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Praying Mantis (and pausing to make offering)
This morning as I approached my office, I noticed in the middle of a wide patch of sidewalk that is flanked by the street on one side and a brick building on the other, with no tree boxes or other plantings for several yards in any direction, a praying mantis stranded in the middle. I wondered how it had gotten there and worried that it would not survive if it was just stuck in a sea of concrete.
I crouched and put out my finger. The praying mantis crawled on to my hand. I did not have time to go all the way back to the park next to the Capitol or to the nearest “island” with trees, but I took it to the nearest tree box, certain that there would be enough mosquitoes for it to eat well. When I placed my hand next to the bush in the tree box and helped the praying mantis move onto the greenery, it first came back onto my hand again. So I talked to it (as if it understood English) and encouraged it to get onto a branch (yes, I was getting some strange looks from passers by at this point). I watched as the praying mantis eventually turned around and started moving into the denser foliage.
With this act, did I make anything in the world better except give myself the joy of interacting with a wonderful being? Does it matter?
- Art and Culture | Asana, Pranayama, and Yoga Practice | Community and Family | Dance/Contact Improvisation | Food for the Mind (Yoga Philosophy, etc) | Meditation | Photos
When Does Art Beget Art? Spirit Generate Spirit?
Who goes past oblivious and uncaring? Who goes past preoccupied? Who takes a brief glance and continues on? Who stops to watch? Who discusses and invites? Who makes a special pilgrimage? Who is inspired to create by the creative offering?
Photos from last week of Doug Aiken’s Song\1 at the Hirshhorn.
In Watermelon Sugar (Starting Each Day Anew)
I have in my library books in which just one phrase or just the very beginning is most resonant. It is this time of summer, when the light seems endless, and the heat just setting in as if on a permanent basis, that my thoughts turn to watermelon in food, and again in literature. I think of watermelon differently each summer from the perspective of having lived another year, and the same in having experienced the taste and the thoughts of the taste so many times before. When it comes the time of year when thoughts of watermelon spontaneously arise, I revisit these words:
“In watermelon sugar the deeds were done and done again as my life is done in watermelon sugar. I’ll tell you about it because I am here and you are distant. Wherever you are, we must do the best we can. It is so far to travel, and we have nothing here to travel, except watermelon sugar.” (R. Brautigan, In Watermelon Sugar).
Refreshed, I put the book back on the shelf, look forward to eating watermelon from the fresh farm market, and set the intention to start each day with open, receptive, and unjaundiced eyes, ready to learn and experience the same old things as glorious new ones, and to do the best I can.





