Burning down the house . . .
Friday, September 26, 2025. It's Freya's (Frigg's) day . . . and a bright, sunny, mid 80's Fall day is at hand for TulseyTown. Easy breezes will aid the leaf fall which has begun.
A finger points to the moon. Having seen reality as it is,there is neither moon nor finger. We can say “God,” we can say “dhamma,” we can say Source, Creator, Creation—but if we are trapped in the symbol, the word, the sound, we will never enter into relationship with what the symbol points to.
Apologies if we missed each other yesterday. I took a poetry morning.
Speaking of which … The poet, literary critic, dramatist, editor, publisher and Nobel Prize laureate T.S.Eliot was born today in 1888 Saint Louis, Missouri.
In case you missed this yesterday (I did), Ryan Walters has resigned from his position as perhaps the worse State Superintendent of Public Education ever. The Stitt-Walters era has been an embarrassment to our state. Stitt used to say he would make us Top Ten, but after seven years test scores and reading proficiency are at historic lows and we are ranked 50th in education.
A midweek check-in on the state of the Republic. – Joyce Vance, in Civil Discourse.
To you and your loved ones, a warning: Actions now being taken by Trump and his regime may seem far-removed from your daily life or the lives of people you care about. But they’re not. None of us is safe when Trump acts as judge and jury which is what his present actions fortell. – Robert Reich, A Warning, posted 9.25.25 online.
We have a vampire problem. – L.A. Paul, in Maria Popova's Marginalian, 9.23.25
All this can be stopped. But, it requires looking at the “this” straight on and in its entirety with the understanding that it is ongoing until it is stopped. – Heather Cox Richardson, in Letters From An American.
Burnt Norton
Footfalls echo in the memory
Down the passage which we did not take
Towards the door we never opened ...
human kind Cannot bear very much reality.
Time past and time future
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.
– T.S. Eliott, from “Burnt Norton,” (the first of) The Four Quartets, Faber and Faber. 1940.