Showing posts with label creativity. Show all posts
Showing posts with label creativity. Show all posts

Sunday, 19 May 2019

Solnit



The rhythm of walking generates a kind of rhythm of thinking, and the passage through a landscape echoes or stimulates the passage through a series of thoughts. This creates an odd consonance between internal and external passage, one that suggests that the mind is also a landscape of sorts and that walking is one way to traverse it. A new thought often seems like a feature of the landscape that was there all along, as though thinking were traveling rather than making. And so one aspect of the history of walking is the history of thinking made concrete — for the motions of the mind cannot be traced, but those of the feet can.
Rebecca Solnit, Wanderlust

Wednesday, 3 April 2019

Rilke




I. We are right at the start, do you see.
As though before everything. With
a thousand and one dreams behind us and
no act.

II I can imagine no knowledge holier
than this:
that you must become a beginner.
Someone who writes the first word after a 
centuries-long
dash. 
Rainer Maria Rilke 
From Notes on the Melody of Things

Sunday, 2 September 2018

Jane Hirshfield




Rebus

You work with what you are given,
the red clay of grief,
the black clay of stubbornness going on after.
Clay that tastes of care or carelessness,
clay that smells of the bottoms of rivers or dust.

Each thought is a life you have lived or failed to live,
each word is a dish you have eaten or left on the table.
There are honeys so bitter
no one would willingly choose to take them.
The clay takes them: honey of weariness, honey of vanity,
honey of cruelty, fear.

This rebus - slip and stubbornness,
bottom of river, my own consumed life -
when will I learn to read it
plainly, slowly, uncolored by hope or desire?
Not to understand it, only to see.

As water given sugar sweetens, given salt grows salty,
we become our choices.
Each yes, each no continues,
this one a ladder, that one an anvil or cup.

The ladder leans into its darkness.
The anvil leans into its silence.
The cup sits empty.

How can I enter this question the clay has asked?

 Jane Hirshfield, “Rebus” from Given Sugar, Given Salt Harper Collins 2001

Solnit

The rhythm of walking generates a kind of rhythm of thinking, and the passage through a landscape echoes or stimulates the passage thr...