Simple Pleasures

An Angel in the Marble

/ James Browning / 2 Comments

Day in and day out I live with the face of a mystery woman whose name I do not know.  As I leave and come home, she is always there to welcome me or bid me goodbye silently with an expression of contentment on her face.  If there is something I must remember to take with me when I depart, I lay it beside her so I will be reminded not to forget it.  She has been with me for well over a decade now, yet I know nothing about her.

“She” is a marble statue I purchased at an antiques auction in the late 90’s.  The bust is around 24 inches tall and its scale is life-size.  Being solid marble the statue is very heavy.  I can lift her, but only with a great deal of care and strain.

What little research I have done about her has led me to believe she may have been handmade in China sometime in the 20th century, but her face does not match the standard ones typically used to create statues in Asia.  While I wish the bust was from antiquity with an image created during the life of a person of royalty or fame, I suspect she is a fairly modern creation.  While being old would make the bust worth more, it would not cause me to enjoy her more than I do.  There is much gladness to have her residing with me in my home.

There are times I actually speak aloud to her.  Anyone who has lived alone for a few years or more knows about speaking occasionally to photos and other reminders of people; sometimes even to a piece of furniture or appliance.  (I recall reading once upon a time that talking to one’s self was a sign of going crazy and having a conversation with one’s self is a sign of insanity.  So I avoid both labels by making sure I speak to some object or image at home like my mystery lady when talking aloud.  So what if that is a little game I play with myself.  Living alone allows such harmless indulgences).

No matter when my statue was made, it is the face that intrigues me as it appears obvious hers was patterned after real features.  I like to believe the image portrayed is that of a real person who lived in Victorian times when poets like Browning and Barrett were revered and writers like Thoreau were in vogue.  The overall style the face is contained within appears to my unlearned eye to be from antiquity like something from Roman times.  Could the face be one that has been recreated over and over for two thousand years or more?

Sometimes I have wondered who my imagined “Victorian lady” might have been.  My imagination is broad and deep so it is relatively effortless for me to spin a story.  My deductive reasoning (and pure guesswork) tells me she would likely have been European as most wealth of the time was centered there.  Assuming her lineage might be English (for no reason except my roots are) some of the most popular names for women in the mid to late 1800’s were Alice, Millicent, May, Evelyn, Victoria, Violet, Elizabeth, Lily, Anna, Ruth and Emma. I love the names Emma and Anna, but my choice is Elizabeth, fully realizing it is my love of the work of Elizabeth Barrett that causes that selection.

I suspect if Elizabeth was the correct name those close to her would have called her by a nickname like “Lizzy” or “Beth”.  Such a pet name would seem to better fit the slightly mischievous and almost hidden smile on the bust.

Flushing out my imagined story of the presence in my entry way:  I would say “Elizabeth” was created as a likeness of a woman 18-21 years old and the original statue was carved of a just married bride’s face for a well-to-do couple’s home.

I hope “Beth’s” life was good and content as the look on the face appears to be.  If she could know her face had been carried down through the decades or more of being reproduced, I wonder what her reaction might be.  I hope she would be pleased to know even today a man sat down and wrote about her because he was intrigued by her kind face and sweet yet regal expression.  My gratitude is genuine and substantial to have the “old girl” with me as her presence brings me comfort and joy and stirs my imagination.

I also wonder what “Elizabeth” would think of the fact that frequently she wears one of my ball caps or hats?!?  Seems to me she’d laugh about it.

I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free.  Michelangelo

Love is….

/ James Browning / 3 Comments

This morning I sat in my chair in front of the computer thinking about what to include here today.  A number of ideas came to me, yet none were ones I felt like delving into.  Consequently I went searching in my “idea file” where I save things as I think of them or come across an item.

I settled on a poem by Susan Polis Schultz.  After reading it through slowly I was reminded why I had saved it in the first place.  Within her words there is wisdom to be had and direction for a good life to be found.  I hope you find it as meaningful as I do.

Love is
being happy for the other person
when they are happy
being sad for the person
when they are sad
being together in good times
and being together in bad times
Love is the source of strength.

Love is
being honest with yourself at all times
being honest with the other person at all times
telling, listening, respecting the truth
and never pretending
Love is the source of reality.

Love is
an understanding so complete that
you feel as if you are a part
of the other person
accepting the other person
just the way they are
and not trying to change them
to be something else
Love is the source of unity.

