From a Poet

  February 13th, 2015 Aiako Harria yesterday, first time this year; overtaken by the beauty.  It is at about this time along the hillsides and in the thickets that the brown of the end of winter starts mixing with the green of the beginning of spring. But an outing like this, though refreshing, can do nothing for the interior state of mind when one is tired and helpless; it only offers a slight reprieve, but we are back again, missing it: the sights, the sounds, the smell of the forest--somehow it only adds to the misfortune.  It is difficult to wander along the thin trails because we have built up a reason and an inspiration for our coming; there is a goal, a new plant to find; something to be attained, a new path to take.  All the expectation dies with each step, and yet it is still beautiful, still appealing, still the key to some secret meaning we have created for ourselves; and when we stop and look at it all, we realize we are merely the sum of our attainments, the sum that keeps

February 6th, 2015 Snow today; a flock of cranes returning north.  It is mysterious the way things are set in motion.  There is plenty in our imagination to dream about, but none of it determines an actual course, and when we begin to look upon it as such, we are amazed already at what has sprouted up.  We think we know what the weather will be like tomorrow, what time we have to be at a certain place, what we need to have, what we need to do--in all of these things imagination plays a part and we are left with silly looks on our faces the moment we realize that we hold not the key, that we have not the meaning, that everything happens, not with our acknowledgement, but without it.  We live our lives centered around the fact that we know, scared of unknowing, and creating reasons to support our theory.  It is of course not the idea of imagining that is wrong, but of getting stuck in one dimension of it.  We are too malleable as people to hold such strict views.  Even the cranes, on one

  January 31st, 2015 Sometimes we impose our will so heavily upon something we wish to happen, that we easily forget, and even prefer not to know, what we have set out for.  It is only by some stroke of luck that we find the original idea in the overcrowded world of our own inflated personality and turn to it again, as if it were the triumph of superior intelligence.  It is like walking up the side of a mountain only to arrive at the top and declare that a mountain was never there to be climbed, but that our climbing defined it.  Everything is glorious in hindsight and serves the ego to desire more and keep capturing, while in the mean time we are merely pushing at things that we have forgotten the meaning to.  This is not to say that our lives should be planned out before every step, but does insist that the planning is always renewed or recreated by something we have not yet perceived, and possibly will never perceive, and so leaves us to creating our own small endeavors for comfort