The surface of the earth itself acts to transmit the presence of the beloved. The earth vibrates like a wire with his step, and sees the impulse directly into the body of the poet. It is the nature of the earth and of our dust to be in constant contact with the impulses of life. If we listen, we will hear the continuous tread of love, moving up our limbs like sap, like an electric current, impelling us as well to “stir and
(M. C. Richards)
it is the heart that makes us human. The heart is where the beauty of the human spirit comes alive. Without our heart, the human would
How do we come to the day?
With our art – artfully, artisanly?
With our “to do” list – functionally?
The former is more demanding, knowing nothing is at it appears on the surface It knows it must ask more, search more, knock more, more conscious, more intentional to the impulses of life:
How much of the beauty of our own lives is about the beauty of being alive? How much of it is conscious and intentional? That is the big question.^