Love is
the freedom to pursue your own desires
while sharing your experiences
with the other person
the growth of one individual alongside of
and together with the growth
of another individual
Love is the source of success.

Love is
the excitement of planning things together
the excitement of doing things together
Love is the source of the future.

Love is
the fury of the storm
the calm in the rainbow
Love is the source of passion.

Love is
giving and taking in a daily situation
being patient with each other’s
needs and desires
Love is the source of sharing.

Love is
knowing that the other person
will always be with you
regardless of what happens
missing the other person when they are away
but remaining near in heart at all times
Love is the source of security.

Love is
The
Source
Of
Life
Today

Ms Schultz is a documentary film producer and director and an American poet.  She was associated with the start up of bluemountain.com, one of the very first on-line greeting card sites (now owned by American Greeting).  She is also the mother of  U.S. Congressman Jared Polis of Colorado.

Today my gratitude overflows for beautiful arrangements of words like that of Ms. Schultz.  While a love of poetry and an appreciation of language well used are in decline today, that is not the case with me.  Just as flowers brighten a room or art can give meaningful depth to a wall, good poems and eloquent sayings are meaningful embellishments of my mind.  It is the knowing of such beauty that serves as a balance for all the less appealing portions of  what I know.

Painting is poetry that is seen rather than felt, and poetry is painting that is felt rather than seen.  Leonardo da Vinci

I Did Not See Her Coming

/ James Browning / 4 Comments

Since 2007 I have been writing a book; a love story.  Working on it has been good therapy for me through some very difficult times.  There have been days and nights when it contained the only shred of belief in love between a man and woman I was able to hang onto.  Over time I have fallen head over heels for the story and that love has kept hope alive within me.

The book is fictional with bits and pieces borrowed from my life and others, yet included in ways far different from reality.  The story is about a man and woman, who have both been hurt to the point they have little belief in love, but down deep a tiny spark remains.  They meet unexpectedly in a foreign country, due to chance and fate, and begin their unlikely love story.  Their pasts block their way to each other and the story is their battle against their own histories and conditioning.

Today is the time for me to step past my hesitance and thinking the work is not “good enough”.  It matters not if it is viewed as wonderful, awful or somewhere in between.  By letting others read a short portion of the story I am being true to myself.  I am thankful for the courage to do that.

          I did not see her coming.  There was no way to anticipate how my life was about to change.  It’s challenging for a depressed man feeling sorry for himself to see much of anything outside of his self focused indulgence.  So there I was on Monday morning, engrossed in trying to read my Amsterdam map and did not even see her get on the tram.  When I looked up she grabbed my attention.  I stared at her just three rows away until she glanced up at me and I looked away embarrassed.  I tried to be sneak more peeks at her, but every time I looked up she glanced at me a moment later.  After the third or fourth time she smiled and red-faced, I smiled back. 

         Within a few minutes the tram started to slow to its next stop.  She got up, took three steps closer to the door and ended up right by me.  In American English (which surprised me), she said “What are you looking for?”  I said “the Van Gogh Museum”.  She smiled and said, “Oh that’s easy.  Get off at the third stop after this one, go across the bridge and keep walking to your right.  You can’t miss it.”  Before I could even muster a “thank you” the doors on the tram opened, she smiled at me and I watched her step off the tram.   

          As the doors closed I stared at her as she walked away.  Tall and slender but not skinny and she was about five foot seven or eight.  Hair below her shoulders pulled back with a knit hat on top of her head.  Dark pants were tucked into high boots that came up to a few inches below her knee (young or old, the women in The Netherlands all seem to wear boots in the winter. I had noticed on previous visits that no two pair seemed to be alike in the whole city).  As she walked away I studied her.  With a well-fitting below the waist length leather jacket, a scarf wrapped around and around her neck with an umbrella in hand my mystery woman looked typical for a casually well dressed female in the Amsterdam in February.  

          The blue and white tram slowly began to continue south as I watched her finish crossing the street.  I was staring straight at her when she looked over her shoulder in my direction and smiled.  Was she smiling at me?  I wasn’t sure.  I smiled back just in case. Then she turned away and three steps later disappeared into one of the city’s numerous alley ways that tie the town together.  I was lost in my thoughts as the little train gained speed headed south toward the museum section of the city. 

