Remember your Genius

Two orthodox Jewish gentlemen who’d flown over from NY were in the Seoul, Incheon lounge at crack of dawn when we arrived. One, finishing an audible, online but to me incomprehensible (Yiddish? Hebrew?) conversation, opened up what looked like a prayer book – brown, well used, worn, with hanging page mark strings – and read quietly for a while. I was inspired to do the same and opened up my Office app on the iPad. It was Lady of Sorrows. I was struck by the readings’ images of water, mud and overwhelm and reflected on the destructive waters experienced by the country I had just left. Leaving the lounge to board for my next flight, I passed a small dining room with a tv screen broadcasting the strident, scolding and triumphant tones of the lady anchor from ‘NoKo’. I didn’t understand that either; nor did I know about the missile until late in the afternoon when I was back home safe and sound.


The grass on the river banks is knee high and setting out for a walk to lessen the effects of jet lag I feel as if I am walking on clouds; clouds, I find, of cricket song. This is wonderful! The leaves of the sakura are looking desiccated as they do having endured the heat of the summer, and I am surprised that autumn feels quite so close. My own skin, pleasantly sweat-free, registers the change first. My sneezing faculties tickle, too, signaling dry air settling in.

Walking south I catch the boys rowing at sundown and sit on the wall to watch. On the far side of the river a soccer game is going on, shouts and laughter rise into the air. Happy sounds, they make me smile. Near me is the regular shush of oars pulling in and out; an occasional bout of bellows resounds from the diminutive cox on one of the larger skulls. The boys are all berry brown, lost in loose concentration, full of grace.

How could we tire of hope? / -so much is in bud. 

(Denise Levertov, Beginners)

All weekend long we waited for the typhoon that had been roiling around taking its own sweet time dawdling north-east. The suspense grew dreadful. Finally, on Sunday night, after a weekend of odd gusts and a bucket of rain here and there, it was upon us, howling and violent. Waking the following day, it was to a world washed clean.

I have been wrestling with Julia Kristen this week reading an interview published as ‘This Incredible Need to Believe‘. Such a compelling title and connected with so much else I’m trying to wrap my mind around. (For example, Coetzee and Kurtz’s ‘The Good Story’ and Ward’s ‘Why We Believe…’) In particular, I’m trying to get to grips with a section on genius and ‘great men’, thinking about the individual and the collective. In particular, I’m interested in the turning point between when people were in touch with the Angel/Daimon/Genius that made you You (where the human was seen as a ‘co-presence’ with the Divine, a fresh expression, a never-before-or-since kairotic emergence; a deeply original, creative, loved and actively loving Singularity) and when people decided that rather than honoring this god/(aspect of) God, they’d project that power instead onto the so-called ‘Great Man’.

Kristeva refers to Arendt who noted that during the Renaissance it was down to ‘men, who were losing God, to displace transcendence toward the best among them. Frustrated to see themselves assimilated to the fruits of their activities … the subjects of galloping secularization endeavored to confer the traits of “genius” and/or the divinity with each of them upon …’ others. From here, the beginnings of celebrity culture can be traced. (Though to say giving power/devotion to the ‘best among us’ is no longer, or quite so undoubtedly, true. It is, at least, open to interpretation: who counts as a member of the group, and what, and for whom, is ‘best’?) Along with the rise of celebrity culture, comes the atomization of the body social and the gradual erosion of pan-human dignity. There’s something to the biblical first commandment that I begin to appreciate as I live into my years and my questions.

The next part I’m going to try to figure out is how the notion of genius animates a ‘loving desire to surpass oneself’ notably in the Jewish and Christian traditions. For the time being, though, to remember one’s own dear Genius seems a small and necessary awareness to bring to the resistance against, if nothing else, creeping despair. This ‘self-surpassing’ I hope, will say something about how we all belong to a bigger story.


