Each second we live is a new and unique moment of the universe, a moment that will never be again. And what do we teach our children? We teach them that two and two make four, and that Paris is the capital of France. When will we also teach them what they are? We should say to each of them: Do you know what you are? You are a marvel. You are unique. In all the years that have passed, there has never been another child like you. Your legs, your arms, your clever fingers, the way you move. You may become a Shakespeare, a Michelangelo, a Beethoven. You have the capacity for anything. Yes, you are a marvel. And when you grow up, can you then harm another who is, like you, a marvel? You must work, we must all work, to make the world worthy of its children.

—Pablo Picasso

 
(Related blog: What would you tell someone about to become a mother?)

I hear muted noise of traffic, a steady ebb and flow of vehicles as they approach and leave the controlled intersection near here. Turning my head slightly to the left, I see that it is so, and now I notice pedestrians too, enjoying a spot of sun and warmer temperatures. No one seems in a particular rush in this now moment.

From downstairs comes the harsh, angry ranting of my neighbour: nothing new there. And I’m grateful to him in a way, because his drama is the main reason I selected the calm, relaxing music I’ve got playing in the background: my recently rediscovered Paul Horn and Steve Halpern collaboration CD titled Connections. Have a listen—here’s the title cut from it.

I wouldn’t mind walking with this dude for a bit.

In general, though, it’s not so much one particular religious figure I’d like to meet (or have met) as a oneness of them. I would like to see them all in the same picture, maybe at a picnic beside a beautiful river, and speaking with one voice. I would like to see them dancing together, as Jesus and the Buddha are depicted doing in Julia Kwan's Eve and the Fire Horse (see trailer here -- sorry, I seem unable to embed videos in gaia these days).

1) How do you like to express yourself? (words, actions, writing, song?)
I love to dance with words on the page, but I feel most transported when I allow music the use of my body to interpret its nuances.

2) What songs/ music inspires you?
Indian classical, fusion, jazz.

3) Do you like museums?
Yes. I especially like those museums or parts of museums that delve into great detail about some ethnic heritage, like the Mennonite museum at Steinbach, the Ukrainian one in Edmonton, or the First Nations one that takes up a whole floor and more in Victoria’s Royal BC Museum.

4) What is your favorite color(s)?
At the moment, cherry blossom pink. No wait, that warm rose-pink shade clouds huddling above the horizon flaunted the other evening as I was walking home from Oak Bay Village. It was as if they were blushing deeply at some risque remark the sun had made just before he retired for the night.

5) What kind of art or décor do you have at home?
A little of this, a little of that. What they used to call Heinz 57.

I've always thought it would be cool to play the harp.

But really, harps are so expensive. And just imagine having to lug one around to gigs!

This looks a lot cheaper, and easier to haul around too—they call it a glass harp.

I could have a lot of fun with that. 'Course I'd have to buy way more wine glasses than I own at present.

Well, ok, so there's always the blues harp. I already own one of those, and maybe I could just start by practicing so as to get better at that.

I love that song. Excuse me, I have to go practice now. Just as soon as I find my harp...

 

Flowering. In full bloom. Thriving. Growing luxuriantly, and in a manner that befits the planted seed.

How to help others achieve their full magnificence? By encouraging them, like the Talmud's angel, to own and nurture the seed that is them.

Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers: Grow! Grow!

—The Talmud

 

It’s only a start, but I think people—each of us as individuals—would have to give up the idea that ours is the only right take on any situation, whatever it is, and re-position ourselves nearer the middle. As it is now, with me at one end of the see-saw and you at the other, I can’t get a clear vision of your perspective (if I even care to look), and you can’t see mine either. We can’t experience the other point of view when we are so attached to our own. There is no meeting, there really isn’t even ‘we’; there is just you there and me here bouncing each other back and forth. If both of us moved toward the centre we’d at least have a fighting chance.

It’s the meeting at the centre, the meeting where egos and other weapons have been left at the door, that will make it possible. We will get there, I am certain of it. But global change can only come by way of individual change, and there’s a lot of us individuals out there. In my life, am I willing to give up the right to be right, to give my neigbour the benefit of the doubt? Can I let go of the thought that for me to win, somebody else has to lose? That’s where it starts, with me.

 

People have ideas, and if we go around and try to change their ideas, we won’t have enough time. I remember once I was walking with many people in Philadelphia, asking for the bombing in Vietnam to stop. A reporter came to me and asked me: "Are you from the North or are you from the South?" To him, if I was from the North, I would be anti-American, a Communist; and if I were from the South, I would be an anti-Communist, and so on. I was walking mindfully, and he was holding out the microphone, and I stopped for a second, and I said, "I am from the center."

—Thich Nhat Hanh

Whenever anyone has asked me this question, I have found myself at a loss for words. Where did I come from? Does it matter? Does it matter where I'm going? Who, or where I am? How I got here?

Who, what, where, when, why?         
I, am, here, now, pure being,         
Is all that matters!          

I'm laughing reading this question. Whatever I could have wished for, weatherwise, we'd pretty well had it all before noon.

I woke up to find it was later than I thought. A drab, dark day with a bit of an ethereal feel to it. After a while the fog cleared off to reveal sculpted grey skies, which started leaking just about the time I sat down to check emails at my computer.

When I next looked out, I couldn't believe my eyes. Snow, huge fluffy flakes of it! I mean, it's 5C, yesterday's high was 12 plus. Come on, we're gearing up for the big annual flower count (although I notice we're a couple of weeks behind schedule this year). Ornamental cherries are breaking into blossom all over the city. Trees are budding into leaf.

It took me only a few minutes to get from: Haven't we had enough snow already this winter to last a decade!? to acknowledging that, yes, the snow was really pretty. By that time it had turned back to rain. I returned to my work.

An hour later I suddenly noticed how bright the room was. I looked around. Ah, the sun, peeking at earth from between cracks in the slate ceiling. I took a moment to admire the bare pear tree outside my window, with its hanging droplets of crystal rainbow baubles.

Now, ten minutes later, the sun has disappeared again, and so too the drop crystal tree ornaments. It occurs to me that I could learn something from raindrops about the art of reflecting brilliance and letting go. The rain has stopped for now, but who knows, it could start again at any moment. As I write that I look out a different window and see a largish patch of baby blue, even though here where I sit it's grey upon grey. Ah, and now the winds are picking up, they sure like to blow here on the southern tip of this island. "Windy near Juan de Fuca Strait" is a phrase seen a lot on our local weather page.

Air-clearing winds, skin-cleansing rains, cloistering fogs, blackest sins washed white as snow, and all the while new life blossoms and twitters amid insights that sparkle briefly on tree tips before they fall to replenish the rest of earth. How nature loves!