please be aware this may not make sense yet - as I am still making sense of my day and lessons, but I wanted to post what was emerging…

Today has been a VERY long day. And I haven’t been awake for more than 11hours yet!

It should, by all accounts, be a bad day. It very nearly was. It has enough symbols of it…and yet it isn’t not quite. I am oddly relaxed. And bouyed - by so many lessons, discoveries and surprises and more that happened on the same day…so much proof of the butterly effect…and a lot of clarity to act on…all supported and hinging upon the love and disappointment and tears and joy of friendship and human connection. All playing out in a dazzingly array of vignettes and email flurry … 

If my descriptions sound overly hyperbole-ic than trust me you would understand if you had had my day.

Rather than delve into depths of despair or anger, I would instead like to share a poem, a musing and a small but impactful discovery. A new piece of knowledge about a character in a story.

With special thanks to Fionnuala Herder-Wynne for opening up this space through her voice, sharing her words and giving me courage! Joy and fire!

The Poem:

On Children

And a woman who held a babe against her bosom said, "Speak to us of Children."

And he said:

Your children are not your children.

They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.

They come through you but not from you,

And though they are with you, yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts.

For they have their own thoughts.

You may house their bodies but not their souls,

For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.

You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.

For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.

The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.

Let your bending in the archer’s hand be for gladness;

For even as He loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable.

Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet

On Story

As a teller, there is a story that I have been working on, on and off, for the last year…it is a big story and though learning it for a year, and having told it publically several times, I have not begun to understand its depths and heights.

It is a ’spirit story’. In the words of my teacher, Diane, that means, that rather than a folktale which operates horizontally, about how we should live and work with each other on earth, this story transends worlds, includes heaven/spirits, it operates vertically. To her words I add my new thought of spirit stories, and stories in general - they are forever expandinginly spherical.

They fold back pn themselves, yet they are open too - to new creations and telling. They are alive. They contain all past future and present in and of themselves. Each time you tell them you are bringing the past into the present and in sharing and learning with a new group, creating a new shared space inside of each of you, and around each of you. And you are creating a new future. 

lf all of this sounds a bit metaphysical than I do apologise, though I would add that the world is not just the one we see - and there is something practical in all of this too. Somewhere.

Profoundly so. Stories quite suddenly seem to hold an opportunity for us to learn what it means to have a healthy open system, a system where sharing is rewarded, where everyone plays a role, where nothing is lost, everyone can participate and is important, and everything is living and new things are infinately possible to create. And it offers us a space that is healing and healtful and honest and true.

The story: There are three main human characters in the story, possibly four: A man, his scribe and in other tellings, his daughter, and if one wishes to count a forth, a captain who never speaks.

The scribe has been elusive until yesterday. He was there. He was always there, the faithful scribe. And yet while there is nothing written about him - the cliffhanger of the story depends on him. Without him, all hope will be lost. The daughter has already been lost…memory has been lost…language has been lost. He is called the Scribe. In a more recent retelling I had found, the Scribe is named: Zevi.  Yet as today I read through more about the main character I learned that he has a son too - Zvi…click click click - the Scribe is the main character’s son.  It makes sense that he would be there, with his father and sister…and yet, isn’t it strange - the key and hope of it all in this story, the answers and possibilities for a brighter joyous possible future is in the words not of the wise and powerful father - but in the the words of the son.

And there and now opens up a new path for me - that that incoprates children, and the need for intergenerational learning and dialogue. It allows me to do the work I am doing, it allows me to ’follow my heart’ even though I don’t know where, it reinforces my ability to participate, and my need to connect and work with others - across ages - to develop a healthy practice.

It also shows me that life is a funny thing - that we have the power and right and imperative to create and share our creation. That our words and voices are powerful. That I can make peace with time - who am I to speed things up if in doing so I am preventing the new things that have to be born to answer questions that we have been carrying and can’t answer for ourselves. In means all time is here, all possible, all in the present. And that my role is to make new possiblities more probable. It means that children hold keys for us we can’t possibly carry…it means that I am allowed to choose my bliss, seeking joy, while honouring the negative at the same time, it means that if all nature is in all things, than there is an opportunity for good and joy and laughter in everything. And it means that from now on a part of my work will incorporate children, and the child in me.