In other wrestling news, I realized the Autumn sumo tournament was on and tuned in to watch the live broadcast on a day when I’d arrived home early and tired from work. It was great fun to watch again. There’s been a long interval in which I have not paid it much mind at all. A little excitable edge-of-your-seat squirming and jeering and cheering at the screen was an enjoyable release of tension.

So ends a week of Now.Heres. Wishing you well.


Quarterly Media Review (very late)

3 months and a day, I see, since last I posted. Today the spring/summer semester comes to a close. I am working from home while ex-super-typhoon Noru ( demoted last evening to a tropical storm) buckets down. For the time being we have respite from the challenging heat and humidity of the past weeks and enjoying feeling, if briefly, human again.

Following below are the media that held my attention from March through June.


  • Palace Walk, Mahfouz Naguib
  • My Name is Lucy Barton, Elizabeth Strout
  • A Monster Calls, Patrick Ness
  • World Folktales, Anita Stern
  • On The Origin of Stories, Brian Boyd
  • Homo Deus, Yuval Noah Harari
  • Momo, Michael Ende
  • Wrinkle in Time, Madeleine L’Engle


  • Poems, New and Collected, Wislawa Szymborska
  • Map,Wislawa Szymborska
  • Selected Poems, Denise Levertov
  • A Quiet Place, Seicho Matsumoto


  • Speaking into the Air, John Durham Peters (ongoing)
  • Silence & Beauty, Makoto Fujimura (ongoing)


  • A Thousand Years of Good Prayers, YiYun Li
  • The Far Shore, Yoko Tawada


+ The Liturgists w/ Richard Rohr on The Cosmic Christ

+ Rachel Kohn, The Spirit of Things, (Australian Radio National), Dances of Universal Peace

+ The Why Factor, Words Matter

+ BBC World Service, The Power of The Word (Love to read)

+ The Forum, A Single World, Many Identities

+ Cultural Frontiers, The Effects of Emigration on the Writer

+ Intelligence Squared, (Carlo Rovelli, Christophe Galfard),  The Architecture of the Universe.




  • Spotlight
  • Arrival


NEW APPS (I learned Cyrillic for a laugh & am practicing Japanese)

  • Duolingo
  • Memrise






Forest Bathing in Five Pieces

In the woods in the late afternoon I become


(a thin place).

Mind unclenched, heart at ease, and nothing in this spacious overflowing, nothing but sighing the words ‘thank you’ – the wholly adequate prayer of Meister Eckhardt – seems either apt or necessary.



When the petals of the grand-finale cherry blossom, the yaezakura, have made a nice thick carpet on the ground, that’s when the mauve wisteria begin declaiming their poetry. When the tide of green’s inexorable and there is no turning back, the azalea explode into colourful hurrahs and the nightingales, in forest amphitheatres countrywide, give concerts, belting out thrilling, trilling resurrection songs. In through the ears this heart–magic weaves.



Ladybugs and butterflies have found me a worthy landing strip. Upon my light green shoe, nine ‘eyes’ gaze from a wing for a long, quiet time into mine. I am gentled by this creature.

Drawn upward by sudden movement, I see three large black butterflies engaged in an energetic twirling, this way and that, moving cursively across the arc of my field of his vision. This is a language I cannot grasp – what is going on? I’m thinking of Bartok or Schoenburg in the manner of: it’s piano music; I’ve heard piano music before, but this, this is nothing like that. It’s somehow out of reach; it does not conform. Around and around they whirl and loop, a calligraphic sky–writing to which I cannot attune.

Before long they leave through an opening in the trees and my forest stage is cleared, returned to the consoling simplicity of the breeze. The setting sun illuminates some hot pink hurrahs on the periphery.


The three wild butterflies in their choreographed spring cadenza have me thinking about the Trinity and the write-ups I’ve been reading recently from a recent CAC (Center for Action and Contemplation) conference. This line of Cynthia Bourgeault’s, “Work in the world is not going to drain you down, unless you become identified with it” has me mulling over the way one identifies with work, and I wonder if this is aggravated by operating in a culture infamous for its workaholism? I’m thinking of Ryan Avent’s piece, too, that I’d read earlier in the day, on work. But I’m not thinking too hard about it. After all, this is a holiday.