          She was gone.  I felt like a junior-high-school’er who develops a crush at first glance.  This woman had made a distinct impression on me.  Yet she was now lost in the sea of humanity.  I was pissed off at myself for not saying something to her.  I did not even thank her for her advice about finding the museum.  But my chance was gone.  I was left only with just a distinct image of her in my mind.  It was her face most of all that seemed burned into my psyche.  Hers were not the features of a beauty queen.  Instead she was more real and attractive in an honest and non-assuming way.  

Today I am grateful for the courage to post a little of the opening chapter of my book as it is today.  There are 182 pages of the story completed so far with a conclusion coming in the third of the book I have yet to write.  I am appreciative to anyone who took the time to read the opening paragraphs.  It gives me encouragement.  Thank you!

 The minute I heard my first love story
I started looking for you, not knowing
how blind that was.
Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere.
They’re in each other all along.
“The Minute I Heard My First Love Story” Rumi, 1207-1273

Loving the Rain Part II

/ James Browning / 3 Comments

The rain this morning is a welcome relief from the heat.  Even with temperatures beginning to moderate as Fall fast approaches, the drizzle is a recently rare and welcome occurence.  Instead of attempting to create anew my feelings about the rain, today I am instead offering a “rerun” from the first few weeks I wrote here.  Now, as then, I am graciously grateful for the rain. 

https://goodmorninggratitude.com/2011/05/01/loving-the-rain/

Originally posted May 1 2011:  The ivy on my patio has been loving the rain of the last couple of weeks.  So have I!  For me there is no greater pleasure than a rainy day with a window open so I can hear the rain, then sitting down close by with a good book and spending the hours richly soaking up the minutes.  I absorb more from what is printed on each page and the mental images the writer’s words put in my mind are more vivid and alive than when reading on a sunny day. 

I really do love the rain and the misty, overcast days when the hours are drizzled away.  I feel safer on such days as even the robbers and burglars are not as likely to be active on a day when it is raining.  There is such comfort for me from the constant drizzle and ocassional thunder. I feel closer to life, softer inside and memories flow easier for me with a sweeter taste on such a day. 

 I believe my thoughts and feelings are  rooted in my childhood and being on my grandparent’s front porch in the rural south on damp, wet days.  When a couch became too worn for the inside, it became a fixture on the front porch until the outside exposure did it in.  Usually about the time a new couch appeared inside and another old one was ready for the porch.  There on the couch and and under a quilt or two I borrowed from inside the house I sat, watched, sometimes read and often took a nap.  The porch was one of these BIG Southern front porches long and wide enough that the rain rarely reached anywhere near me on the couch.  Watching a good thunderstorm from that vantage point was extra special!  I always felt safe.  I never thought much about the fact that sometimes the dogs slept on the couch too.  I don’t remember ever getting fleas! 

My top of mind gratitude this Sunday morning is for the rain… the beautiful showery drizzle that I enjoy beyond my ability to express it.  Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s loving description of the rain is far better than any I could ever write:

How beautiful is the rain!
After the dust and heat,
In the broad and fiery street,
In the narrow lane,
How beautiful is the rain!
How it clatters along the roofs
Like the tramp of hoofs!
How it gushes and struggles out
From the throat of the overflowing spout!
Across the window-pane
It pours and pours;
And swift and wide,
With a muddy tide,
Like a river down the gutter roars
The rain, the welcome rain!

There are only two ways to live your life.
One is as though nothing is a miracle.
The other is as if everything is. 
Albert Einstein

Ode to Business Travel

/ James Browning / 2 Comments

Being away from home for business can sometimes give me a perspective I don’t have day-to-day.  On ocassion after traveling, walking into my home can cause me really notice what I am seeing.  The smell particular to my home greets me as I enter and the belongings I walk by daily have newly–noticed individual dimensions beyond what most often just fades into the landscape.    

A photo on the wall reminds me of my son at age eight.  My trophy from a junior high regional science fair begs attention and I see how well it is holding up in spite of it being over 40 years since I received it.    

My piano is too large for me to miss seeing every day and yet at a moment of reawakening and recognition I am reminded how beautiful it is.  Looking closer I see the rich walnut grain, a glint of light on the shiny strings and re-gilded harp.  Even the imperfections of a few small scratches on the piano bench lend personality.  

