Think Outside

Although it’s become common parlance for people when problem-solving, to say, “we need to think outside of the box,” I hear those words and can’t help but wonder, “what box?” If we know there’s a box, surely we can see and think outside of it just as well as inside.

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This past winter when I was in Georgia visiting family, my sister took me to visit a monastery in Athens, the home of a small group of Cistercian monks. One of the elder monks is a Bonsai Master and the grounds are filled with his lovely little trees. In the garden store they sell a lot of specialty items for the growing and caring of Bonsai trees along with other gardening supplies. They also sell t-shirts with gardening themes, which is where I found the one whose image you see here. It’s my favorite t-shirt!

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When I was 13, I had a friend who wrote poetry, a sensitive soul, the first person I met who asked big questions about the world, and life. Those questions came at me as if they were resurfacing from deep inside of me, now bubbling up as if all of my life they had been anchored somewhere deep within my heart. It was exhilarating to contemplate for the first time the bigness of the world, realizing how many more questions there were that I had not yet asked. The journey had begun, or I had at last found the right journey. Eventually, I have realized over the years, a journey that never stops.

I still love poetry and enjoy reading old favorites as well as poems from friends here on WordPress. William Stafford, who in his later years lived not too far from where I live in Oregon, was a wonderful poet who I return to again and again for that big feeling that makes me think and feel inside and outside. Here is one of my favorites of his. I hope you like it.

“Counting lambs, counting sheep
We will fall into sleep
And we awake to a new day of living
And loving you so.” Ian Anderson

Interlude

Thinking For Berky

by William Stafford

In the late night listening from bed
I have joined the ambulance or the patrol
screaming toward some drama, the kind of end
that Berky must have some day, if she isn’t dead.

The wildest of all, her father and mother cruel,
farming out there beyond the old stone quarry
where highschool lovers parked their lurching cars,
Berky learned to love in that dark school.

Early her face was turned away from home
toward any hardworking place; but still her soul,
with terrible things to do, was alive, looking out
for the rescue that–surely, some day–would have to come.

Windiest nights, Berky, I have thought for you,
and no matter how lucky I’ve been I’ve touched wood.
There are things not solved in our town though tomorrow came:
there are things time passing can never make come true.

We live in an occupied country, misunderstood;
justice will take us millions of intricate moves.
Sirens wil hunt down Berky, you survivors in your beds
listening through the night, so far and good.

I have woven a parachute out of everything that is broken – William Stafford