I begin my walk back from the forest on the foothills, across the fields to the riverside. The sun is low in the sky, shining below the rim of my hat. The air is cool, I wear a light sweat. Exultant swallows dart over the green barley; the sparrows seem more delighted by pecking away in the bare grey-beige fields which have lines inscribed, curved and straight, ploughed, smooth, beautiful, ready. They await activation after a season lying fallow by the germinated rice seedlings coming soon to the Sowing Circles of the now mostly ancient farming folk.


The Everyday

It’s ‘Golden Week’ in Japan and I have a longer than (conventionally) long weekend. I’m reading @LizStrout My Name is Lucy Barton and @Patrick_Ness A Monster Calls presently. Each I’m finding a gracious influence. Doing laundry this morning, I wrestled with the clothes that had gotten twisted in the washer, becoming aware of myself hurrying to get them out onto the line, for no particular reason other than to be done with it. A memory flashed into my mind of the slow and simple pleasure of doing a wash and hanging it out in the gifted last months of a dear friend’s life on This Side. 

Taking time for the quotidian, it seems to me, is easily overlooked but adds immensely to being present in our days. I’d go as far as to say that living well requires it.

Taking Tea, ceremonially

You enter on your knees, your white socked feet tucked under you, your head low, bowing, a curled, almost embryonic posture, signalling humility. The small tatami room is cozy, a bronze kettle peeps out, bubbling in its space just under the level of the floor, and adds a soothing warmth. Here you become small and soft. Shed the ego & the facades you use in the outside world. Relieve yourself of your swords. No defences can enter with you. Here, simply be, natural and calm. 

To be welcomed in this humble space is a chance to remember yourself. Sit up straight, relax, breathe. This is a world within a world. A space apart. In this ancient, tradition-refined ceremony there are hidden complexities that, over time, release ever more flavours and fragrances. They cannot be forced but, like happiness or the alighting of a butterfly, are glimpsed, recognised, (somehow, – impossibly – ) real. In their wake, gratitude ruptures, wearing away the old, bringing something fresh into the soul.

What is it? I don’t know. I only love it. Therefore, I praise. I am no expert; I do not study the way of tea, but I take great delight in the stories of the friends who do. It is a tempering art: you go through the fire before you begin to take shape at it. There is so much that has to be dropped to become self-effacing enough to adequately perform the ritual. Fidelity to the practice is all.

The room is, in its way, spare. Each item is freighted – with history, meaning, purpose, play. Nothing is superfluous. This makes for coherence. Our recent narrative theme for the spring ceremony was that of the local legendary hero, Momotaro. The hanging scroll was an old calligraphed poem and likeness of the founder of the ceremony, Rikyu. The Master decided we would use Rikyu to stand in for Momotaro. There was a small porcelain pheasant ornament in the alcove, on the right, perched on a folded sky-blue paper pillow, an incense burner. The vase in which the pale pink peony stood, a petal fallen onto a lower leaf and dew still quivering on it in drops, was tall, dark and rough-hewn: this was the arm of the demon with whom Momotaro does battle in the legend, protruding from below.