And now to come  back to the poem I have been carrying for years - having learned it off the back of a book when I was 11, Only today as I searched for it did I see the last paragraph:

"…You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.

For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.

The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.

Let your bending in the archer’s hand be for gladness;

For even as He loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable.

Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet

This entry was posted on Tuesday, November 14th, 2006 at 3:58 am and is filed under change, dialogue, knowledge & wisdom, musings, quotes. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.

Today has been a VERY long day. And I haven’t been awake for more than 11hours yet!

It should, by all accounts, be a bad day. It very nearly was. It has enough symbols of it…and yet it isn’t not quite. I am oddly relaxed. And bouyed - by so many lessons, discoveries and surprises and more that happened on the same day…so much proof of the butterly effect…and a lot of clarity to act on…all supported and hinging upon the love and disappointment and tears and joy of friendship and human connection. All playing out in a dazzingly array of vignettes and email flurry … 

If my descriptions sound overly hyperbole-ic than trust me you would understand if you had had my day.

Rather than delve into depths of despair I would instead like to share a poem, and a small but impactful discovery.

As a teller, there is a story that I have been working on, on and off, for the last year…it is a big story and though learning it for a year, and having told it publically several times, I have not begun to understand its depths and heights.

It is a ’spirit story’. In the words of my teacher, Diane, that means, that rather than a folktale which operates horizontally, about how we should live and work with each other on earth, this story transends worlds, includes heaven/spirits, it operates vertically. To her words I add my new thought of spirit stories, and stories in general - they are forever expandinginly spherical.

They fold back themselves, yet they are open too - to new creations and telling. They are alive. They contain all past future and present in and of themselves. Each time you tell them you are bringing the past into the present and in sharing and learning with a new group, creating a new shared space inside of each of you, and around each of you, And you are creating a new future. 

lf all of this sounds a bit metaphysical than I do apologies, though I would add that the world is not just the one we see - and there is something practical in all of this too. Profoundly so. Stories hold an opportunity for us to learn what it means to have a healthy open system, a system where sharing is rewarded, where everyone plays a role, where nothing is lost, everyone can participate and is important, and everything is living and new things are infinately possible to create. And it offers us a space that is healing and healtful and honest and true.

The story: There are three main human characters in the story, possibly four: A man, his daughter, his scribe and if one wishes to count 4, a captain who never speaks.

The scribe has been elusive until yesterday. He was there. He was always there, the faithful scribe. And yet while there is nothing written about him - the cliffhanger of the story depends on him. Without him, all hope will be lost. The daughter has already been lost…memory has been lost…language has been lost. He is called the Scribe. In a more recent retelling I had found, the Scribe is named: Zevi.  Yet as today I read through more about the main character I learned that he has a son too - Zvi…click click click - the Scribe is the main character’s son.

And there and now opens up a new path for me - that that incoprates children, and the need for intergenerational learning and dialogue. It allows me to do the work I am doing, it allows me to ’follow my heart’ even though I don’t know where, it reinforces my ability to participate, and my need to connect and work with others - across ages - to develop a healthy practice.

It also shows me that life is a funny thing - that we have the power and right and imperative to create and share our creation. That our words and voices are powerful. That I can make peace with time - who am I to speed things up if in doing so I am preventing the new things that have to be born to answer questions that we have been carrying and can’t answer for ourselves. In means all time is here, all possible, all in the present. And that my role is to make new possiblities more probable. It means that children hold keys for us we can’t possibly carry…it means that I am allowed to choose my bliss, seeking joy, while honouring the negative at the same time, it means that if all nature is in all things, than there is an opportunity for good and joy and laughter in everything. And it means that from now on a part of my work will incorporate children, and the child in me.

And now for a poem I have been carrying for years - having learned it off the back of a book when I was 11, Only today as I searched for it did I see the last paragraph:

On Children

And a woman who held a babe against her bosom said, "Speak to us of Children."

And he said:

Your children are not your children.

They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.

They come through you but not from you,

And though they are with you, yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts.

For they have their own thoughts.

