Sumangali.org In the Spirit of Serendipity Sumangali.org In the Spirit of Serendipity Dedicated to the spirit of serendipity, finding good-fortune from unexpected sources, discovering the extraordinary in the ordinary, and the new in the familiar, fueled by the sense that all we need is already within us, we only need learn how to loo Articles
Dolphin Saves the Whales
2008-03-15 21:20:00 While I’m on the subject of life-saving miracles, the BBC reported this week that it’s not just humans who take an interest in whale conservation. A bottlenose dolphin, known in her local neighbourhood as Moko, is taking it as seriously as any dolphin can. Mr Smith and his team of humans were getting nowhere fast in their attempt to save a pair of beached whales from the north east coast of New Zealand. Moko sped to the rescue just in time (maybe in a waterproof cape), uttered a few carefully chosen instructions to the whales (maybe in a Whalish accent), and they made it safely home in time for tea (or maybe a krill tisane). “I don’t speak whale and I don’t speak dolphin,” Mr Smith told the BBC, “but there was obviously something that went on because the two whales changed their attitude from being quite distressed to following the dolphin quite willingly and directly along the beach and straight out to sea.” He added: “The dolph... More About: Dolphin , Whales
Meditation Saves Life
2008-03-10 21:26:00 It was an ordinary day in Ningbo, China, but an extraordinary miracle took place in a muddy 5-metre ditch. Was it really a miracle, or simply the wise employment of a meditation technique? Maybe a combination of the two. The Times reports: “Wang Jianxin was working at a construction site in the booming city. The job that day for the 52-year-old worker was to dig a five-metre ditch… “Without warning, a wall of the ditch collapsed, burying Mr Wang under a huge pile of earth. Like most construction workers in China, he had little in the way of protective equipment except for his tough plastic safety helmet. It was to be enough to save his life.” [original article] The peak of his hat trapped a small amount of air in front of his face, which doctors said would usually have been enough to keep someone alive for five minutes. It was two hours before he was rescued. Mr Wang survived by practising Buddhist meditation techniques to stay calm, and minimise his use of oxygen. Ther... More About: Life , Meditation
Perchance To Dream
2008-03-07 20:16:00 Do you ever wonder why we have to sleep? I’ve always thought that spending a third of my life unconscious is a spectacular waste of time. But of course I must be mistaken, otherwise God wouldn’t have made us like this. Not only does sleep give the body a break and a chance to recover, sleep gives us a chance to dream. But… Why Do We Dream ? The Dream World, is it really so Heavenly, or just an escape from reality like watching too much TV? Were my own dreams to come true, at least the few I remember, my waking life would probably be less interesting than usual, and maybe a bit more stressful. So what’s the big deal about dreams? Apparently, even if they’re ordinary, they prevent psychosis. So sleep is obviously a wise investment rather than an indulgent squandering of time. “In a recent sleep study, students who were awakened at the beginning of each dream, but still allowed their 8 hours of sleep, all experienced difficulty in concentration, irritabi...
Pure Web Designs
2008-02-25 20:33:00 Time for a commercial break… or a cloudburst of shameless self-promotion. My web design site has just had surgery. It’s recovering nicely at Pure WebDesigns .co.uk, and I’m sure it would be very happy to receive a visit from you. No need to bring flowers.