The chawan (tea bowls) are all different and uniquely precious pieces: each bearing a story, of origins, of ceramic artists, of design. Having entered the room, and before sitting down, an elaborate twittering dance between the participants takes place, one from which I, thankfully, as an outsider, am exempt. The more experienced the guest, the closer to the Master, s/he is seated. It is considered etiquette not to appear knowledgeable; hence the twittering. I sat, a bit reluctantly, but obediently, in the third position, recommended by my friend, a teacher of ceremony herself, who sat in fourth, she having whispered— like this was a good thing—that the third guest gets one of the really good tea bowls … (Ah, well, as the only foreigner in the room, I was standing out already. Might as well enjoy it! 😉)

Everyone knows that the guest nearest the Master has to perform the most. Usually this guest has been chosen and notified in advance and is experienced in the forms necessary to the cultivation of the atmosphere. Their duties include just the right kind of admiration (of the art, in particular), the right kind of comment and/or conversation, light and easy and effortless, exercising, where called for, wit that does not draw attention to itself, but contributes to the relaxation of all, the kind of words that enter the flow, maintain ease and heighten the enjoyment. 

I, as third guest, did indeed get a beautiful bowl which fitted, in shape and weight and size, comfortably in my hand. It was watery in design and was made by a third generation potter of a lineage whose founding eccentric artist’s story, I had first heard a week before. As I finished my dark green tea in the requisite three gulps, out of the depths, the opening lotus blossoms appeared.

Farewell, the Castle

At first light, one trumpet-like sound blasts one note across the sleeping valley and a clattering chorus of response erupts. The herald is bold, insistent but with no sense of oratory: no rhyme, no respect for time (or timing), neither is there harmony, nor any perceptible musical pattern. This is the sound of the neighbourhood murder, shattering, definitively, night from day.

The contrast between these sounds splitting heaven and the sight of the delicate and serene majesty of the sakura in bloom, is striking. The white-pink snow storm clouds  like candy-floss trees, as in a dream. Being the neighbourhood of Crow Castle, there is, naturally, a resident crew of brassy, jet-black guardians, gangster-rough and full-voiced. Particularly potent in the spring, they carry on all the live-long day, keeping you, slightly irritated, grounded.

Classically, because the blossoming season is so short, we are given to meditations on mono no aware — the temporal nature of things, the brevity of life, the passing of beauty, the limits of our incarnation, possibly dreaming of what lies beyond what can be seen and known. Raucous bacchanalia ensue, following a certain logic. The trees, revived from winters’ rest, reach for heaven; the crows remind us that, for the time being, we are of the earth. Spring invites us to show up, to embrace liminality: here we are between heaven and earth.

For most institutions in Japan, April is the season of new beginnings. The new academic year starts, without a trace of irony, on April first. I’ve grown to appreciate the arc of the timing. It’s good to be opening and growing with the light and to be winding down and finishing, fully absorbed, in the dark. Surely, for new beginnings we have the most energy for transformation having emerged from wintery realms.

A breeze picks up and I enjoy my favourite seasonal sight of all: swarms of petals looking for all the world like butterflies!

As the part of the planet I inhabit tilts toward the sun, Crow Castle, visible for half the year from the living room window, disappears, first behind a burgeoning veil of sakura where its outline gradually fades from view, then, soon, to be completely obscured behind a wall of fresh green foliage. Whiskers of green already hint at what is to come, just as the tight knots of rust-coloured buds did for the glorious tide of blossom that’s now washed up. This rhythm of revelation and hiddenness that the changing of the seasons brings is precious; a visible metaphor I grow slowly to understand.

The Castle and its daydreams fade into the background as the beauty of the trees begins to flourish and appears to come nearer. In the autumn and the winter, I dream with the castle of higher things. Preparing to no longer see it through the bare branches means, I take it, that the time has come to get to the work of manifesting.

Castle & Sakura

Quarterly Media Review

By rights this re-view ought to include the many articles that have been assigned reading for the Environmental Humanities (MOOC) course I began in January run by the University of New South Wales via the UK platform, FutureLearn. So many times in the last few months I have wondered: what on earth was I thinking? And: who has the time, the wherewithal, to process this properly? But then, I remembered what I had been thinking and that, though I was not able to keep up at the pace the course was run, I do have time (especially as there no real limits on time; it being ostensibly self-paced.) It has been a rich course, one aligned with core values I hope my life is fruitfully entangeld with, and I have gained much insight and been able to think in good and generative ways with it.