You may house their bodies but not their souls,

For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.

You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.

For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.

The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.

Let your bending in the archer’s hand be for gladness;

For even as He loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable.

Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet

This entry was posted on Tuesday, November 14th, 2006 at 3:58 am and is filed under misfit. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.

Today has been a VERY long day. And I haven’t been awake for more than 11hours yet!

It should, by all accounts, be a bad day. It very nearly was. It has enough symbols of it…and yet it isn’t not quite. I am oddly relaxed. And bouyed - by so many lessons, discoveries and surprises and more that happened on the same day…so much proof of the butterly effect…and a lot of clarity to act on…all supported and hinging upon the love and disappointment and tears and joy of friendship and human connection. All playing out in a dazzingly array of vignettes and email flurry … 

If my descriptions sound overly hyperbole-ic than trust me you would understand if you had had my day.

Rather than delve into depths of despair I would instead like to share a poem, and a small but impactful discovery.

As a teller, there is a story that I have been working on, on and off, for the last year…it is a big story and though learning it for a year, and having told it publically several times, I have not begun to understand its depths and heights.

It is a ’spirit story’. In the words of my teacher, Diane, that means, that rather than a folktale which operates horizontally, about how we should live and work with each other on earth, this story transends worlds, includes heaven/spirits, it operates vertically. To her words I add my new thought of spirit stories, and stories in general - they are forever expandinginly spherical.

They fold back themselves, yet they are open too - to new creations and telling. They are alive. They contain all past future and present in and of themselves. Each time you tell them you are bringing the past into the present and in sharing and learning with a new group, creating a new shared space inside of each of you, and around each of you, And you are creating a new future. 

lf all of this sounds a bit metaphysical than I do apologies, though I would add that the world is not just the one we see - and there is something practical in all of this too. Profoundly so. Stories hold an opportunity for us to learn what it means to have a healthy open system, a system where sharing is rewarded, where everyone plays a role, where nothing is lost, everyone can participate and is important, and everything is living and new things are infinately possible to create. And it offers us a space that is healing and healtful and honest and true.

The story: There are three main human characters in the story, possibly four: A man, his daughter, his scribe and if one wishes to count 4, a captain who never speaks.

The scribe has been elusive until yesterday. He was there. He was always there, the faithful scribe. And yet while there is nothing written about him - the cliffhanger of the story depends on him. Without him, all hope will be lost. The daughter has already been lost…memory has been lost…language has been lost. He is called the Scribe. In a more recent retelling I had found, the Scribe is named: Zevi.  Yet as today I read through more about the main character I learned that he has a son too - Zvi…click click click - the Scribe is the main character’s son.

And there and now opens up a new path for me - that that incoprates children, and the need for intergenerational learning and dialogue. It allows me to do the work I am doing, it allows me to ’follow my heart’ even though I don’t know where, it reinforces my ability to participate, and my need to connect and work with others - across ages - to develop a healthy practice.

It also shows me that life is a funny thing - that we have the power and right and imperative to create and share our creation. That our words and voices are powerful. That I can make peace with time - who am I to speed things up if in doing so I am preventing the new things that have to be born to answer questions that we have been carrying and can’t answer for ourselves. In means all time is here, all possible, all in the present. And that my role is to make new possiblities more probable. It means that children hold keys for us we can’t possibly carry…it means that I am allowed to choose my bliss, seeking joy, while honouring the negative at the same time, it means that if all nature is in all things, than there is an opportunity for good and joy and laughter in everything. And it means that from now on a part of my work will incorporate children, and the child in me.

And now for a poem I have been carrying for years - having learned it off the back of a book when I was 11, Only today as I searched for it did I see the last paragraph:

On Children

And a woman who held a babe against her bosom said, "Speak to us of Children."

And he said:

Your children are not your children.

They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.

They come through you but not from you,

And though they are with you, yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts.

For they have their own thoughts.

You may house their bodies but not their souls,

For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.

You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.

For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.

The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.

Let your bending in the archer’s hand be for gladness;

For even as He loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable.

Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet

This entry was posted on Tuesday, November 14th, 2006 at 3:58 am and is filed under misfit. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.