Keyword Haiku
2008-02-19 10:06:00 Anyone for a word game (or a nerd game really)? I was just looking at the stats for this blog. I usually only read the top 10 search phrases, but glanced at the top 25 keywords, and noticed they almost make sense if read in order, perhaps the opening credits and scene setting of a very strange play? (Caps and punctuation added): * * * THE LUCKY THINGS OF SUMANGALI MILTON a John Peach Story [SPACE] Ramayana words in poem (Chinese) Shou home (origin: container) By Lao (and… what… God?) * * * Want to play? Just take a look at your 25 top keywords. No cheating, but you can put them in a different order if you like. I just happen to like the order mine came in. * * * You can learn how to write Haiku for real at haiku.insouthsea.co.uk. Their site header reads “In the moonlight a worm… silently drills through a chestnut.” Bet you want to find out what happened next… * * * “Do or do not, there is no try. ” —Yoda * * * Title Image: Sparrow, Moon and P... More About: Keyword
Mr Magorium, Pipe Organ Pizza, and the Mighty Wurlitzer
2008-02-17 21:22:00 Mr Magorium’s Wonder Emporium The heart in this film is undeniable, and it’s definitely not just for children. As the film’s motto goes: “You have to believe it to see it.” (It’s alone worth watching for a cameo appearance by Kermit the Frog, out shopping, dodging stares from the public). Mr Magorium (Dustin Hoffman) is a 243-year-old owner of a magical toy shop. Although he has been inventing toys since the mid-1770s, and is perfectly healthy, he has decided that the time has come for him to leave the world, so he bequeaths the shop to its manager, Molly Mahoney (Natalie Portman). With his imminent departure the emporium itself shows signs of sadness. “We must face tomorrow, whatever it may bring,” says Magorium, to the very soul of the shop, “with determination, joy and bravery”. Mahoney lacks the necessary faith in herself that she can continue without its magical owner. “Unlikely adventures require unlikely tools,” says Mr. Magorium, and i... More About: Pizza , Pipe , Mighty , Organ
Learning To Live
2008-02-11 11:11:00 I met my second nephew for the first time last week, eight days after his arrival on earth (that’s me on the right, at a similar age). His expressions changed fast, as if dreaming. What could he dream so soon? Memories of other worlds or other lives perhaps. I wondered what his dreams would be in later life, hoped we would be friends, collect beetles in a jar, laugh together over a late lemonade in his grandmother’s garden. He is huge for a newborn, with hot fists and a determined frown, but I was a little afraid for him. It seems brave to me to be born at all, to be human, to live on earth. Despite its intensity, nobody remembers being born. Everyone uses their first breath to cry. Raw sound, cold, movement, pain, exhaustion, separation from the source, are too much to bear at once. There is no strength of one’s own to call upon, and nothing certain or familiar on which to depend. Julius Caeser, Abraham Lincoln, Albert Einstein, Muhammad Ali, however mighty they b... More About: Live , Learning
Life’s a Peach, Love is Immortality
2008-01-27 16:15:00 When I was little, my mum had a penchant for Chinese antiquities. Along with a glossy rosewood coffee table, my favourite was a painted statue of Shou Lao, the god of longevity. He held a long twisted staff of many twining branches in one hand, and a peach (of unlikely proportions) in the other. Although he looked at least 200 years old, he smiled as if mid-chuckle, and his cheeks had a crimson glow like the peach. We were told that the peach came from a tree that bore fruit every 3 millennia, and anyone who took a bite from it could live as long as they wanted. Researchers say that by 2060 people living in the country with the highest life expectancy will live to an average age of 100. The average lifespan globally is double that of 200 years ago. But, say researchers Jim Oeppen and Dr James Vaupel “This is far from eternity: modest annual increments in life expectancy will never lead to immortality.” (Source: BBC) Physical immortality is yet further off in some countries. Ther... More About: Love , Immortality , Peach
Life’s a Peach, Love is Immortality
2008-01-27 16:15:00 When I was little, my mum had a penchant for Chinese antiquities. Along with a glossy rosewood coffee table, my favourite was a painted statue of Shou Lao, the god of longevity. He held a long twisted staff of many twining branches in one hand, and a peach (of unlikely proportions) in the other. Although he looked at least 200 years old, he smiled as if mid-chuckle, and his cheeks had a crimson glow like the peach. We were told that the peach came from a tree that bore fruit every 3 millennia, and anyone who took a bite from it could live as long as they wanted. Researchers say that by 2060 people living in the country with the highest life expectancy will live to an average age of 100. The average lifespan globally is double that of 200 years ago. But, say researchers Jim Oeppen and Dr James Vaupel “This is far from eternity: modest annual increments in life expectancy will never lead to immortality.” (Source: BBC) Physical immortality is yet further off in some countries. Ther... More About: Love , Immortality , Peach