  • Mr Penumbra’s 24-hour Bookstore, Robin Sloane. Great title! The book itself is luminous. It shone at night on the shelf beside my bed. It’s low fantasy, wholly bookish, and it’s about reading, reading closely,  and about print, both physical and virtual. It’s also, eccentrically, about the Gerritszoon font.  An easy read, not without gems of insight, but mostly it felt like reading a comic. Was this an experiment approaching new modes of storytelling? Mmm. I’m not sure that it succeeds. Who loved it?
  • Cobra, Deon Meyer
  • A Banquet of Consequences, Elizabeth George
  • Conclave, Robert Harris
  • The Myth Gap, Alex Evans. Loved the connections made thinking with this book! Also, the portrayal of Margaret Barker of Temple Theology renown as ‘the real Indiana Jones’ I found quite delightful!
  • Palace Walk, Naguib Mahfouz (on going)


  • Between the World and Me, Ta-Nehisi Coates (on going)
  • Japan’s Cultural Code Words, Boyé Lafayette de Mente
  • Silence & Beauty,  Makoto Fujimura (Lent book, ongoing)


  • The Origin of Stories, Brian Boyd
  • Imagined Communities, Benedict Anderson


  • “All that offers a happy ending is a fairytale,” (Granta), “To Speak is to Blunder” (New Yorker), YiYun Li
  • “The Smallest Woman in the World,” Clarice Lispector (Dodson, trans.)
  • “Karaoke Culture”(Williams, trans.), “Questions to an Answer”(Hawkeworth, trans.), Dubravka Ugresic


+ Aspen to Go

  • Tom Friedman Thriving in the Age of Accelerations (12.21.2016)
  • Drew Gilpin-Faust & Leon Wieseltier Humanities in Decline: A Cultural Crisis (8.31.2016)

+ The Anthill

  • The Future (2.23.2017)

+ London Review Bookshop

  • On Benedict Anderson (5.18. 2016)

+ Tim Ferris

  • With Krista Tippett Calming Philosophies for Chaotic Times (2.21.2017)

Anyone with ears or eyes knows of Tim Ferris and his 4 hour work week. I’d never encountered his work before, only the promos. This was a most enjoyable interview which runs about 2 hours that I listened to lying in bed one afternoon at the beginning of what has lately blossomed into bronchitis.

+ BBC World Service, In The Balance

  • The End of Ownership (4.3.2017) [Notes on the Circular Economy]

+ Intelligence Squared, Yuval Noah Harari

Myths we need to survive


+ Inside Out

+ A New Story for Humanity: Change the Story, Change the World (Findhorn, 1h42″), which you can read about here.

+ Mozart in the Jungle

+ Broadchurch

Saving & Being Savable

The sun was out and a stiff breeze blew as I crossed the bridge to the library to pick up some books for the weekend. I noticed the flags were flying at half-mast and in a flash remembered that it was the 3.11 memorial day for the East Japan disaster of 2011.

I was out walking that afternoon and this, riverside. To be in the presence of water – life giver & death dealer – seemed right. My spontaneous prayer was a quiet walking meditation along an enchanted, little-used path that touched, as I was capable of sustaining the images, on catastrophes of scale utterly beyond my understanding.

In my mind, somewhere, somehow, I re-see the roiling black waves, living nightmares, looming over seaside towns up east, insatiable, leaving profound devastation in their wake. Is this a face of God? The elemental face of the Deep, beyond our human ken?

In my body, I register the way the light shines, the luminous jade colour of the riverbed, and I catch sight of the little placidly paddling nutria pup hoving into the sparkles under the overhanging boughs, beside the scrubby, sun-bleached pale yellow reeds. Easy to feel the Presence here. Even to exalt.


Miroslav Volf recently tweeted:

 Our task is not to save the world; only God can do that. 

 Our task is 

 to protect and enhance flourishing life 

 in a world we cannot save.


