Bare trees . . .
It's Freya's (Frigg's) day . . . a hard freeze, calm and clear skies: Dawn in TulseyTown.
Today is the birth date of two Alcott's. Amos Bronson Alcott, was born in 1799 Wolcott, Connecticut, his daughter, Louisa May Alcott, was born on the same date in 1832 Germantown, Pennsylvania.
Irish author C.S. Lewis was also born on this date in 1898 Belfast.
Thanksgiving is the quintessential American holiday…but not for the reasons we generally remember. – Heather Cox Richardson, on her blog Letters From An American.
What to do with the messy leftovers of yesterday:
The Buddha We Already Are
Composting your karma means to take the residual, undigested events and habits and digest them. Just as a compost pile needs tending, so does our karma. Rather than feeling hindered by our karma, we can attend to it. The product in our heathy garden compost is humus, the living part of soil. The product of our composted, digested karma is learned lessons. As we learn our lessons, we become more and more aware. We learn to openly question, and we learn to listen. These lessons open us up to our innate compassion and wisdom. We become the Buddha we already are. – Barbara Rhodes, Composting Our Karma, Shambhala, 2024.
The Morning After Thanksgiving
A light North breeze follows yesterday's cold front.
Last leaves are falling.
Winter is settling in
as if an old friend welcomed
to the fireside.
Across the way
light from my neighbor's kitchen
shines through bare trees.
My coffee hot. The cold air
embraces dawn's cloudy twilight.
— jab
We gather together . . .
It's Thor's day … and Thanksgiving Day in the US. A cold, clear Fall morning in TulseyTown.
"The imagination is not a state: it is the human existence itself." – William Blake, born on this day in 1757 London.
A koan for our times:
[H]ow do we hold the dissonance between gratitude for the blessings in life, and grief over the suffering and pain in our world? We need both the immense beauty and gratitude for blessings in life to keep us afloat, and the deep sadness and grief to urge us to action. – Oren Jay Sofer
As we give thanks today for all our personal blessings, may we also make room for those from our indigenous cousins – for their continuing maintenance of the wisdom traditions. We truly are all in this together.
The Angel that presided o’er my birth
The Angel that presided o’er my birth
Said, “Little creature, form’d of Joy and Mirth,
“Go love without the help of any Thing on Earth.”
– William Blake, “ The Angel that presided o’er my birth.” This poem is in the public domain
In spite of our protests . . .
It's Odin's day . . . Northerlies are returning this afternoon bringing a cold Thanksgiving tomorrow to TulseyTown...
[w]hatever we have to say, will be said again, in a slightly different way, by myself or by others, but whatever we have to say will also, somehow, be answered. Echo, David Whyte, in Consolations II, Many Rivers Press, in prepublicaton, 2024.
A Thanksgiving: For Contemplation and/or Sharing
Great Mystery, we thank You for this life.
We know we protest much:
The pain of growing and knowing
that it is we who assess our own costs.
Great Mystery thank You for this life —
for all life.
And for renewal;
for seasons and the history that brings us
to this celebration.
It is hard to be thankful for the opportunity to grieve,
when those occasions come.
The pain of loss often leads to doubt
and may cloud the memory of Your many names:
How easy it is to forget that You remove the darkness
of our preoccupations with past and future.
Forgive our bias toward the light of Your abundance,
and accept these thanks for it. They are as sincere
as the majesty and mystery and beauty of Your universe.
Great Mystery, thank You for life,
for our lives,
and this occasion to live it.
– JAB