Wednesday, 4 July 2012


I so admire those folks who blog faithfully everyday,
 or at least on a regular and frequent basis.

As you can see from the list of blogs I follow
 there are one or two of these lovely people
 from whom I benefit each day

Sadly I know that I am not destined to be one of them because, 
except for the matter of faithfulness to daily neccessities and relationships,
  I tend to go with the flow,
and my flow seems to have many tributaries
so I blog by fits and starts.

I find it very hard to stick to one thing
 when there are so many exciting and attractive 
 possiblities to be explored, 
and energy is limited.

I like to hold things loosely, 
or even keep my hands 
a little empty 
so that I can pick up whatever comes along
 and give it the attention the moment demands.

I painted the little water colour of the bowl 
with this thought of emptiness in mind.

Is it waiting to be filled, or has it just been emptied?

As with each breath we take,
 there has to be an emptying,
a breathing out,
before there can be a fullness,
or a breathing in;
and then just as our lungs are at their fullest,
 they empty themselves,
in readiness for that fresh intake of air.

It can seem scary to find ourselves going through a time of 
upheaval or change,
bereft of the old certainies;
temporarily empty of purpose or a sense of clear direction perhaps.

It's then we can remember that just as we need that fresh breath to maintain life, 
so we will inevitably find new things are begining, 
even as we anguish the passing of the old.

There is something very beautiful about the expectancy of emptiness.

Thou hast made me endless, such is thy pleasure.
This frail vessel thou emptiest again and again,
 and fillest it ever with fresh life.
This little flute of a reed thou hast carried over hills and dales,
 and hast breathed through it melodies eternally new.
At the immortal touch of thy hands my little heart loses its limits in joy  and gives birth to utterance ineffable.
Thy infinite gifts come to me only on these
 very small hands of mine. 
 Ages pass, and still thou pourest,
and still there is room to fill.

Rabindranath Tagore   Gitanjali

Be Blessed

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