It seems an inch or two further above the floor has been added to the height of my bed.  Maybe it recovered from supporting my weight night after night and actually grew a little taller while I was gone.  Touching it with my left hand as I heft my suitcase up on the bed, I am reminded how comfortable a place it is to be.  Thankfulness creeps in for the spot where I spent a third of my life. 

Unpacked and with laundry going I sit down to decompress. 

The trip was long and tiring.
Successful as business goes.
Assignments are done,
Battles are won.
Decisions have been spun.
Hires and fires are complete.
The strategy is on the street.

I sit down
To look around
For a moment.
To let the stress vent,
To shake off where I went,
To regain some of the energy spent,
And delight in being home.
 
No television or radio
No announcements overhead.
No noise of people going by.
No loud next room couple in bed.
No streets too crowded.
No sound of walking feet.
No street performers.
No rhythm, noise or beat.
No cabs to flag down.
No subway to take in town.
No shuttles to ride around.
No fake smiles.
No frequent flyer miles.
No people to tip or pay.
No queue to get through.
No security to do.
No stuff to be scanned.
No pat down’s by hand.
No shoes to quickly forsake.
No laptop removal to make.
No suitcases to break.
No wake up calls to take.
No worry of being late.
No weirdo’s and flakes.
No hands to shake.
No contacts needing to be made.
No dragons to be slayed.
No upgrades to sweat.
No flights to be met.
No trade secrets to spill.
No eating out every meal.
No staying up later than I prefer.
No people with whom I must confer.
No…
No…

NO MORE!
I’m home.
There is the quiet. 
Finally…
 

It is a great comfort to arrive home after the trials and tribulations of business travel.  Being wrapped in familiar surroundings and feeling the “hug” of the safety of my domain comforts me.  I a very grateful for the “rabbit hole” I call home.

It’s a dangerous business… going out your front door.  You step onto the road, and if you don’t keep your feet, there’s no knowing where you might be swept off to.  J. R. R. Tolkien

Home, Sweet Home

/ James Browning / 3 Comments

Growing up I heard the phrase “home, sweet home”, but it did not fit what I was experiencing.  I never felt much “sweet” where I lived during a difficult childhood. Only as an adult have I been able to realize the tranquility and safety that was possible in one’s own place.  That is why today “home” is my favorite place to be.  

Some of my early “home, sweet homes” were humble, but cool.  My first place I could afford to live without roommates was a little cottage in Manitou Springs, Colorado.  It sat up on the west side of a hill with parking way down below.  To reach the hillside cottage I had to use a footbridge across a small stream and then use a bunch of stairs to get up the hill.  Bringing home groceries and getting them to my place was good exercise!  This place was tiny, but it was mine; MY home.  I loved living there. 

Some friends who moved away owned an old Victorian house and rented it to me.  It had lots of faults including an upstairs bathroom that did not work.  Not a big deal until you realize the bedrooms were upstairs and the only working bathroom was downstairs way in the back by the kitchen.  The place needed a lot of work but it was my home.  I felt safe and protected there. 

Another residence vivid in memory is the home I shared with my new wife in huge high-rise in the middle of a big city. For a kid from the country, this was a fascinating experience.  My work was in the same building.  The bottom two floors contained a shopping mall that included a two screen theatre, a grocery store, a drug store and a food court.  Even my doctor and dentist were in the building.  Once I did not leave the building for ten days!  My home there was a cherished adventure. 

Since those times in my early 20’s, I have lived in over a dozen different homes in five states and one foreign country with each being my unique protected safe sanctuary from the world.  

Wikipedia defines a home as:  a place of residence or refuge.  It is usually a place in which an individual or a family can rest and store personal property.  That’s a bit “encyclopedia-ish” for my taste.    

