by Tim Girvin | Oct 30, 2005 | Writings
For a long time, I’ve believed in whispering. Sometimes, in anything, a whisper is far more powerful than a shout. Near silence is better than volume. For in that moment, susurrus — that murmuring in quietude — can be captivating. Perhaps...
by Tim Girvin | Sep 10, 2005 | Writings
This morning the wind comes textured with flavor from the hillocks and tumbled stones below, as the tide recedes in the darker hours; it’s wildly tinctured with seaweed and salted decay, a light scenting of grass and dust, dirt; and there, in the last tasting, a...
by Tim Girvin | Aug 28, 2005 | Writings
For 10 years, I’d watched him; there’s been a white and black plumed Kingfisher, living in front of me; living: loud and large. Literally: in front, the cackling, chattering calls usually beginning early, ending late. I’d see him on a branch, hanging...
by Tim Girvin | Aug 21, 2005 | Writings
I’m looking out to nothing, in the far hours before dawn. And I hear the huffing of three otters, swimming. I can see, by moonlight, their triangles of passage in the water rippling, in triad. Off there, hearing another: hooting in strokes of three. Hoo hoo hoo...
by Tim Girvin | Jul 2, 2005 | Writings
The slightest wind ruffles the waves, which whisper: where… are you, where — in your going? Where now, do you wander? Or are you merely drifting, yet standing still, in that watchful sentience: the Watcher, sensing the shadows now, the light… Which...
by Tim Girvin | May 28, 2005 | Writings
in memory, finding again those images, that open the heart, and holding these close, embraced in watch fullness. Standing clear, in sighting those threadings that suture our seeing, again and again: miracles alight. For those, focused — in attention and...
