Blog Archives

Impervious

8/27/2014

Bark

sealed, leathery

like a century old turtle shell,

impervious.

Limbs, ripped off, razor sharp edges

torn like the V shaped screamers who hold on as a

tree is sawed and felled,

screamers at the end of every short branch.

Ripped by the winter gusts of the planet’s biggest inland lake,

for centuries Lake Superior tore barque vessels apart

undeterred by any crew’s tightest rigging.

Impervious, yes, so bloody tight.

Where am I tempted to make myself impervious?

When have mysteries penetrated my defenses to break open my heart?

Surely having an impervious bark is not the dream the Mystery has for me.

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Stillness

8/23/2014

Standing as still as the harnesses and bridles hung in Atley’s barn,

I heard the breathing of two retired trotters.

Yesterday they ambled, slant-wise, pulling a buggy

filled with an Amish family.

Today they breathe

quietly resting in the shadows of the barn.

Atley stood at the entrance, murmured a few syllables

two Belgians appeared and stood still opposite their harnesses and bridles.

Atley moved the straps and buckles into place,

a settled man of some age and syllables,

his Belgians followed him to the plow,

attached and hearing a syllable, they began to move across the field.

The farm lives by the rhythm of the horse and nature’s cycle

of plantings and harvestings.

Stillness, attentiveness, remembering what the fathers learned from their fathers.

Stillness first

is what leads to the beauty of the farm.

Is my life unfolding with stillness?

©John Holliger

The First Whirling Cutting

8/10/2014

The First Whirling Cutting

Of the three

The first cutting of hay is the tastiest, easiest to chew, most nutritious.

Click---wickety-wickety-click---wickety-wickety the stook mechanical machine, pulled by one

horse bounces along rhythmically singing like those hundred clocks all out of sync

pulled at a natural pace set by the horse, creating almost, but not exactly straight lines up the hill and back around, an Amish do-si-do of wooden slats on a crooked Ferris wheel, a chaos of parts so tilted sideways only the weight of the young lad leaning to the opposite, counter-balancing does it not all collapse. English as I am I look on thinking by rights it should not be working, such a clatter and chaos of parts and yet out urps a stook all the way through the pasture.

Mice and grouse dive for cover.

Birds arrive and hover for flying seeds.

An entrancing sound approaching and turning, easy to lose myself in,

as entrancing as the Sufi mystic whirling into another realm of being.

Click---wickety-wickety-click---wickety-wickety,

each stook shakes itself into an unforgettable character declaring here-I-slink, here-I-lean,

a line of characters, a dignity of their own

up and around and back

ready for a hug and a lift and a swirl onto a horse drawn wagon.

I stand by the side of the road hiding my camera behind my back out of respect,

envious to be the young lad leaning to the side, listening to the soft rhythm clattering away

the occasional hiccup as another stook falls out the side and I wonder,

have the sounds of my world become obsolete because they no longer

draw me into a different realm outside my tiny self?

If I could put aside my English skeptical notion “it will never work,”

is a new realm I’ve longed for on the far side?

This is why I take those long, slow rides down gravel roads

without caring where I am or where the road will lead. I wonder what new vista

of life I’ve never seen will appear at the top of the next hill and I’ll be amazed at what my “usual and customary” has kept me from seeing, prevented my heart from enlarging into a new tenderness I didn’t know I had. ©John Holliger 2014

Stillness and Movement, part two

8/7/2014

Stillness and Movement

Still as the harnesses and bridles in Atley’s barn. When have I been that still?

When I could hear the click of my mechanical heart valve, sometimes an extra click, sometimes a pause, but imperfectly the pacer keeps me alive. When I am that still I hear the imperfect, off balance tick of my grandmother’s clock. Inside the door it reads “cleaned in 1946” the year of my birth.

I stood in Atley’s barn, caught by the unmoving harnesses and bridles, and heard the breathing of two retired trotters, brought home, here, from the auction in Mt. Hope. The owners could no longer make money from their speed. But yesterday they pulled a buggy of parents and kids to and fro the auction in Mt. Hope. Today they rest.

Many tasks I do because I have the skills and health and nothing to stand on, if I said “no.” And then I too need a day to rest in the shadows and breathe and nap.

Today when Atley stood in the open barn door he quietly called and two Belgians came and stood opposite the harnesses and bridles. In their stillness Atley, relaxed, pulled the straps and buckles just enough,

the calm and gentle voice of a settled man of some age

who loves his horses, the Belgians and the elderly pacers.

He looks forward to the irregular rhythm of hooves on gravel,

the clink and creak that come from somewhere, the swaying back and forth as they pull the plow.

As the trotters rest I hope they remember how their new family cherishes their service. Here was a new life. I hope they remember raising their eyes with Atley to the horizon, that distant stillness above their irregular trotting.

Such a rich paradox of stillness within and beyond,

and the horses’ imperfect rhythm as they pull everyone to auction, as the Belgians pull the cutter..

Stillness and movement.

We live both, somehow, back and forth.

Maybe because we have practiced stillness,

we can hear the cicadas rubbing, moving rapidly their legs in the summer evening,

creating such a joyful chorus, with swells and whispers, many climactic bursts of loud music, then dropping down until one ascends and the others follow.

Perhaps with too little stillness, we realize we do not hear many voices in the night summer air.

I’m caught when my dog sleeping in my lap abruptly lifts her head and peers toward the screen door into the darkness to hear that voice which I could not. Stillness and movement.

Now, in this new day Atley is a servant to his two Belgians preparing them to plow,

And they, standing still, knowing the work before them, soon return the gift.

Together, they will raise their eyes and gaze at the field’s horizon

trusting the unknowns coming toward them, sent from the Mystery on the far side of that first light.

Stillness and movement. In this moment which do I need to balance my imperfect life?

©John Holliger 2014

Stillness and Movement

8/6/2014

Stillness and Movement

Can I be as still as the harnesses and bridles in Atley’s barn?

Can I be still and hear the click of my mechanical heart valve and the tick of my grandmother’s clock that reads inside the door “cleaned in 1946” the year of my birth?

Can I stand here in Atley’s barn and hear the two Belgians, breathing in the shadows, the two who yesterday pulled a buggy of parents and kids to the auction in Mt. Hope? Today they are resting.

Like so many tasks we do them because we have the skills and health and nothing to stand on, if we said “no.”

And so the Belgians responded, when Atley quietly called and roused them.

Now resting in the shadows of the barn, I hope they are remembering yesterday.

I hope they are thinking about the care with which Atley pulled the straps of the bridle and harnesses just enough,

the calm and gentle voice of a settled man of some age who loves his horses,

looks forward to the irregular rhythm of hooves on gravel,

the clink and creak that come from somewhere.

As they rest I hope they are remembering raising their eyes with Atley to the horizon,

their movement and that distant stillness.

Such a rich paradox of stillness within and beyond,

and the horses’ uneven rhythm as they pull everyone to auction.

Stillness and movement.

We live both, somehow.

Maybe because we have practiced stillness,

we can hear the cicadas rubbing their legs in the summer evening.

Perhaps with too little stillness,

we realize we have not heard someone’s voice.

When reading, our dog sleeping in our lap in the evening

abruptly lifts her head and peers out the screen door into the darkness

to hear someone’s voice which we could not.

Now in this new day, Atley is a servant to his two Pantherons and they,

standing still ready to plow,

return the gift.

And together they raise their eyes and gaze at the field’s horizon

trusting the unknowns coming to them,

sent from the Mystery on the far side of first light. ©John Holliger 2014

Impervious

Stillness

The First Whirling Cutting

Stillness and Movement, part two

Stillness and Movement

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