  • Home is a place of safety from the elements and the outside world.  
  • Home is where I share life and my truest self with people I care most about.  
  • Home is where belongings collected from many points and times remind me of the wonderful life I am having. 
  • Home is a place of serenity even when once upon a time there was the noise of a child nearby. 
  • Home is the one place I don’t care if my hair is sticking up and fashion is my ratty, comfy clothes. 
  • Home is the place where I have done the most manual labor of my life as I worked on up-keep and to make each house uniquely a home.    
  • Home is where I really do live.  Here and there you will find shoes in the corner, blankets and pillows stacked by the fireplace, books and magazines strewn about, stacks of papers and magazines, my briefcase on the kitchen table, etc.   
  • Home is where I often lose coffee cups temporarily and later find them with interesting science experiments growing inside.
  • Home is where I have at least one or two “junk drawers” filled with things I just may need sometime. 
  • Home is where the books I love and the music I adore are.
  • Home is where many of my favorite smells can be found.  I love candles and incense of all sorts.  As I go room to room the scent landscape changes.
  • Home is where I can cook without regard for what others think of my cooking. 
  • Home is where I love to take Sunday afternoon naps with the windows open while it rains buckets outside. 
  • Home is slowing down.  Sitting down.  Lying down. 
  • Home is where I greet the morning, and where I bid another day good night.
  • Home is imperfection unlike the gorgeous houses in glossy magazines.  My home has never been and will never look perfect like that.  My home is “perfect” for me in its uniqueness and how it is an extension of who I am.  

There is no place on Earth I would rather be than at home.  I am extraordinarily blessed to live as I do so comfortably.  My gratitude for my home exceeds the words I can find to express it. 

A house is made of walls and beams
 a home is built with love and dreams. 
Unknown

Carlos Santana: Sound of Collective Consciousness Tour

/ James Browning / 1 Comment

A painter paints pictures on canvas.  But musicians paint their pictures on silence. 
Leopold Stokowski 

Music has been a deep love as long as I can remember.  Both my parents were big music fans.  The radio was on at home and in the car almost all the time.  Clear in memory is a concert program my parents got at Hank Williams, Sr. show when I was a baby that was around the house for years.  Vividly I recall the records Mom and Dad played over and over.  I remember the first record I ever owned and because of it since five years old I’ve been able to recite the lyrics of “The Ballad of Day Crockett”. 

Born on a mountain top in Tennessee
The greenest state in the land of the free….

OK, I won’t go on, but I know every single word.  My guess is there is at least one song from your early childhood that is just as deeply embedded in your psyche.  

By the time I was eighteen several thousand songs were logged deep in my memory and the profession I choose was related to music.  For over forty years I have had the honor of being a part of great radio stations that play music all day long.  

I can’t imagine life without music.  In my home there is only one television, but there is something that makes music in every room including the bathroom!  My life has had a constant soundtrack of my own making.  What I am listening to at any given point is either a reflection of where I am mentally and spiritually or else where I would like to be. 

Often I go to concerts and have been to hundreds.  Last evening a show was attended that made left me feeling extraordinary.  It began with an opening act I had never heard of:  Michael Franti and Spearhead, a band that blends hip hop with a variety of other styles including funk, reggae, folk and rock.  The music was good but the message was even better.  Every song was upbeat with a positive message. 

Michael spent half of their set dancing, singing and playing guitar down on the floor with the audience.  I have never seen anything like it. There have been shows I’ve seen where a band member went down on the floor for a song or two, but never for song after song like as he did.  For their last song a randomly selected group of about 30 people ranging in age from 8 to 87 years old were on dancing on stage with the band.  Anyone watching was smiling almost as big as those on stage were.  

Berthold wrote “Music washes away from the soul the dust of everyday life” and that is what the main act then did for me.  Carlos Santana and his band build upon the vibe of the opening act and made it match the name of their current tour:   “Sound of Collective Consciousness Tour”. 

At sixty-four years old, Carlos is playing guitar as well or better than he ever has.  He makes doing it look effortless.  His backup band was incredibly talented and very well rehearsed.  It was obvious everyone on stage was having a great time as were most people in an audience that ranged from little kids to great, great grandmas.  

As good as the music was the message was even better.  Twice Carlos talked about world problems and how much more love of our fellow-man was needed. 

Santana has given a lot of credit for his success to his spiritual beliefs.  His message is about love, beauty, grace, purity and peace.  There is hope in his music as we are urged to love deeply and for humanity to show its best side. All during the show he backed these points up in rhythm and beat that left it impossible for me to be still.  There are some traditional religions that take exception with some of Carlos’s beliefs, but even they must admit he is sincere and practices what he preaches.  

A highlight was attending the show with a relatively new, but dear friend.  Santana’s music has special meaning for her.  It was at one of Carlos’s shows on his adopted home turf of Northern California where she essentially reclaimed her life and started rebuilding it.  Getting to revisit a personal spiritual renewal with someone is a special experience.  