I was struck, and a little annoyed (feeling I should know), by the question: What does ‘save’ mean here? [1]. Keep the same? Rescue? (From what/whom? For what/who?) Is the message emancipatory, hopeful? Something about limits? Does it have anything to do with its Latin roots in ‘health’ (salvus) or its other cognate, ‘holiness’? Is the message meant to be anti-hero/anti-individualist, inviting a non-zero sum play, instead? [2] Not, of course, that the positive task of protecting and enhancing the flourishing of life is for sissies. But, inescapably, for me, at least, when I think about what it could mean to ‘save the world’, it is to that benighted figure from the myths, Sisyphus, that my mind goes.

I wondered, watching as much as I could, my collar soaked in tears, the deeply terrifying National Geographic-edited live footage of the disaster: What is saving for? Why save? What is worth saving? Is what is saved unchanged and/or unchanging? How does one live, being saved, with trauma? In certain lights the answers present with absolute clarity. One saves because one chooses Life. Perhaps what troubles me is the assertion that our work is not to save the world. That ‘the world’-whatever that means- cannot be saved, by us (be made to conform to our fantasies?) seems evident. On the other hand: who else is there, to meet it, as it is, in the vein of St.Teresa of Avila, but us?


Something Dame Ellen MacArthur said in a recent interview stuck in my brain: deep water is safer than shallow. This burrowed in as I read more about tsunami. When the conditions are bad, the advice goes, move either to higher ground or further away (inland or toward the horizon), or into deeper waters, the deeper, the better (it’s friction that increases the devastating power of the wave). [3]

There are times when it appears we can do things to be savable. Equally, there are times when we cannot, and we sink. It may be terrible this self-emptying, responding to what we do not choose, what we do not will for ourselves. To answer with surrender means a rejection of what we may have once imagined as true of saving and of safety. It is, essentially however, an expansion. A busting of limits. The submission represents, paradoxically, a leap, beyond, into the Unknown. The act of surrender moves us out of shallow waters, farther from the shore and into the deeps. Then what? I like to think, and hope, that the saving graces here continue to unfurl, even while they happen off the page, underground, in darkness, outside of the range of human comprehension.
Volf is right about one thing: while we can, let us choose Life, and in any way open to us, protect and enhance flourishing.


[1] A quick look in a dictionary calmed me somewhat. It is a word with a lot of meanings.

[2] Robert Wright describes the non-zero sum game as the kind in which everyone’s interests are aligned, so that everyone wins or loses together. Wright argues that history tends towards more and more non-zero-sum co-operations and higher … levels of social complexity. See Alex Evans’ The Myth Gap, 41-2.

[3] I blush to think how closely this aligns with my reflexes where conflict is concerned. There is useful friction, we can agree, I think, and then there is the corrosive and ultimately destructive kind. Discernment advised!

Doing, Not Doing

In English, they can sound almost the same, fate and faith, but a little better familiarity with Latin would have tipped me off to their quite different roots. Still, I’ve been thinking about the relationship between the concepts that these two words carry for a couple of weeks, where faith is likened to doing (it is something we practice, or cultivate) as opposed to fate, not doing (something we are subject to, powerless to influence). The tension grew after I was introduced to this captivating, rustic gentleman, Masanobu Fukuoka.

Watching this lovely, old, long white-bearded grandpa claiming that we ought just to relax and let nature take its course, and simply do what needs to be done and then take a nap, I was, I admit, quite drawn to the message. I don’t know that I could actually surrender enough to do it; I imagine it would make me anxious after all these years of learning to work in my community. Still, wouldn’t it be something to try? I mean, it gets to the heart, doesn’t it—What Is A Life?—and it throws into question all the restless questing we become attached to as grown-ups. Then I began to wonder: was Fukuoka’s approach not simply fatalistic? Or was it, in fact, a portrait of abiding trust? Possibly, why not, it was (most likely!) a mix of both. (10” video)

“The ultimate purpose of farming is not the cultivation of crops,” Fukuoka claimed, “but the cultivation and perfection of the human being.” A similar comment might be made about the study of the humanities: it’s not about the job or the status or the money, it’s about learning how to be human, to be natural, related, a human being. Is this what the Gospel verse printed on our University stationery meant to convey? I was sardonically amused when I laid eyes on it: ‘Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin …’  Was this pretty message, couched in flowers, meant for the women of the society in which I teach? Or was there, perhaps, a deeper truth waiting to be recognised?