John Milton and The Origin Of Space
2008-01-13 18:53:00 “With thee conversing I forget all time, All seasons and thir change, all please alike. Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet, With charm of earliest Birds; pleasant the Sun When first on this delightful Land he spreads His orient Beams, on herb, tree, fruit, and flour, Glistring with dew; fragrant the fertil earth After soft showers; and sweet the coming on Of grateful Eevning milde, then silent Night With this her solemn Bird and this fair Moon, And these the Gemms of Heav’n, her starrie train: But neither breath of Morn when she ascends With charm of earliest Birds, nor rising Sun On this delightful land, nor herb, fruit, floure, Glistring with dew, nor fragrance after showers, Nor grateful Evening mild, nor silent Night With this her solemn Bird, nor walk by Moon, Or glittering Starr-light without thee is sweet. But wherfore all night long shine these, for whom This glorious sight, when sleep hath shut all eyes?” —John Milton , Paradise Lost Book IV This is my... More About: Space , John Milton , Origin
John Milton and The Origin Of Space
2008-01-13 18:53:00 “With thee conversing I forget all time, All seasons and thir change, all please alike. Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet, With charm of earliest Birds; pleasant the Sun When first on this delightful Land he spreads His orient Beams, on herb, tree, fruit, and flour, Glistring with dew; fragrant the fertil earth After soft showers; and sweet the coming on Of grateful Eevning milde, then silent Night With this her solemn Bird and this fair Moon, And these the Gemms of Heav’n, her starrie train: But neither breath of Morn when she ascends With charm of earliest Birds, nor rising Sun On this delightful land, nor herb, fruit, floure, Glistring with dew, nor fragrance after showers, Nor grateful Evening mild, nor silent Night With this her solemn Bird, nor walk by Moon, Or glittering Starr-light without thee is sweet. But wherfore all night long shine these, for whom This glorious sight, when sleep hath shut all eyes?” —John Milton , Paradise Lost Book IV This is my... More About: Space , John Milton , Origin
The Seeker-Writer: A Rhyming Play
2007-12-10 20:00:00 This is a short play I wrote, based on a story by Sri Chinmoy, called The Seeker-Writer . It’s a humorous story with a spiritual lesson behind it. Hope you enjoy it! [Enter Writer] Narrator: Once there was a seeker who’d developed much sincerity. By writing books he’d also gained considerable prosperity. His first book was a comprehensive study of zoology, His second was a very famous tome on anthropology, His third one was his favourite: it was autobiographical, His fourth was his most lofty, and was largely theosophical. Animals, humans, self and God: each subject he’d applauded. So by the greatest in each realm he hoped to be rewarded. Writer: Each book that I have written, let me go and read aloud to the best in each field. They will certainly be proud! The first one I will offer to the king of beasts: the lion, The second to my country’s king: the highest human scion. The third unto the highest in myself I shall address, The last to God: my loftiest... More About: Play
The Seeker-Writer: A Rhyming Play
2007-12-10 20:00:00 This is a short play I wrote, based on a story by Sri Chinmoy, called The Seeker-Writer . It’s a humorous story with a spiritual lesson behind it. Hope you enjoy it! [Enter Writer] Narrator: Once there was a seeker who’d developed much sincerity. By writing books he’d also gained considerable prosperity. His first book was a comprehensive study of zoology, His second was a very famous tome on anthropology, His third one was his favourite: it was autobiographical, His fourth was his most lofty, and was largely theosophical. Animals, humans, self and God: each subject he’d applauded. So by the greatest in each realm he hoped to be rewarded. Writer: Each book that I have written, let me go and read aloud to the best in each field. They will certainly be proud! The first one I will offer to the king of beasts: the lion, The second to my country’s king: the highest human scion. The third unto the highest in myself I shall address, The last to God: my loftiest... More About: Play
Greyfriar’s Bobby: A Small Scottish Saint