Carlos Santana, thank you for a wonderful show.  My life is richer because of your music and the message you spread in the world.  I hope you are still playing guitar at ninety! 

When through life unblest we rove,
Losing all that made life dear,
Should some notes we used to love,
In days of boyhood, meet our ear,
Oh! how welcome breathes the strain!
Wakening thoughts that long have slept,
Kindling former smiles again
In faded eyes that long have wept.
Thomas Moore

Seeing Past Myself on a Beautiful Morning

/ James Browning / 1 Comment

What a beautiful morning, one like we have not seen here in a long time.  When I woke I was excited to walk outside on my patio and feel the cool air, something Oklahoma has not known since last May when the recycled blog post below was originally written.  How wonderful the temperature feels and knowing the high is only around eighty degrees just adds to my joy this morning.  How immensely grateful I am to have relief from the 60 days or so of 100+ temperatures this year (normal is 11 days!).

It is a holiday morning.  Happy Labor Day.  And in the spirit of not extending too much labor here today, I am including a “reprint” of an early Good Morning Gratitude blog and taking the morning off for a convertible ride in the country.  Enjoy every hour of today!  I will with great gratitude!  

__________________________________________________

Originally posted on May, 25, 2011 
 https://goodmorninggratitude.com/2011/05/25/seeing-beyond-just-looking/

I have no certainty where exactly I got the idea.  It may have been from something I read or several things I came across blended together.  It may have even been a spontaneous realization.  But in the last 10 years I have learned to “see beyond just looking”.  I can’t do it all the time.  Actually that is probably impossible for a human being.  If I could I suspect I’d end up over dosed in goodness like Woody Allen was with the “orb” in the movie Sleeper.  Seeing beyond looking does happen for me frequently and the more I intentionally try the more frequent the activity comes without thought or effort.

My discovery was I mostly only acknowledged what came into view.  I would mostly just walked without really noting  what was right before me.  Mine was a bad habit of hardly ever really “truly seeing” much of anything.  My mind seemed to always be racing forward thinking about where I was going, what I had to do and what issues I needed to deal with.  Or else, I was looking backwards trying to solve some past emotional riddle or find some meaning in an episode of life I wanted an explanation for.

What I began to do, inconsistently at first, was to just stop and really take in visually what I was looking at.  There was amazement the first intentional time I took 30 seconds to study a beautiful tulip, to see its unique form and texture and to take in its vibrant red color.  I was stunned to look and see so much always detail missed before.  It was during the early times of intentionally having these experiences when I noticed how beautifully blue the sky really is (which is still one of my favorites to marvel at).

How touched I became when I locked my vision on an elderly couple watching the man help the fragile woman out of the car and attending to her to get into a restaurant.  Eating at the same place as they were I watched the smiles they exchanged while eating and from a distance the conversation they were having.  I saw a couple deeply in love just moving in slow motion;  true romance at half speed.  Without looking closely I would have dismissed them mentally as “old people” and hardly noticed them at all.

I found delight in watching a toddler in a park giggling wildly while chasing a grasshopper like it was the greatest find of the year.  Truly sitting and watching birds through a window enjoy a feast of crumbled bread I put out for them on top of a big snow allowed me to notice the quirky uniqueness of each breed and what appeared to be joy in the abundance they had found.  And then there is nature!  A walk in the woods or a park became a sensory banquet.

When was the last time you sat and watched a sunset or sunrise?  When was the last time you actually “saw” a person instead of just looking at them.  How long since you gazed in a mirror and actually saw yourself instead of just acknowledging your reflection?  How long has it been since you focused on something to the point to where you found sheer delight in what you were looking at?  For me I am glad to say “no long ago”.   I am grateful to have stumbled across this activity and to have cultivated the habit.  As time passes with consistent effort I find I am able to more truly see with greater depth and frequency.  If life is a feast, then this is the seasoning for the meal.

Taken from “Seeing Past Myself” – Don Iannone

Sometimes I have trouble
Seeing past myself
Blindsided by who I think I am
…oblivious
To the vast world of possibilities…
I clean my glasses twice a day
Unfortunately it’s to see what I want to see
And not beyond that
I guess I’m no different –
Than you, or anyone else.
My self-image directs my eyes.
There’s a solution you know
It’s not as hard as we think
Open our hearts to unknown possibilities
Accept that our version of reality
Is but one of many out there.