When I watch the little old man surrounded by aliens from the cities looking to be restored rolling seed balls, I think about education and about the ways things spread; how we spread ourselves. As teachers we are putting a whole bunch of different seeds  (whose riches contained we trust cannot be destroyed by hungry critters, real or figurative) into a package that will be flung out into society, lay on the earth for a time, and, if/when conditions are right for flourishing, begin their sprouting.

Yes, I know, this is dreamy. In dreams, though, is where the quickening seed engages the tension between faith and fate. We hold each, or both, by heart; this much is apparent when we choose to respond. We do well to remember what David Steindl-Rast teaches:

“The heart is a leisurely muscle. It differs from all other muscles. How many push-ups can you make before the muscles in your arms and stomach get so tired that you have to stop? But your heart muscle goes on working for as long as you live. It does not get tired, because there is a phase of rest built into every single heartbeat. Our physical heart works leisurely. And when we speak of the heart in a wider sense, the idea that life-giving leisure lies at the very center is implied. Never to lose sight of that central place of leisure in our life would keep us youthful.”

Keeping Watch

What of the world has touched me this day? What, gratuitously, has reached me? Via all my preoccupations and distractions, what have I allowed in, registered? What grace have I mindfully received? To what and to whom have I given my attention?

These have been the questions that have been informing my way of late. It used to be that I kept a list of all that I did in a day. I tried that for almost a year in an effort to discover how it was at the end of a day I was utterly spent and with no memory, let alone satisfaction, of how I had become that way. So, I kept a list. Looking back over that list did not make my heart sing, however, not at all. Who cares, I thought? Not even me: all the things I did. It was a little misery-making to realise this, I confess. Papers marked, grades logged, meetings attended, classes taught, papers written, emails sent, phone calls made, bills paid, swims swum, walks walked (OK, that last one I do care about.) It seemed an experiment that bore no fruit, no nary a blossom.

At bottom I was haunted by that line of Annie Dillard’s ‘How we spend our days is how we spend our lives. What we do with this hour and that one is what we are doing.’ (A reflection on this very question, is here.) I guess one of the reasons I decided to keep the list was to see how I was spending my days, my hours. I wanted to see if I could get a peek at something bigger than my sense of fragmented business. I wanted to make sense.

The alternative practice I started at the new year, based on the questions (above), can be seen to be somewhat (informally) connected to the Ignatian examen (which I’ve never really been able to get into).This way is, I feel, a focus more on being (attentive) than on doing. In one sense it is effortless; in another it requires a certain orientation of mind, a certain alignment of intention, an attunement to divine frequency. Into a notebook I’ve begun to write down the things that penetrate the fuzz, or buzz, of living. Mostly I’ve noticed that they are sensory charges. Detonations in the routine hum-drum. Poetic Instances. The cold, sweet sip of water in the middle of the night; the fragrance of slow-cooked hot sweet potatoes bought off the wagon in the shopping street;  the sweetness of a mikan eaten while soaking up the sun; watching an earthshine moonset from my apartment window, a new moon accessorised by bright Venus in a two-tone sky of peach and gradated blues; the sound of my keys thunking into the ceramic bowl as I return home.

Oh, blessed asymmetry of life!

This day of ashes and of earth is a reminder: we are home. Being with this, orienting around it, encouraged and inspired by all the gifts I am sensing along the way, these things really do make the heart sing.