Trees April 11, 2016Posted by The Typist in Once Upon A Bayou, quotes, Shield of Beauty, The Mystery, The Narrative, The Sacred Grove, The Typist, The Vision, Toulouse Street.
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Trees are sanctuaries. Whoever knows how to speak to them, whoever knows how to listen to them, can learn the truth. They do not preach learning and precepts, they preach, undeterred by particulars, the ancient law of life.
A tree says: A kernel is hidden in me, a spark, a thought, I am life from eternal life. The attempt and the risk that the eternal mother took with me is unique, unique the form and veins of my skin, unique the smallest play of leaves in my branches and the smallest scar on my bark. I was made to form and reveal the eternal in my smallest special detail.
A tree says: My strength is trust. I know nothing about my fathers, I know nothing about the thousand children that every year spring out of me. I live out the secret of my seed to the very end, and I care for nothing else. I trust that God is in me. I trust that my labor is holy. Out of this trust I live.
When we are stricken and cannot bear our lives any longer, then a tree has something to say to us: Be still! Be still! Look at me! Life is not easy, life is not difficult. Those are childish thoughts. Let God speak within you, and your thoughts will grow silent. You are anxious because your path leads away from mother and home. But every step and every day lead you back again to the mother. Home is neither here nor there. Home is within you, or home is nowhere at all.
So the tree rustles in the evening, when we stand uneasy before our own childish thoughts: Trees have long thoughts, long-breathing and restful, just as they have longer lives than ours. They are wiser than we are, as long as we do not listen to them. But when we have learned how to listen to trees, then the brevity and the quickness and the childlike hastiness of our thoughts achieve an incomparable joy. Whoever has learned how to listen to trees no longer wants to be a tree. He wants to be nothing except what he is. That is home. That is happiness.
~ Hermann Hesse, Bäume. Betrachtungen und Gedichte
Abandoned Cruciform December 19, 2015Posted by The Typist in cryptical envelopment, New Orleans, Once Upon A Bayou, The End, The Narrative, The Typist, Toulouse Street.
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Take your oil
& burn it.
It is the blood of our uprooted earth
which we have given up to you.
Do this in ignorance of me.
What The Cypress Knows November 30, 2015Posted by The Typist in cryptical envelopment, New Orleans, Once Upon A Bayou, The Narrative, The Typist, Toulouse Street.
Tags: fall color, Louisiana cypress
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It knows the warm spell is just that, a few days of enchantment before the cold returns. Few trees change color here, and I’ve never taken notice of the evergreen oaks, if there is a sudden November uptick in leaf litter. The cypress are among the few reliable barometers, turning colors of orange and sometimes a spot of red after the first cold snap. The short row of what I’ve pegged as burr oaks across the streets were unspectacular this year, quickly going roasted turkey brown without a hint of other color, but every neighborhood has its cypress. I walk through the park regularly and all along Bayou Metairie–what you probably know as the lagoon just north of City Park Avenue–has quite a few mixed in among the oaks, palms and bits of clumping bamboo. Those cypress know that while I ought to be in the shower on this 72 degree morning instead of capturing these thoughts, our octopus ride climate will soon come to a stop and settle in for its long winter’s nap.