on Wednesday, December 1, 2010

"Maturity is this: recognition of responsibilities, acceptance of weaknesses, acknowledgement of decisions, thankfulness for blessings." ~Gudrid Thorbjarnardottir

I am all grown up, and yet...the child in me still wants to shirk my responsibilities, laugh at my weaknesses, escape from my decisions..and be blantantly ungrateful... :)


on Thursday, November 4, 2010

When the heart is cut or cracked or broken,
Do not clutch it,
Let the wound lie open.
Let the wind
From the good old sea blow in
To bathe the wound with salt,
And let it sting.
Let a stray dog lick it.
Let a bird lean in the hole and sing
A simple song like a tiny bell,
And let it ring.

.. Michael Leunig


on Thursday, October 28, 2010

Return to numbness.
Sleep silent cottoned in black
Without light or pain or petal.
It is the winter of your dreams;
be warm in earth that hides you
And hides the world from you.
Return to numbness
And cease the climb on broken limbs
Toward futile suns.
Do not feel the starkness of your bones
Nor barrenness of sap.
Ignorant of spring pollen,

rest under decay;
Purple sweetness a tale nestled in the buds of yesterday.
And perhaps, perhaps tomorrow.
Lying deaf to prophecy think on nothing~
Julia Zed 2010


I hate pruning my roses. I feel as though I'm being cruel, cutting off anything beautiful and leaving only bare thorny branches. They look so pitiful without their sprays of leaves and flowers. But it must be done; in fact I'm doing them a favour. After only a few weeks of ugliness, they begin to sprout all kinds of greenery, and before I know it there are already buds fattening and promising me hours of delight for my senses. I'm waiting for my favourite plant, the belle of them all, to sprout her first bud. She produces a deep burgundy blossom so fragrant that it makes me dizzy. I pruned her hardest of all.

When I think roses...this poem invariably pops into mind. I think it's depth, beauty and pathos are hard to match...

O Rose thou art sick.
The invisible worm,
That flies in the night
In the howling storm:

Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy:
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.

The Sick Rose is a poem by William Blake. The first publication was in 1794, when it was included in his collection titled Songs of Experience as the 39th plate. The incipit of the poem is O Rose thou art sick. Blake composed the page sometime after 1789, and presents it with the illuminated border and illustrations that were typical of his self publications. (From Wikipedia)


on Friday, September 3, 2010

I borrowed this from Douglas Hofstadter's column Metamagical Themas...made me smile.

I am the thought you are thinking.
I am the meaning of this sentence.
I am thinking about myself right now.
I am the set of neural firings taking place in your brain as you read the set of letters in this sentence and think about me.
This inert sentence is my body, but my soul is alive, dancing in the sparks of your brain.
You are under my control because I am chosing exactly what words you are made out of, and in what order.
No you are under my control because you will read until you have reached the end of me.


on Friday, June 18, 2010

Where is truth?
Does it hide shyly in lines of verse,
Or pose as laughter in fitful peeking?
Can it be found in us at all;
Uncertain emblems of decency we?
Is it wound tenderly in embroidered braids,
Seen by all but not understood?
Elusive beauty, veiled in the willow fronds of lies,
Still and deep, untested how will your depth be known?
If we seek you, will we find you,
Or just the shadow of your presence in the back of minds?
Mother of hope and daughter of love,
Leave traces for the seekers in secret places.
Linger on the lips of the ones who love your grace.

Julia Zed 2010


on Wednesday, May 19, 2010

Interesting patterns are everywhere. If I only slow down and open my eyes a little I see them. In people too. The way colours complement each other and blend to make harmony pleases my eye and somehow gives me the feeling that all is right in the universe.

It takes a while sometimes to make sense of the pictures I see. Things are often not what they seem at first glance. Something that appears to be molten metal turns out to be water on glass that the winter cold has frozen. I wont tell you how many pictures I ended up taking of ice patterns on that beautiful winter's day..but I sure didn't notice the cold.


on Wednesday, May 12, 2010

I recently took time away from a busy schedule and was on my own for a number of weeks. Something happened that hadn't really had a chance while I was embroiled in the day-to-day of my time-tabled living...I reflected. I enjoyed the experience so much, that I have decided to do it regularly, in between the rest of everything even though I am back being embroiled.

Reflecting seems like it should be peaceful and quiet and meditative, and it was those things but it left me energized and refreshed. Maybe it is obvious, but taking time out to just mull over whatever has been going on in the mind while we've been preoccupied with responsibilities does a good job of clearing the brain-cobwebs.

This photo was taken in a mall in Dresden, Germany. I left my cousin to the shopping and my camera and I spent some time...reflecting.


on Sunday, May 9, 2010

My heart is mooching around the house in a grey cardigan.

I seem to have misplaced a lot of the things that make it colourful. Things that make it skip. I'd better go and clean the house out and see if I can find them again.

Actually one of the reasons I came in here was because I thought I had something on my mind to say...however, now that I'm typing all I really have is a feeling which I can't put into words. That is a serious limitation since I don't really have anything other than words to work with here.

I never have liked cardigans...and grey isn't my colour. Perhaps that's what I needed to myself. :)