A tiny snake, gartered -- came to my house and chose one thing. To be quiet and cool, in the corner slate, just inside the door next to the wanderer stone. tsg | decatur island

Just as I was leaving, I heard this high p i t c h e d sound, like the tiniest call, with a flutter w h i r r i n g that rustled to a kind of quiet that I almost missed it, that sound just as I was leaving. tsg | decatur island

It's in my path to find that way to explore that place, where light is regained anew, when I go out there, to find again that here, that is just some times forgotten and I reach to recall, call back, that harkening glimmer light, amidst the scintillant flicker that is each moment. tsg | the island

Creating personal rituals, altars and prayers. I do believe in this: making offerings. And in that, making place for that to happen. Making Place. For Offerings. What that might comprise, those offerings, is about the nature of what is offering, and what is prayer. Because most offerings do that -- they are a prayer. My experience in offering is deep and long running. Perhaps my first exposure to powerful offerings was in Tibet -- there, an offering is about prayer, meditation, and taking...

What sense, am I? I am, what -- sense? "Hornkostel cites a tribe that has a separate word for seeing, but employs a common term for hearing, tasting, smelling, and touching." [A.G. Engstrom, "Philological Quarterly," XXV, 1946] I wonder about that, the idea of what I sense -- wholly -- and how sensible I am. Sometimes I feel like the sense of things, my perception -- my grasp -- of what's happening around me is unclear, clouded. Smoke and mist. Then, other times, I'm overwhelmed by feeling(s),...

All night, there has been a running river of sound that flows beneath where I live out here. And in the morning, what of it, there is, a softening muffle, in sight, clings to the far shore, and slides in over the now quiet waters, the riverine murmur slows, and hangs there reminding me to be silent, and like the raven stone, resting out there fire in hand, attention. tsg | decatur island ----

Ancient wisdom recounted, savored and documented. Several years ago, I'd been traveling on AirFrance, and reviewed an article about the careful restoration of an extraordinary grouping of manuscripts. Beautiful. So beautiful, that back then, I'd added some of the pages to my journals. Timbuktu, Mali, is spectacularly remote: Located in the center of what one might define as nothingness -- still bounded by the grand curves of a major river, the Niger, a commerce portal, preserving its presence...

I think about words all the time. It's the crux of my thinking, where things cross. They bridge, they verge, they come back, they go forth. It's where the light of my mind is held, that holding place of idea and imagination. Light in the crux, split in the path: “Incandescent” came into the English language toward the end of the 18th century, at a time when scientific experiments involving heat and light were being conducted on an increasingly frequent basis. An object that glowed at a...

Hearing Her Last night, I was thinking about her. And being in her presence that silent cast that she arrayed. Down to me, standing quiet. Alone, all one, with her. Gazing up, thinking of her. Remote, that presents a perfect orb of pearl, in love, that I am, with her, formed in light. tsg | decatur island ----

the one, the many how foolish we are, to think that amidst that throng, we are one -- alone when, in that standing chorus, we are mere -- the one, of many, marvels -- they are, in plenty you i one in many. i'd stay by this render, that it's better to love all ways. tsg | the skagit valley, Fir Island ---- written 4 / 9 / 08