Find the peace of wild things ...

A favorite poem of mine and one that resonates during this time of unease ...

The Peace of Wild Things

Wendell Berry

When despair for the world grows in me

and I wake in the night at the least sound

in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,

I go and lie down where the wood drake

rests in his beauty on the water, 

and the great heron feeds.

I come into the peace of wild things

who do not tax their lives with forethought

of grief. I come into the presence of still water.

And I feel above me the day-blind stars

waiting with their light. For a time

I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

peace and be well!!

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April, National Poetry Month ...

Feel free to download and print out this calendar for your personal use this month.

“Tell me, what is it you plan to do 

with your one wild and precious life?” 

Mary Oliver

some fun facts and history about:

National Poetry Month

National Poetry Month, a celebration of poetry which takes place each April, was introduced in 1996 and is organized by the Academy of American Poets as a way to increase awareness and appreciation of poetry in the United States. The Academy of American Poets' website Poets.org serves as a hub for information about local poetry events during the month. The organization also provides free educational resources to teachers for classroom celebrations and activities, and commissions an annual festival poster.[1] Since 1998, National Poetry Month has also been celebrated each April in Canada.[2]

National Poetry Month was inspired by the success of Black History Month, held each February, and Women's History Month, held in March. In 1995, the Academy of American Poets convened a group of publishers, booksellers, librarians, literary organizations, poets, and teachers to discuss the need and usefulness of a similar monthlong holiday to celebrate poetry.[3] The first National Poetry Month was held in 1996.

In 1998, the Academy of American Poets joined the American Poetry & Literacy Project to distribute 100,000 free books of poetry from New York to California during National Poetry Month. On April 22, President Clinton and the First Lady hosted a gala at the White House that featured Poets Laureate Robert Pinsky, Robert Hass, and Rita Dove.[4]

For National Poetry Month in 2001, the Academy of American Poets invited people to "vote" for poets they most wanted to have a postage stamp. More than 10,000 people cast ballots, with Langston Hughes receiving the most votes. The vote tally was sent to the United States Postal Service, which issued a Langston Hughes stamp in January 2002.[4]

On April 5, 2005 the Empire State Building was illuminated with blue lights to mark the 10th anniversary of National Poetry Month.[4]

In 2006, the Academy of American Poets launched Poem-a-Day, publishing one new poem on its website Poets.org each day during the month-long celebration. Poem-a-Day is now a daily, year-long series, which has been syndicated by King Features.[5]

In 2012, the Academy of American Poets launched the Dear Poet project, which invites students to read and write poems during National Poetry Month, some of which are published on Poets.org. The project is accompanied by a lesson plan offered to K-12 teachers for free.[6]

Each year, a special poster is commissioned by the Academy of American Poets for National Poetry Month, with almost 150,000 copies distributed to schools, libraries, and community centers for free. In the past, posters have been designed by noted graphic designers such as Chip Kidd and Milton Glaser. The 2015 National Poetry Month poster has been designed by New Yorkerillustrator Roz Chast.[7]

In a proclamation issued on April 1, 1996, President Bill Clinton declared: "National Poetry Month offers us a welcome opportunity to celebrate not only the unsurpassed body of literature produced by our poets in the past, but also the vitality and diversity of voices reflected in the works of today's American poetry….Their creativity and wealth of language enrich our culture and inspire a new generation of Americans to learn the power of reading and writing at its best."[8] In addition, similar official National Poetry Month proclamation have been issued by mayors from towns and cities across the country, including New York City, Los Angeles, Chicago, Tucson, and Washington, D.C.[9]

thank you wikipedia 

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no doubt ... this is my religion!!

Desiderata


Go placidly amid the noise and haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible without surrender
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons,
they are vexations to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain and bitter;
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs;
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals;
and everywhere life is full of heroism.
Be yourself.
Especially, do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love;
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment
it is as perennial as the grass.
Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe,
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.
Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be,
and whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.
With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful.
Strive to be happy.

