Excerpts from Current Issue
Photograph by Zane Williams
These excerpts deal with issues of the heart - from life and death to beauty and pain - and illustrate our understanding of the human journey. We invite you to sample these reflections which come from the deep personal experience of our authors. We hope these tidbits will whet your appetite for our complete seven course dinner filled with tasty and nutritious insights into the human condition. Simply click on "How to Order."
This continues to be a mystery for me-how some can write of their own experience and one responds with the devastating thought-so what? While others can astonish us with their ability to touch our own deepest feeling and convictions; "Yes, that's exactly how I feel, too!" In thinking about this, two images come to mind. One is that of a well; when we dig our own wells deeply enough we reach the healing waters that nourish us all. The other is a musical image. When we produce our own tone clearly and powerfully, it reverberates and resonates within the hearts of others.
David Barstow in "My Journey with Pilgrimage"
But it is not just a feast for the eyes that nature gives us. If we open our hearts and emotions to nature's lessons, we acquire a wisdom only hinted at by the words of philosophers and sages. We experience the endurance of a bare tree shivering through icy blasts to spring lushness; the rush-flow of a stream suddenly dammed up by boulders, yet patiently and beautifully eddying around obstacles; the softness of a past-its-prime petal withering with a sad yet sweet gesture. The wisdom of nature is infinite.
Gloria Leitner in "Colors of the Seasons" (illustrated with four color photographs)
In his life and in his writing he was a tender, courageous, wise man who combined an unflinching acknowledgment of moral ugliness, with a profound appreciation of the natural and human beauty that is also part of this world. Decades after his physical death he has the power to move myself and others to look more deeply into ourselves and the world around us. Although Chekhov did not believe in individual immortality, the fragrance of his goodness and artistry will surely waft through the corridors of time for generations to come.
Frank Rubenfeld in "On Reading Chekhov"
One memory that still lingers is of a warm afternoon in April. The ground was moist with snow turning to liquid. We went for a walk to look for signs of spring. The air was fresh and clean. We splashed through puddles and turned our faces to the sun. Our attention to the moment yielded sweet rewards: the sight of plants sprouting and trees budding, the sounds of birds singing and insects buzzing, the touch of a spring breeze on our cheeks, the disappearing act of the snow. I watched these memories in the fire and sipped my wine, and suddenly something crystallized: To live consciously, I had to start living my life again and stop giving it to "the institution."
Kathy Hayes in "Being Here"
One night, I dreamed of the visiting taxidermist and myself seated at my cabin table. The bear rug lay neatly folded in the corner. In the midst of our conversation, I glanced at the rug and saw the bear yawn, then scratch his ear. "Did you see that?" I asked. But the taxidermist had vanished. When I looked again, the bear rug was escaping through a hole in the wall just big enough for his head to pop free like a cork. Yet he didn't run very far. On the lawn he began dancing in the breeze like a puppet freed from its strings. He had finished his work as a somber symbol. Now he was eager to play. His loose black cloak flopped around as if improvising his own wild jig. The wall between us disappeared. I beckoned and the bear shuffled towards me. Filled with nothing but air he swayed as lightly as joy. So I reached for his paws of honey.
Will Nixon in "Dancing with Honey Paws: A Journey with Bears"
She was a large, joyous woman-compassionate by nature-one of those people who proudly regards herself as a vital and vibrant element of the life force. She had experienced, as I had not yet, that the spark of the divine within was also feminine. This knowledge was evident in the manner in which she cared for my children, the way she touched them and me, the age-old spirituals she sang to them, the things she taught me while I was pregnant, and her intense connection to the earth and heavens.
Marcia Barstow in "A Connection of the Heart"
Does falling in love, getting married, getting a job, buying a house somehow become prerequisites for falling back to sleep and thus ignoring the needs of social change and activism? Where did all that youthful vigor go? To rock concerts, to discovering computers, to creating sprawl, to settling into the American dream, to swimming in the vast ocean of consumer accumulation culture so that no time is left to spend on social change let alone having time for one's personal reflection on the purpose of life.
Bob Banner in "What will global activists do after returning home? Will they differ from l960's activists"
Moments of transcendence occur when a veil is lifted and a connection made between ourselves and something or someone else. We drop back from the ordinary and in an ecstatic moment sense our true location, as compared to our ordinary, taken-for-granted location. This can happen with another person or another being: a tree, an animal, a cloud. The usual relationship drops away and we meet on a soul level.
Jim Bull in "Reflections on the Spiritual Life"
We relished the days in Paris, trying to partake of what cultural life had survived the war. One of my favorite places was the intimate Musee Rodin. It was tucked in a side street at number 77 rue de Varenne, and I entered through the wrought-iron gate that opened onto the garden. Its tidy beds of blooming flowers in a riot of color burst in sharp contrast to the dreariness of the city. Rodin's sensuous marble statues were displayed on stands under trees or by the flower beds. The private and enchanting nature of the place captivated me. I stood transfixed as I studied The Lover and The Kiss as if peeking into a forbidden scene.
Alice Outwater in "Paris l947: Of Brothels and Churches"
Grandpa Lane's shop smelled of coke fire and horse sweat. The clinker floor, leather harness, bellows blowing a blue-to-white-hot flame, hammer, tongs and anvil shaping all things iron, before they were dipped sizzling into the water vat, created a wizard's den and my childhood's most enchanted environment. When a horse jerked against my grandfather's arm, holding the great leg like a vice, my grandfather merely yanked back and pounded nails into the horse's shoe.
Warren Molton in "The Blacksmith"
This flowing, miraculous
universal whole
deserves to be experienced
perceived and celebrated
with wonder, awe and delight
And so it shall be
is being, right now
by you
and me.Douglas Worth in his poem, "whatever it is"
Copyright © 2004-2007 David Barstow. All rights reserved.