Either define the moment or the moment will define you. ~ Walt Whitman
“Happiness, not in another place but this place…not for another hour, but this hour (Walt Whitman).”
How many time do we think or say, ‘I will be happy when?’ I know I have done it many times. I need to be frequently reminded of the wisdom in Walt Whitman’s words: ‘Happiness is found in this hour.’ It’s all around me. All I have to do is open my eyes and heart to it. It was in the three mockingbirds I saw this morning and in the red-tailed hawk sitting in my live oak tree waiting for it’s breakfast.
“Peace is always beautiful (Walt Whitman).” It’s not healthy to work in an environment where one has to worry about his or her emotional or physical safety. It’s not healthy to live in a world where leaders believe that war and destruction is better than living in harmony and peaceful competition. Working for peace is hard work. It takes courage to listen to different ideas. It takes courage to let go of past grievances. It takes courage to let go the myths that hang around our necks like anchors. If we have the courage to do so, peace is possible and how beautiful peace will be.
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;
Every spear of grass—the frames, limbs, organs, of men and women, and all that
concerns
them,
All these to me are unspeakably perfect miracles.
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?
Answer.
That you are here—that life exists, and identity;
That the powerful play goes on, and you will contribute a verse.
“To me, every hour of the day and night is an unspeakably perfect miracle.” – Walt Whitman
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?
Spirit That Form’d This Scene
Walt Whitman
SPIRIT that form’d this scene,
These tumbled rock-piles grim and red,
These reckless heaven-ambitious peaks,
These gorges, turbulent-clear streams, this naked freshness,
These formless wild arrays, for reasons of their own,
I know thee, savage spirit-we have communed together,
Mine too such wild arrays, for reasons of their own;
Was’t charged against my chants they had forgotten art?
To fuse within themselves its rules precise and delicatesse?
The lyrist’s measur’d beat, the wrought-out temple’s grace-column and
polish’d arch forgot?
But thou that revelest here-spirit that form’d this scene,
They have remember’d thee. SPIRIT that form’d this scene,
These tumbled rock-piles grim and red,
These reckless heaven-ambitious peaks,
These gorges, turbulent-clear streams, this naked freshness,
These formless wild arrays, for reasons of their own,
I know thee, savage spirit-we have communed together,
Mine too such wild arrays, for reasons of their own;
Was’t charged against my chants they had forgotten art?
To fuse within themselves its rules precise and delicatesse?
The lyrist’s measur’d beat, the wrought-out temple’s grace-column and
polish’d arch forgot?
But thou that revelest here-spirit that form’d this scene,
They have remember’d thee.
Keep your face always toward the sunshine – and shadows will fall behind you. ~ Walt Whitman