Max Ehrmann, Desiderata

Copyright 1952.

no doubt, my dears, no doubt!!

love, mom

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here's to girl power

A Short Story

by David Escobar Galindo

trans. by Jorge D. Piche

The ant climbs up a trunk

carrying a petal on its back;

and if you look closely

that petal is as big as a house

especially compared to the ant that

carries it so olympically.

You ask me: Why couldn't I carry

a petal twice as big as my body and my head?

Ah, but you can, little girl,

but not petals from a dahlia,

rather boxes full of thoughts

and loads of magic hours, and

a wagon of clear dreams, and

a big castle with its fairies:

all the petals that form the soul of

a little girl who speaks and speaks . . . !

love, mom

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Let us be the bringers of unarmed truth and unconditional love ... thank you Dr. King!

my daughter wrote this in 2014

I refuse to accept the view that mankind is so tragically bound to the starless midnight of racism and war that the bright daybreak of peace and brotherhood can never become a reality... I believe that unarmed truth and unconditional love will have the final word.

Martin Luther King, Jr.

Today, go to a MLK event or celebration.  
This man's words and deeds are more important then ever.  
We MUST stand against racism and war! 
love, mom

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from the arctic tundra .... this is my religion!

Jack Frost

'jack frost's window ...' ©virginiafitzgerald 2018

The door was shut, as doors should be,

Before you went to bed last night;

Yet Jack Frost has got in, you see,

And left your window silver white.

He must have waited till you slept;

And not a single word he spoke,

But pencilled o’er the panes and crept

Away again before you woke.

And now you cannot see the hills

Nor fields that stretch beyond the lane;

But there are fairer things than these

His fingers traced on every pane.

Rocks and castles towering high;

Hills and dales, and streams and fields;

And knights in armor riding by,

With nodding plumes and shining shields.

And here are little boats, and there

Big ships with sails spread to the breeze;

And yonder, palm trees waving fair

On islands set in silver seas,

And butterflies with gauzy wings;

And herds of cows and flocks of sheep;

And fruit and flowers and all the things

You see when you are sound asleep.

For, creeping softly underneath

The door when all the lights are out,

Jack Frost takes every breath you breathe,

And knows the things you think about.

He paints them on the window-pane

In fairy lines with frozen steam;

And when you wake you see again

The lovely things you saw in dream.

Gabriel Setoun 

1861-1930

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Celebrating the wonders of snow ...

December Moon

Before going to bed

After a fall of snow
I look out on the field
Shining there in the moonlight
So calm, untouched and white
Snow silence fills my head
After I leave the window.

Hours later near dawn
When I look down again
The whole landscape has changed
The perfect surface gone
Criss-crossed and written on
Where the wild creatures ranged

While the moon rose and shone.

Why did my dog not bark?
Why did I hear no sound
There on the snow-locked ground
In the tumultuous dark?

How much can come, how much can go
When the December moon is bright,

What worlds of play we'll never know

Sleeping away the cold white night

After a fall of snow. 

May Sarton

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'after the books had been forbidden ...'

in light of the latest insanity out of White House, 

banning the CDC from using words ... 

thank you Billy Collins, Poet Laureate of the United States from 2001 to 2003.

Rain

by Billy Collins

Some time after the books had been forbidden— 

The one about the woman and her daughter,
The one about the boy who spoke poorly—
And after the smoke from the incinerators had cleared,

It was suggested that censorship be extended
To the plover, the wild turkey, and the common moorhen. 

But these birds have done nothing, a few protested.
That is precisely the problem, the loudspeakers answered.

It rained that month day and night.
Men with nets fanned out into the fields
And shouted to each other along the shorelines. 

Teachers disappeared on the way to their cars.

Then the committee came after the morning glory 

For its suggestive furling and unfurling
And the ligustrum and the alstroemeria
Because they were difficult to pronounce and spell.

Then the pine tree for its tricky needles and cones
And parsley and red and yellow peppers for no reason at all. 

