Събуждане

Престанахме да слушаме музика, за да чуем света.

Снощи, посред службата за Велики Четвъртък, просветна слънце сред дъжда и се появи двойна дъга. Напомняне за обещанието на Господ да не наводнява повече светa.

 

Разпети Петък

Господ слезе сред нас като Слово, като Син и като Рана. Да ни покаже - там, на кръста - колко го нараняваме, как кърви, когато го замеряме с думи и мисли, с делата си; как страда, когато го удряме с неблагодарността си. И как всеки път, когато се разплачем, като Баща, който обича, ни прощава.

Dying Easter eggs and then later on - a double rainbow amidst a sudden burst of sunlight in the rain. A reminder of God's promise not to flood the world again. In the middle of the Great Thursday service. 

***

Бог има, и това е въпрос не толокова на вяра, колкото на обикновенa наблюдателност. Бог е онова нещо, което, живеейки в дървото, му дава листа, с които да яде светлина, тоест, парчета от слънцето.

***

Hard times.

***

God, have mercy on us.

***

Hard to remember, hard to forget.



 

***

Forgot my handbag in my dream. I'll have to get back to fetch it.



July 28, 2012

Saturday Evening Walk (Memories of Heaven)

The wallpapered birch trees 
with their peeling dresses,
the ones that look like 
the exquisite garments 
of the Santos dolls, 
clothed by a local paper artist,

the church bells three avenues down 
the grassy, 
hyacinth hill,

"Dinner is served", 
a man's voice bellows
from the inside of a house,
children slide down the steep front lawn
rolled 
in an old carped 
like a laughing burrito,
and later on -
a boy learning to balance 
on a tight rope 
stretched 
between two sycamore trees.
I think about how 
a tree learns to keep its balance 
so perfectly,
never tempted 
to lean 
over the abyss.

"Gravity holds everything 
in place, only man 
pushes out beyond what 
he belongs to" *

Once upon a time
I, too, belonged
to this earth, to this world
as the sycamore tree
walking the tight rope
of its dream
silently,
contently,
in perfect balance.



April, 2012

------------------------------------------------------------------------
* Rilke, Book of Hours

Things-in-themselves

It's a beautiful, understandable world - all things small connected through the letters they send to the senses. That's what I gathered today - the smell of a rose is a poem she writes in the book of the days. It's her essence, the fragrant transcription of her soul, the way she would like to be understood, to be remembered. 



 

***

"It's nice to have a pet mama. You can hug her."

Arcadia

Танцуваме, рисуваме, свирим на пиано, решаваме задачи, пишем стихотворения, шием сърца, чаршафи, котета, корабчета, правим склуптури, правим бъркотия, правим боклук, метем, разчистваме, подреждаме си обувките, целуваме се, караме се, разхождаме се, говорим, говорим, говорим...

Идва есен, идва зима, чакаме пролетта, лятото е късо, минава незабележимо.

***

Thou shalt not abandon thy blog.

***

"I have dreamt in my life dreams that have stayed with me ever after, and changed my ideas: they've gone through and through me, like wine through water, and altered the colour of my mind."

Cathy Earnshaw, "Wuthering Heights"

August

Houses, soaked with light
And the sun, forcing its way in
As an eager, unrestrainable lover.
The streets breath in the dust
As the city makes love to the summer.

***

Herron Island, a Year Later: Heaven Revisited

Petal Alphabet

Milla,

July 27, 2011

Passion

Milla went to bed in her dancing clothes so she can dance in her dreams.