The real voyage of discovery consists of not in seeking new landscapes but in having new eyes.  Marcel Proust 


Elizabeth Barrett Browning and Other Poetry I Love

/ James Browning / 1 Comment

A love of poetry seems to be a rare thing today.  If I mention enjoying a particular poem to someone, almost always that person will tell me they love poetry too.  When I ask what their favorite poem or poet is ninety five out of a hundred can not name either.  So I am doing my part in keeping poetry alive by all the books of poems I have collected which are frequently picked up.  There is always joy to find within those old volumes many beautiful words expressed from the heart.  The best poems for my taster are lyrical in nature with relatively even lines and balanced rhyming words, although there are exceptions like the Apache poem below.

My favorite poet is Elizabeth Barrett Browning. There is something unique and extraordinary about how her words touch me and stir the heart.  I hope you find meaning in the work of  Mrs. Browning and a few other favorites I have put here to share. 

How Do I Love Thee?”  By Elizabeth Barrett Browning 1806-1861

How do I love thee?  Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of every day’s
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight,
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with passion put to use
In my old grief’s, and with my childhood’s faith.
I love thee with a love I seem to lose
With my lost saints, I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life!  And, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death. 

 If  Thou Must love Me” by Elizabeth Barrett Browning 1806-1861

If thou must love me, let it be for nought
Except for love’s sake only.  Do not say
I love her for her smile, her look, her way
Of speaking gently, for a trick of thought
That falls in well with mine, and certes brought
A sense of pleasant ease on such a day,
For these things in themselves, Beloved, may
Be changed, or change for thee, and love, so wrought.
May be unwrought so.  Neither love me for
Thine own dear pity’s wiping my cheeks dry,
A creature might forget to weep who bore
Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby.
But love me for love’s sake, that evermore
Thou may’st love on, through love’s eternity.

“The Years” by Sara Teasdale 1884 – 1933

Tonight I close my eyes and see
A strange procession passing me.
The years before I saw you face
Go by me with wishful grace.
They pass, the sensitive shy years,
As one who strives to dance, half blind with tears.
The years went by and never knew
That each one brought me nearer to you.
Their path was narrow and apart
And yet it led me to your heart.
Oh sensitive shy years, oh lonely years,
That strove to sing with voices drowned in tears

“A White Rose” by John Boyle O-Reilly 1844 – 1890

The red rose whispers of passion,
And the white rose breathes of love;
Oh, the red rose is a falcon,
And the white rose is a dove.
But I send you a cream-white rosebud,
With a flush on its petal tips;
For the love that is purest and sweetest
Has a kiss of desire on the lips.

From “Sudden Light” by Dante Gabriel Rossetti 1828-1882

I have been here before
But when or how I can not tell.
You have been mine before
How long ago I may not know.

“To My Dear and Loving Husband” by Anne Bradstreet 1612-1672

If ever two were one then surely we.
If ever man were lov’d by wife, then thee.
If ever wife were happy in a man,
Compare with me, ye women, if you can.
I prize thy love more than whole mines of gold
Of all the riches that the East doth hold.
My love is such that rivers cannot quench,
Nor aught but love from thee give recompense.
Thy love is such I can no way repay.
The heavens reward thee manifold, I pray.
Then while we live, in love let’s so persevere
That when we live not more, we may live ever. 

From “Shall I Compare Thee” by William Shakespeare 1564 – 1616

So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. 

‘Wedding  Prayer” – Tradition Apache Prayer date unknown

Now you will feel no rain,
For each of you will be shelter to the other.
Now each of you will feel no cold,
For each of you will be warmth to the other.
Now there is no more loneliness,
For each of you will be companion to the other.
Now you are two bodies,
But there is only one life before you.
Go now to your dwelling place,
To enter into the days of your togetherness
And may your days be good and long upon the Earth.

My heart swells with gratitude and feelings as I read these poems again.  I have read them so many times each has have become a dear old friend.  The newest of the poetry here is almost a hundred years old and yet the words can reach across the years from the writer if one is receptive to the poet’s message.  I am grateful for the beauty in word these writers left as their legacy for me to discover and enjoy…. very grateful!