2007-11-25 16:49:00 I’d put off visiting Scotland for over a year, even though York is inexcusably close, and even though a very kind open invitation stood since I moved north from Wales. That’s the trouble with open invitations, and things that are close: they hover just below the top of the list of things one may do, pipped to the post by others with deadlines and narrower windows of opportunity. Through the dinge of a train window, hedges sprawled in intricate skeletal black, bothered only by crows. The sky of England sat thick and woolly, like something you’d find in an old ottoman. I entered then not just another country and culture; the hedge, the sky, the crows were identical, but carried the sense of an entirely different soul. Arthur’s Seat, a questioning hook-nose of a mountain, reared out of flat browns and greys. A manmade mountain reached beneath: dark blocks of stone just discernible as ancient dwellings. “EDINBURGH: Inspiring Capital”, sped past on a building ... More About: Small , Bobby , Saint , Scottish
Greyfriar’s Bobby: A Small Scottish Saint
2007-11-25 16:49:00 I’d put off visiting Scotland for over a year, even though York is inexcusably close, and even though a very kind open invitation stood since I moved north from Wales. That’s the trouble with open invitations, and things that are close: they hover just below the top of the list of things one may do, pipped to the post by others with deadlines and narrower windows of opportunity. Through the dinge of a train window hedges sprawled in intricate skeletal black, bothered only by crows, the sky of England thick and woolly, like something you’d find in an old ottoman. I entered then not just another country and culture; the hedge, the sky, the crows were identical, but carried the sense of an entirely different soul. Arthur’s Seat, a questioning hook-nose of a mountain, reared out of flat browns and greys. A manmade mountain reached beneath: dark blocks of stone just discernible as ancient dwellings. “EDINBURGH: Inspiring Capital”, sped past on a building sign.... More About: Small , Bobby , Saint , Scottish
A Beginning, an End, and an Eternity
2007-11-11 14:18:00 Is there such a thing as a junkophobe? That’s me. I buy the same thing over and over because I keep throwing useful stuff away; I’m ruthless to the point of impracticality. I can’t tolerate anything old, broken, unlovely, unclean, or out of place. Then what is this old Cheese Doodles packet doing here? Cheap crinkly empty bag, garish primary print, “Made with real cheese” blaring from the top, like that would make it ok. It’s taped into a big silver book of handmade paper, Indian beads hand stitched onto the front. It sits beside seven others, now amongst my most precious possessions: one of raw silk in a rainbow weave and coloured pages, one embroidered with satin ribbons, one with my name across the face of a dog, and a felt-tip drawing of a bird. Words are scrawled inside: rough shapes of words, the pen hurried or tired, the phrases hackneyed and dull, but this content has held me stunned over the last two days; compelling as an elysian dream remembere... More About: Eternity
A Beginning, an End, and an Eternity
2007-11-11 14:18:00 Is there such a thing as a junkophobe? That’s me. I buy the same thing over and over because I keep throwing useful stuff away; I’m ruthless to the point of impracticality. I can’t tolerate anything old, broken, unlovely, unclean, or out of place. Then what is this old Cheese Doodles packet doing here? Cheap crinkly empty bag, garish primary print, “Made with real cheese” blaring from the top, like that would make it ok. It’s taped into a big silver book of handmade paper, Indian beads hand stitched onto the front. It sits beside seven others, now amongst my most precious possessions: one of raw silk in a rainbow weave and coloured pages, one embroidered with satin ribbons, one with my name across the face of a dog, and a felt-tip drawing of a bird. Words are scrawled inside: rough shapes of words, the pen hurried or tired, the phrases hackneyed and dull, but this content has held me stunned over the last two days; compelling as an elysian dream remembere... More About: Eternity
King’s College Chapel, Cambridge
2007-11-04 23:14:00 Alleluia: Qui timent Dominum “He healeth those that are broken in heart: and bindeth up their wounds.” This line shines from the page handed to me at the entrance of King’s College Chapel , part of a sung mass I am about to hear. I have been here once before, many years ago, in the company of my Spiritual Master, Sri Chinmoy. He had come to pay homage to his own Guru, Sri Aurobindo, once a student at Cambridge University. I sat in these very pews and heard a similar mass. So much has changed in me since then, but the chapel stands quite the same: a vote of integrity in a changing world. Almost everything reminds me of Sri Chinmoy, more now than when he was alive. The earthly loss of him, less than a month ago, is still raw in this fragile human heart. One thought is still enough to prick my eyes with tears. But just as the reminders of him come swift and hard from unexpected sources, so does solace to counter each blow. I am in Cambridge to meet with other students of Sri C...