You would think the lock and the gate
Would be safe, but that was well before whispering,

Shaking hands on the street,
And hooking an arm around someone’s waist 

Became the subjects of discussion
Across long granite tables behind dark glass doors.

And the rain was constant and cold—fine days
to curl up with a good book, someone joked—
but there were no more books,
just the curling up of people quietly in corners and doorways,

bits of straw floating down the streets
along the curbs into the turbulent rivers and out to sea.

we must #resist this action of censorship!

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today, just let go ....

"She Let Go" 

She let go.She let go. Without a thought or a word, she let go.She let go of the fear.
She let go of the judgments.
She let go of the confluence of opinions swarming around her head.
She let go of the committee of indecision within her.
She let go of all the ‘right’ reasons.
Wholly and completely, without hesitation or worry, she just let go.
She didn’t ask anyone for advice.
She didn’t read a book on how to let go.
She didn’t search the scriptures.
She just let go.
She let go of all of the memories that held her back.
She let go of all of the anxiety that kept her from moving forward.
She let go of the planning and all of the calculations about how to do it just right.
She didn’t promise to let go.
She didn’t journal about it.
She didn’t write the projected date in her Day-Timer.
She made no public announcement and put no ad in the paper.
She didn’t check the weather report or read her daily horoscope.
She just let go.
She didn’t analyze whether she should let go.
She didn’t call her friends to discuss the matter.
She didn’t do a five-step Spiritual Mind Treatment.
She didn’t call the prayer line.
She didn’t utter one word.
She just let go.
No one was around when it happened.
There was no applause or congratulations.
No one thanked her or praised her.
No one noticed a thing.
Like a leaf falling from a tree, she just let go.
There was no effort.
There was no struggle.
It wasn’t good and it wasn’t bad.
It was what it was, and it is just that.
In the space of letting go, she let it all be.
A small smile came over her face.
A light breeze blew through her. And the sun and the moon shone forevermore…
~ Rev. Safire Rose

I discovered this poem yesterday. The words spoke so directly to my heart and gave me some semblance of peace. I hope you find this poem as inspirational as I have. love, mom


"She Let Go" A Poem by Rev. Safire Rose
 Read by Susan B.

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today, find peace 'Someway, Someday, Somewhere, Somehow' ...

My Dream: A Vision Of Peace 

by ToddMichael St. Pierre

Where the mountains touch the sky,
Where poets DREAM, where eagles fly,
A secret place above the crowd,
Just beneath a silver-lined cloud.

Lift your eyes to a snowy peak,
And see the soon-to-be we seek.
Whisper DREAMS and let them rise,
To the mountains old and wise.

Climbers climb, it's time to try,
Where the mountains touch the sky.
Take me there. Oh take me now,
Someway, Someday, Somewhere, Somehow.

Where the ocean meets the sky,
Where mermaid dance, where seagulls fly,
A place in DREAMS I know so well,
The sea inside a single shell.

Far across the living sea,
A pale blue possibility,
Beyond the castles made of sand,
Tomorrow in a small child's hand.

Only DREAMERS need apply,
Where the ocean meets the sky.
Take me there. Oh take me now,
Someway, Someday, Somewhere, Somehow.

A common ground for one and all,
Behind the crystal waterfall,
Where Peace flows like a mighty stream,
Like Dr. King I have a DREAM.

Imagine such a goal in sight,
For red and yellow, black and white…

New Delhi, Beijing, Kenya, Rome,
Earth is the place that we call home.
Baghdad, Belfast, Tel Aviv,
One race HUMAN, we still believe,
Come DREAM with me...

Where the forests reach the sky,
Wake to DREAMS, and don’t be shy.
We’ll DREAM the world a thorn-less rose;
We’ll plant then watch it as it grows.

We’ll conquer hate with DREAMS of hope,
We’ll DREAM one big kaleidoscope.

Whisper now; let the DREAM begin,
It's time to trust the truth within.
This is where we seek and find…
A place called PEACE for humankind.

