Cash, the Muse, and Lessons

Been a hectic couple of weeks.  Coming up for air.  Three thoughts on this hot Tuesday afternoon, as has become customary:

1.  I have been reading through a few bits and pieces of Jiddu Krishnamurti's thoughts on relationship.  I am intrigued by the idea that we assign images to people and that what essentially ends up happening is interaction between the images we hold for each other.  He suggests attempting to look at someone without all the history and baggage we carry into our perspective.  Of course, my thoughts are: how in God's name can that be done and is it even safe?

2.  Listened to a wonderful interview with Rosanne Cash yesterday morning as I blazed an early path to Panama City.  Of most worthwhile note in my mind was her mention of the idea that perhaps the artist discovers what is already in existence.  Finding a painting that is already in the ether, or prose which has just been waiting to materialize.  I like that idea.  She also made mention of Steven Pressfield's quip, "You have to show the Muse you're serious."  Indeed.

3.  I have been enjoying the poetry of Paul Laurence Dunbar.  I especially like this poem, which I will leave you with.  Henri Nouwen's book, Wounded Healer, is on my list.  But somehow I suspect that this poem may sum up the entire book in a few lines:

The Lesson

My cot was down by a cypress grove,
And I sat by my window the whole night long,
And heard well up from the deep dark wood
A mocking-bird's passionate song.
And I thought of myself so sad and lone,
And my life's cold winter that knew no spring;
Of my mind so weary and sick and wild,
Of my heart too sad to sing.
But e'en as I listened the mock-bird's song,
A thought stole into my saddened heart,
And I said, 'I can cheer some other soul
By a carol's simple art.'
For oft from the darkness of hearts and lives
Come songs that brim with joy and light,
As out of the gloom of the cypress grove
The mocking-bird sings at night.
So I sang a lay for a brother's ear
In a strain to soothe his bleeding heart,
And he smiled at the sound of my voice and lyre,
Though mine was a feeble art.
But at his smile I smiled in turn,
And into my soul there came a ray:
In trying to soothe another's woes
Mine own had passed away.                             


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