King’s College Chapel, Cambridge
2007-11-04 23:14:00 Alleluia: Qui timent Dominum “He healeth those that are broken in heart: and bindeth up their wounds.” This line shines from the page handed to me at the entrance of King’s College Chapel , part of a sung mass I am about to hear. I have been here once before, many years ago, in the company of my Spiritual Master, Sri Chinmoy. He had come to pay homage to his own Guru, Sri Aurobindo, once a student at Cambridge University. I sat in these very pews and heard a similar mass. So much has changed in me since then, but the chapel stands quite the same: a vote of integrity in a changing world. Almost everything reminds me of Sri Chinmoy, more now than when he was alive. The earthly loss of him, less than a month ago, is still raw in this fragile human heart. One thought is still enough to prick my eyes with tears. But just as the reminders of him come swift and hard from unexpected sources, so does solace to counter each blow. I am in Cambridge to meet with other students of Sri C... More About: Apel
Sri Chinmoy: 1931-2007
2007-10-12 17:42:00 My beloved Guru, Sri Chinmoy , passed away yesterday at 7am, at his home in New York. Sri Chinmoy has been my meditation teacher — the inner and outer inspiration of my life — over the last decade. On a human level I am naturally shocked and sad at his sudden earthly parting, but inwardly I will never in this life fathom the inner gifts of inspiration he has given me through his teaching. More than human sadness, which will pass in time, I feel gratitude, gratitude, gratitude for spending these years in the balm of his wisdom. That gratitude will never end. His teachings will always be with me, and I hope only to make my own life — my actions, creations and interactions — a tribute to them. RECENT NEWS STORIES: The Independent: Sri Chinmoy, Spiritual Leader & Peace Activist The Scotsman: Sri Chinmoy, Peace campaigner and spiritual teacher who advocated running Sri Chinmoy 1931 - 2007 NEW YORK, NEW YORK–(Marketwire - Oct. 12, 2007) - Internationally renowned peace leade...
Sri Chinmoy: 1931-2007
2007-10-12 17:42:00 My beloved Guru, Sri Chinmoy , passed away yesterday at 7am, at his home in New York. Sri Chinmoy has been my meditation teacher — the inner and outer inspiration of my life — over the last decade. On a human level I am naturally shocked and sad at his sudden earthly parting, but inwardly I will never in this life fathom the inner gifts of inspiration he has given me through his teaching. More than human sadness, which will pass in time, I feel gratitude, gratitude, gratitude for spending these years in the balm of his wisdom. That gratitude will never end. His teachings will always be with me, and I hope only to make my own life — my actions, creations and interactions — a tribute to them. RECENT NEWS STORIES: Sri Chinmoy 1931 - 2007 NEW YORK, NEW YORK–(Marketwire - Oct. 12, 2007) - Internationally renowned peace leader and spiritual teacher Sri Chinmoy passed away yesterday morning in his home in Queens, New York. The cause of death was a heart attack. Respected and love...
