Your mind is a very useful tool, or a better metaphor would be "workshop", and it is where you "reside" so much of the time that you can come to believe that this place of work/residence is what/who you are. It's not. Remember that. A powerful, tool-filled workshop, and most of the time a good pace to live, but it isn't you. Who you really are is older, deeper, and subtler than that.
The heart that yearns to make a thing so pure To carve its curves and dance its moving sense To sing its notes with words that will endure In harmonies unbearably intense Is filled with aching, fearing making things Most surely and most finally empties things
The aria gets yelled to yawning toads The ballerina stumbles and unloads The staring, glaring portrait fades
Believe first in believing. Only then ... In one uncharted wing within your soul I will be entering your secret den, The room where precious things are safe and whole.
And look! An oaken harpsichord, still tuned! A Strad, a music stand, a bacarole. A rare edition ‘neath a Renoir nude. And all arrayed about a blue-white gem, Exquisite, perfect beauty ... ahh, still gleams!!
(Where could we meet, we two, if we were rich? What gallery or trove could equal this?)
Your mind is a very useful tool, or a better metaphor would be "workshop", and it is where you "reside" so much of the time that you can come to believe that this place of work/residence is what/who you are. It's not. Remember that. A powerful, tool-filled workshop, and most of the time a good pace to live, but it isn't you. Who you really are is older, deeper, and subtler than that.
ReplyDeleteHippocrene
ReplyDeleteThe heart that yearns to make a thing so pure
To carve its curves and dance its moving sense
To sing its notes with words that will endure
In harmonies unbearably intense
Is filled with aching, fearing making things
Most surely and most finally empties things
The aria gets yelled to yawning toads
The ballerina stumbles and unloads
The staring, glaring portrait fades
Believe first in believing. Only then ...
In one uncharted wing within your soul
I will be entering your secret den,
The room where precious things are safe and whole.
And look! An oaken harpsichord, still tuned!
A Strad, a music stand, a bacarole.
A rare edition ‘neath a Renoir nude.
And all arrayed about a blue-white gem,
Exquisite, perfect beauty ... ahh, still gleams!!
(Where could we meet, we two, if we were rich?
What gallery or trove could equal this?)