DREAM on DREAMERS, hopes are high,
Where the forests reach the sky.
Take me there. Oh take me now,
Someway, Someday, Somewhere, Somehow.

Now, listen close, the future calls...
'Build your bridges and tear down walls! '
For time has taught and so it seems,
Realities are born of DREAMS!

Whisper DREAMS and let them rise,
To the mountains old and wise.

ToddMichael St. Pierre

love, mom

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may this dress remind us to live our one wild and precious life!!!! XXX

The Summer Day

Mary Oliver

Who made the world?

Who made the swan, and the black bear?

Who made the grasshopper?

This grasshopper, I mean-

the one who has flung herself out of the grass,

the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,

who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-

who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.

Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.

Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.

I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.

I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down

into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,

how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,

which is what I have been doing all day.

Tell me, what else should I have done?

Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?

Tell me, what is it you plan to do

with your one wild and precious life?

from New and Selected Poems, 1992

Beacon Press, Boston, MA

Copyright 1992 by Mary Oliver. All rights reserved.

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today, may we mourn, heal, hold, pray and somehow, find peace ...

The Peace of Wild Things

Wendell Berry

When despair for the world grows in me

and I wake in the night at the least sound

in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,

I go and lie down where the wood drake

rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.

I come into the peace of wild things

who do not tax their lives with forethought

of grief. I come into the presence of still water.

And I feel above me the day-blind stars

waiting with their light. For a time

I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

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today, see all the miracles ....

happy monday! X

 Miracles

Walt Whitman

Why, who makes much of a miracle?

As to me I know of nothing else but miracles,

Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan,

Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky,

Or wade with naked feet along the beach just in the edge of the water,

Or stand under trees in the woods,

Or talk by day with any one I love, or sleep in the bed at night with any one I love,

Or sit at table at dinner with the rest,

Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car,

Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive of a summer forenoon,

Or animals feeding in the fields,

Or birds, or the wonderfulness of insects in the air,

Or the wonderfulness of the sundown, or of stars shining so quiet and bright,

Or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon in spring;

These with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles,

The whole referring, yet each distinct and in its place.

To me every hour of the light and dark is a miracle,

Every cubic inch of space is a miracle,

Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the same,

Every foot of the interior swarms with the same.

To me the sea is a continual miracle,

The fishes that swim—the rocks—the motion of the waves—the ships with men in them,

What stranger miracles are there?

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** all illustrations, art and photographs were created by virginiafitzgerald, unless otherwise noted.

All content of this blog is the property of virginiafitzgerald and is protected by copyright law (c) 2006-2016, 

unless otherwise stated. All rights reserved. 

Please do not reproduce and misrepresent any material on this site in any manner . 

If you wish to share some of my work, please link the work to this site and give me credit. 

Thank you & peace 

May this tree remind us to be and be better . . .

When Great Trees Fall

'tree of life' installed at the Common Street Spiritual Center

When great trees fall,
rocks on distant hills shudder,
lions hunker down
in tall grasses,
and even elephants
lumber after safety.

When great trees fall
in forests,
small things recoil into silence,
their senses
eroded beyond fear.

When great souls die,
the air around us becomes
light, rare, sterile.
We breathe, briefly.
Our eyes, briefly,
see with
a hurtful clarity.
Our memory, suddenly sharpened,
examines,
gnaws on kind words
unsaid,
promised walks
never taken.

Great souls die and
our reality, bound to
them, takes leave of us.
Our souls,
dependent upon their
nurture,
now shrink, wizened.
Our minds, formed
and informed by their
radiance,
fall away.
We are not so much maddened
as reduced to the unutterable ignorance
of dark, cold
caves.

And when great souls die,
after a period peace blooms,
slowly and always
irregularly. Spaces fill
with a kind of
soothing electric vibration.
Our senses, restored, never
to be the same, whisper to us.
They existed. They existed.
We can be. Be and be
better. For they existed.”


― Maya Angelou

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