Read Your Own Bedtime Story: Oscar Wilde
2007-10-02 12:16:00 English was secretly my favourite subject at school. I say secretly because as a teen it’s only considered proper to laugh at those stuffy poets in tights and ruffs or Brylcreem and cravats, puffing on long pipes in leather chairs. The fact is I, (and maybe secretly everyone) found them brilliantly riveting. I still do, but now I think I can safely admit to it. Shakespeare, Jane Austen and Oscar Wilde are my favourite comedians. I knew Oscar Wilde from a younger age, through his fairytales, opulently illustrated by Charles Robinson. Snuggoled under an eiderdown with my mother and brother with mugs of hot cocoa I would travel through other times and climes on the wings of his words. He was a welcome relief from the dark grimness of the Brothers Grimm, or the fascinating strangeness of Dr Seuss, and AA Milne must sometimes have been ragged and tired from over-use. I knew and loved Oscar Wilde’s words later at school through his plays, but I love them all the more now, the ... More About: Story , Read
Read Your Own Bedtime Story: Oscar Wilde
2007-10-02 12:16:00 English was secretly my favourite subject at school. I say secretly because as a teen it’s only considered proper to laugh at those stuffy poets in tights and ruffs or Brylcreem and cravats, puffing on long pipes in leather chairs. The fact is I, (and maybe secretly everyone) found them brilliantly riveting. I still do, but now I think I can safely admit to it. Shakespeare, Jane Austen and Oscar Wilde are my favourite comedians. I knew Oscar Wilde from a younger age, through his fairytales, opulently illustrated by Charles Robinson. Snuggoled under an eiderdown with my mother and brother with mugs of hot cocoa I would travel through other times and climes on the wings of his words. He was a welcome relief from the dark grimness of the Brothers Grimm, or the fascinating strangeness of Dr Seuss, and AA Milne must sometimes have been ragged and tired from over-use. I knew and loved Oscar Wilde’s words later at school through his plays, but I love them all the more now, the ... More About: Story , Read
Mouse & Mortality: A Small Poem On Being Small
2007-09-30 23:01:00 Beeches shook their auburn curls like closely clustered giddy girls chattering to pose and tease whispering jokes into the breeze Peaceably beneath I trod an early dark and dewy sod wondering that all was good deeply in the wandering wood A fungus there, a cobweb here a brown birdsong above my ear every sense at once obedient yet drunk on every sweet ingredient The dog a dizzy blur of mania in a squirrel-scent arcadia while above her quarry peers twitching grey and tufted ears Taunt her more, nut-loving friends! On your guile a life depends! A patch of silver in the roots! In my heart a shudder shoots! A tiny child in velveteen by all others yet unseen much too young to be abroad a loss a mother can’t afford! Beneath perhaps in rooty rooms she paced and sighed imagined dooms pressing to his empty nest as if to hold him to her breast Above he clawed and clung and stretched his little tracks in soil etched the tiny traveler damp and grey with what eyes knew he his way? Somnambul... More About: Small , Poem , Mouse , Mortal , Ality
Mouse & Mortality: A Small Poem On Being Small
2007-09-30 23:01:00 Beeches shook their auburn curls like closely clustered giddy girls chattering to pose and tease whispering jokes into the breeze Peaceably beneath I trod an early dark and dewy sod wondering that all was good deeply in the wandering wood A fungus there, a cobweb here a brown birdsong above my ear every sense at once obedient yet drunk on every sweet ingredient The dog a dizzy blur of mania in a squirrel-scent arcadia while above her quarry peers twitching grey and tufted ears Taunt her more, nut-loving friends! On your guile a life depends! A patch of silver in the roots! In my heart a shudder shoots! A tiny child in velveteen by all others yet unseen much too young to be abroad a loss a mother can’t afford! Beneath perhaps in rooty rooms she paced and sighed imagined dooms pressing to his empty nest as if to hold him to her breast Above he clawed and clung and stretched his little tracks in soil etched the tiny traveler damp and grey with what eyes knew he his way? Somnambul... More About: Small , Poem , Mouse
A Foreign Tourist At Home: York Minster
2007-09-23 23:05:00 I was brought up as an atheist, so it may count as rebellion that I went to church today: a Sunday… perhaps… until you hear I went as a tourist. I am not an atheist, far from it. I must get that straight. Straight away. I never have been. I am not a Christian either. My path is the path of meditation. My spiritual teacher Sri Chinmoy believes in embracing all sincere religions and other spiritual paths as paths to one God. This is something I have always felt in my heart as true. I know surprisingly little about Christianity for someone who was born and brought up in a Christian country. It is as if I tried to read Christ’s Words but they are in a language I do not know… yet I feel them in my heart as good and true. So I entered my local church today, overwhelmed like a foreigner, yet somehow at home. York Minster is very big, and very old; too big and old for my mind to comprehend, thus to express or even appreciate. For a thousand years York has been a s... More About: Home , Foreign , Tourist
