknowing simply by its ongoing. It has the love and stamina it takes to look at things the way they are without going under, a voice that mysteriously becomes our own. It’s our chance. This must be the Awareness buddhists speak of when we can turn, stop spinning the hamster wheel of inertia governing our lives. It sings. It reminds me of my little sparrow when forest fire smoke filled California air for days. Well done, Susie.
HARD TO PLAN FOR
Outside the tire shop waiting room
a sparrow underneath a faded Suburu
sips from a puddle of condensation
dripped from the air conditioner.
Smoke from the fires is everywhere.
“Have a seat,” the young woman
behind the counter takes care of business.
“I’ll get’em right on it.”
The dude next to me into his phone
scrolls through pics with an expert thumb
an older lady across from me
fidgeting with the clasp on her purse
looks at me, her face full of apology.
I smile, and look away.
The tire shop is full of the smell of new tires.
We have Coffee Mate and hunting magazines
as we wait, and are grateful to have made it
and not to be stuck on the side of the road.
I look out the window again.
The sparrow stays in the shade
under the bumper, her beak open for the heat
as if she’s trying to sing.
Love and stamina go a long way, don't they? Your poem means a lot to me. Especially the sparrow drinking from the puddle of condensation and the hunting magazines. I feel empty and full at the same time after reading it.
Hello, Susie, I'm finding it a little hard to post here. But here is my message: in this particular existential moment, you might enjoy two of my forthcoming books, The Reenchantment of Meaning and Existential Nomads. Existential Nomads speaks to your post today. Let me know if you'd like to see either or both. Best, Eric
Wonderful to hear from you, Eric, and I would love to see your work. Thank you for thinking of me and please give my best to Anne.
Susie, as always your ability to express the inexpressible is both a blessing and a curse. I could feel my anxiety growing as I read each sentence. I only found relief in your description of the cottonwood tree and my own grounding in a cup of morning coffee. I look forward to our walk tomorrow if we can find each other in the maze of life.
As if there isn't enough to be anxious about already. You are a godsend.
Dearest Susie:
Breath-taking is the word that comes to me about this piece. It is deep dharma wisdom. The teacher Pema Chodron reminds us that we are groundless and you put flesh on what that actually feels and looks like. Reading this, and also the appreciative comments, I feel I am not alone.
With love,
Sharon
Very dear Sharon.....It's such a delicate proposition...Touching one another out of a shared experience of emptiness. I can't imagine navigating this without kindred spirits. I will be in Great Barrington the first week in October and will be at sangha on the 1st. Hope you're on this side of the ocean.
Well done. I can relate. You’ve expressed what so many of us feel. Thank you!
As I wrote in the piece, it's hard to explain that you no longer feel called to explain. But some people, such as yourself, seem to have picked up the scent. Thank you.
I must say Susie, that this is a tabula rasa with profound depth, as it provides a lot of food for thought. 🙏
Rita....Would love to hear about any ideas of yours that are sparked by my writing.
You have fully captured the mundane (worries about misplaced items) versus the existential (anxiety about mankind’s survival in the face of all that ails the world in this moment).
The sudden and momentary glimpse of the cottonwood, in its brief mention, belies that which keep us moored (Nature). 🙏
Any one direction the responses take can lead to the various other directions. It's all there, as it is for us in the everyday.
Everything, Everywhere, All At Once.
Your words reflected my feelings of being in another country and without a language to voice my constantly changing landscape. 'Existential emptiness' captures some of this.
Thank you, Mary. I'm in the unusual position of being a person who lives and breathes words and is at the same time starting to want more space without them.
Love your ending, which is your essay "in action!" Doing "it" and not talking about "it", as the great poem by Eugene does, below!
Glad to include you in this conversation with Gene, a new friend in California. We saw a heron on our walk today. Better yet, he was reflected in the lake so there were two of him. Great good fortune.
I really like this essay and it's serendipitous since I'm writing an essay about road trips. I am learning to be okay with not knowing, to not be afraid of the uncertainty. Thank you for this insightful and inspiring reflection.
I really believe coming to live with uncertainty is the great learning. Thanks for reaching out.
it sent too quickly. nothing was attached <smile>. let me know if you would like to see either book. best, eric
Dear Susie,
I just love you, (which is a lesson in self-regard). It’s as if you decode my experience, perspectives and emotional/spiritual world. I used to love to do that work myself, but my cognitive skills of excavating, ordering and expressing my inner life is rapidly failing, along with my 73 year old body! Thank you for the powerful satisfaction and comfort that feeling connected to another person brings, especially where we find ourselves now.
With deeply felt appreciation for the work you do,
Caroline Forsman (back here in your old Berkshire haunts)
Many thanks for this gracious endorsement, Caroline, and for the Berkshire connection. I find myself less and less able to negotiate elaborate in-person encounters. But this THIS, brings such joy.
The combination of the quandary of the last paragraph with Frank's comment in the first that we would go out in a wave of boomer self-regard are a potent cocktail. You are brave; I don't know if bravery is helpful in these circumstances.
Well...there are various flavors of bravery. I'm not physically brave at all but I do trust my words when they surface. I recognize their efforts.