Memphis: Elvis, the Blues and BBQ

/ James Browning / 1 Comment

As I sit here this morning in a hotel suite in Memphis, I can hear my friend Sam showering in a bathroom down the hall.  Our accommodations are very comfortable with two bedrooms, 2 bathrooms, living room, full kitchen, three TV’s contained in about 900 square feet.  My first reaction to the self quandary this morning of “what am I am thankful for today” is my gratefulness for the resources to be able to travel and do so comfortably.  My life is rich with advantages and blessings, so much so it is impossible to be grateful for everything all at once because there is so much.     

Soon I need to go take a shower so we can get out of the hotel and go make photographs which is our main objective for today. Memphis is abundant with subject matter to capture an image of.  I look forward to being out today in spite of the sweaty mess I know I will become in the heat and humidity.  Interesting how discomforts don’t bother one much while having a good time.  

Yesterday Sam arranged for us to have a private guided tour of Graceland which I enjoyed far beyond what I could have anticipated.  What a great experience it was to have Alicia from the Public Relations office take two hours to show us around.  Thanks Sam for your great connections!  Thanks Alicia for your warmth, kindness and knowledge. 

The home Elvis Presley lived in was certainly not inexpensive, but at the same time was not as showy and large as many might think.  I was able to get a much different sense of the man behind the legend which actually made Elvis more appealing to me.  He had eclectic taste and a unique sense of artfulness.  

What I remember most this morning about Elvis’s home:  the custom made 15 foot couch and 10 foot coffee table in the living room where he received and entertained people, the media/entertainment room whose 70’s décor looks interestingly contemporary in a retro sense and the kitchen which seemed to have an easily sensed positive vibe about it.  I came away with a tinge of sadness in knowing Elvis never really got to live his own life.  Instead he lived mostly the one his handlers and admirers created for him. Graceland was where he hid away from the prison of fame, a least a little bit.  I believe Elvis did most of his laughing at Graceland and the majority of his happiest moments were there.    

Yesterday morning before spending time at Graceland, Sam and I spent time at the Stax Experience which celebrates the 1960’s days of Stax Studios and artists like Aretha Franklin, Otis Redding, Issac Hayes, Rufus Thomas, Booker T. and the MG’s, Sam and Dave and many more.  Those artists were at their peak during my formative years and seeing all the memorabilia was indeed a journey down memory lane.  

In the afternoon we took in the Sun Studio tour.  What is amazing to me is the studio is still intact today pretty much as it was in the 1950’s when Elvis, Johnny Cash, Jerry Lewis, Carl Perkins and Roy Orbison recorded there.  I expected it to give me a sort of eerie feeling and instead got a very positive sense that a lot of fun had been had there by a lot of people.  Even today for $100 per hour with a two hour minimum anyone can hire Sun Studio and record in the same room so many greats played and sang in.  Makes me want to go home and practice!

Last night Sam and I took a journey to Beale Street which was “a trip” as we called wild and interesting times “in the day”.  Lots of police to keep everyone safe in an atmosphere you’d expect to find around Mardi Gras in New Orleans.  The main different being inMemphisthe music that wafts out the doors of the bars and into the streets is blues, not jazz.  Those visiting are from all over the world and I heard many different languages there on the avenue of neon signs called Beale Street.  Lots of fun, a great meal and some killer blues licks capped off a good day of wallowing in the heritage of music originating in this old, historical city. 

Memphis has its share of grime and grit.  There are lots of vacant store fronts and driving around it is obvious that some of the city is rundown and saw much better days in the past.  I sense a sort of sadness shaded contentment aboutMemphis.  Yet, there appears to be little bitterness about better economic times being behind the city.  Rather the poignant dash of bittersweet is what one would expect in a city that is the southern home of the blues.  Without a least a bit of despair, dejection and sadness there can be no blues. 

Memphis is a fascinating mix of the old and the new, smiling tourist faces and melancholy servers, modern architecture and near decrepit structures, and easily seen and apparent success and nearby states of varying destitution.  Without such points on the spectrum this big city could not produce its blues legacy.  

Today I am accurately aware of the sonorous blessing of being in Memphis this weekend.  To an even greater degree I am grateful to be sharing it with an old friend I have known for more than two decades.  It is hanging out with Sam that adds such broad strokes of color and remembrance to the experiences we are having. 

Whatever we have reverence for boldly tells of our truest nature.  Rick Yates