A Foreign Tourist At Home: York Minster
2007-09-23 23:05:00 I was brought up as an atheist, so it may count as rebellion that I went to church today: a Sunday… perhaps… until you hear I went as a tourist. I am not an atheist, far from it. I must get that straight. Straight away. I never have been. I am not a Christian either. My path is the path of meditation. My spiritual teacher Sri Chinmoy believes in embracing all sincere religions and other spiritual paths as paths to one God. This is something I have always felt in my heart as true. I know surprisingly little about Christianity for someone who was born and brought up in a Christian country. It is as if I tried to read Christ’s Words but they are in a language I do not know… yet I feel them in my heart as good and true. So I entered my local church today, overwhelmed like a foreigner, yet somehow at home. York Minster is very big, and very old; too big and old for my mind to comprehend, thus to express or even appreciate. For a thousand years York has been a s... More About: Home , Foreign , Tourist , Reign
Not-In-The-Cave: Concert in the Lake District
2007-09-18 09:40:00 I creep in at the back five minutes early, but my shoes squeak on polished wood, damp from the squalls outside. A stillness has arrived before me and sits like a living presence in the room; the arching roof higher, the golden wood warmer, the white walls purer because of it. Many have followed its silent lead and sit within it, hems soaking above boots from their assorted journeys. The stage is in the air, it seems, or is it in a tree? The churchyard yew cradles a view to absorb my eyes for the next hour and a half, through a wide bay of glass. A half-dome of starry blue lights pressed into the ceiling above hangs like a child’s dream of Heaven. But we are asked by our host to close our eyes first, immersing ourselves in a flow of breath, emptying the hubbub of our thoughts from the waiting universe within. Then the music comes—a warm familiar joy—and I jump headlong into the ocean of it. Each of Sri Chinmoy’s songs is a fond friend, but each dressed in bright newne... More About: Concert , District , Lake , Cave , Strict
Journey: A Circular Route To Happiness
2007-09-12 08:25:00 After eleven years alive, I had lost all thoughts of calling somewhere home. Like a dry leaf on the wind of life, I went where it went, ever poised for the transport of its next gust. It pointed to Yorkshire, so we went north. I was determined not to like it there.My cat spoke my thoughts that day, so I stayed silent. Her metal-lined box sounded more full of banshee than cat, and after an hour of teeth and claws it succumbed to her wrath. She flew about, heedless of windows or steering wheel, finally to settle groaning for hours under the passenger seat. She and I felt the same way about long journeys, and seemed equally pleased to move house. The house seemed to have narrowly survived a brunt of exceptional hatred from its last owners. The woodwork had paint thrown at it in a spite of bright violet or pink, the walls asphyxial yellow from nicotine. Names were carved into windowsills, carpets more thrashed than trodden. Without human umpire, plants and trees were left to throttle on... More About: Journey , Happiness , Route , Circular
Walking On Walls: York, New & Old
More articles from this author:2007-09-04 23:30:00 After moving to York , spending 2 months taking apart a squalid apartment and putting it back together in a more habitable state, I am glad to get back to the cleaner, calmer and somewhat safer sport of blogging. The best way to get one’s bearings in York is to walk along the city walls. I hadn’t done this since I was about 12, but the wonderment was the same, if not more profound, after 25 years. York’s are said to be the most complete city or town walls in Britain. Their foundations are Roman, built around 1900 years ago, with the most visible parts, such as the ornate gates, or bars dating back to Medieval times. It’s tempting to get caught up with the fascinating facts about the city’s history. The walls and the spectacular Minster (deserving of its own post), draw tourists all year round, and the plaques dotted about are full of bizarre information for the curious to feast upon. It is not so much the historical facts that fascinate me, as a lot of... More About: Walking , Walls 1, 2, 3 |
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