If dogs were our teachers we'd learn to:
Today - poetry by Megan, photograph by Shirlene.
- Be loyal
- Run, romp, and play daily
- Take naps. Stretch before rising
- Avoid biting when a simple growl will do
- Never pass up an opportunity to go for a joyride
- When it's in your best interest, practice obedience
- Let others know when they've invaded your territory
- When loved ones come home, always run to greet them
- On warm days, stop to lie on your back on the grass
- On hot days, drink lots of water and lie under a shady tree
- When you're happy, dance around and wag your entire body
- Allow the experience of fresh air and the wind in your face to be pure ecstasy
- No matter how often you're scolded, don't buy into the guilt thing and pout... run right back and make friends
- Delight in the simple joy of a long walk
- Eat with gusto and enthusiasm. Stop when you've had enough
- Never pretend to be something you're not
- If what you want lies buried, dig until you find it
- When someone is having a bad day, be silent, sit close by and nuzzle them gently
Today - poetry by Megan, photograph by Shirlene.
Poetry by Megan. Photograph by Shirlene.
Photograph by Shirlene Writing by Megan
Stones
In my hand, I held one of the stones I had collected at the beach. Its surface ground silky smooth by thousands of surging tides. It's the perfect size for me to grasp comfortably. As I hold it, the stone grows warm from my body heat, like a lover responding to my touch.
I'm not a geologist. I don't know what this stone is made of, or any of the others for that matter, but I adore its satiny roundness.
Another of the stones is shaped like a woman's breast, an older, sagging, slightly tilted breast. The nipple is a shade of deep purple and there is a bruise coloured patch near the base, but it's still mutely beautiful. Most of the sea stones are female in form, rounded and self-contained.
On the other hand, the stones that I collect from the roadside on my walks are usually male: rougher, angular, sometimes with interesting protrusions. They could be described more accurately as rocks. Their colours proclaim their inland heritage.
Every time I walk anywhere, I promise myself that this time I won't pick up any more of them, but every time, like an addict, I come home with heavy pockets filled with my guilty obsession. I can no more stop collecting them than I can stop breathing it seems. These are the bones of the earth. What was once its fiery heart-blood is now congealed into a hardness which is beyond the comprehension of my frail humanity, but not beyond my passion.
Stones
In my hand, I held one of the stones I had collected at the beach. Its surface ground silky smooth by thousands of surging tides. It's the perfect size for me to grasp comfortably. As I hold it, the stone grows warm from my body heat, like a lover responding to my touch.
I'm not a geologist. I don't know what this stone is made of, or any of the others for that matter, but I adore its satiny roundness.
Another of the stones is shaped like a woman's breast, an older, sagging, slightly tilted breast. The nipple is a shade of deep purple and there is a bruise coloured patch near the base, but it's still mutely beautiful. Most of the sea stones are female in form, rounded and self-contained.
On the other hand, the stones that I collect from the roadside on my walks are usually male: rougher, angular, sometimes with interesting protrusions. They could be described more accurately as rocks. Their colours proclaim their inland heritage.
Every time I walk anywhere, I promise myself that this time I won't pick up any more of them, but every time, like an addict, I come home with heavy pockets filled with my guilty obsession. I can no more stop collecting them than I can stop breathing it seems. These are the bones of the earth. What was once its fiery heart-blood is now congealed into a hardness which is beyond the comprehension of my frail humanity, but not beyond my passion.
Poetry by Megan Photograph by Shirlene
An old man was asked, "Which is the happiest season of life?"
"When spring comes, and in the soft air the buds are breaking on the trees, and they are covered with blossoms, I think, how beautiful is spring!
And when the summer comes, and covers the trees with its heavy foliage, and singing birds are among the branches, I think, how beautiful is summer!
When autumn loads them with golden fruit, and their leaves bear the gorgeous tint of frost, I think, how beautiful is autumn!
And when it is sere winter, and there is neither foliage nor fruit, then I look up through the leafless branches, as I never could until now, and see the stars shine"
(Attributed to the Stoic philosopher Seneca)
"When spring comes, and in the soft air the buds are breaking on the trees, and they are covered with blossoms, I think, how beautiful is spring!
And when the summer comes, and covers the trees with its heavy foliage, and singing birds are among the branches, I think, how beautiful is summer!
When autumn loads them with golden fruit, and their leaves bear the gorgeous tint of frost, I think, how beautiful is autumn!
And when it is sere winter, and there is neither foliage nor fruit, then I look up through the leafless branches, as I never could until now, and see the stars shine"
(Attributed to the Stoic philosopher Seneca)