Tuesday, November 06, 2001

Virtues of Walking
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All truely great thoughts are conceived while walking.

- Friedrich Nietzsche

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Few people know how to take a walk.
The qualifications are endurance,plain clothes,
old shoes, an eye for nature, good humor, vast curiosity,
good speech, good silence and nothing too much.

- Ralph W Emerson


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It is impossible to walk rapidly and be unhappy.
- Mother Teresa

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Above all do not loose your desire to walk.
Everyday I walk myselfinto a state of well being and
walk away from every illness.




I have walked myself into my best thoughts
and I know of no thought so burdensome that one cannot walk away from it.

But by sitting still, and the more one sits still, the closer one comes to feeling ill...

if one keeps on walking everything will be alright.

- Soren Kierkegaard




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There is nothing like walking to get the feel of a country. A finelandscape is like a piece of music; it must be taken at the righttempo. Even a bicycle goes too fast.

- Paul S Mowrer


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I have two doctors, my left leg and my right.

- G M Trevelyan

***

From "Sacred Space" in ToI dt Oct 18 2005.

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Saturday, November 03, 2001

Extracts from Bill Aitken's writings


Riding the ranges- Travels on my motorcycle.

The next best thing to sex.

  • Motorbike riding, unlike many human activities is exactly, what it claims to be. It involves cocking one’s leg over the frame of a bicycle, but instead of gyrating the drive chain by the effort of calf muscles, your knees reassuringly cling to a petrol tank which fuels the operation.
  • Half way between a car and bicycle the motorbike continues to be something of a social hybrid. Perceived to be a poor man’s mode of locomotion, the image of the motorcyclist has always been slightly suspect in the eyes of the establishment and its undeniable potential to further individual waywardness has done little to mitigate society’s reservations about the machine.
  • The most common misconception about two wheelers is their supposedly dangerous status. This is a superstition of the kind that believes alcohol (an inert chemical) is evil. Obviously the evil arises when humans abuse the bottle. So, too does danger arise when the rider happens to be a dangerous driver. The motorbike is neutral and its performance depends entirely on the time and care invested in its maintenance by the owner.
  • Unlike a car where greater stability releases a mite of smugness at one’s progress, the two-wheel traveler is literally on his toes every second of the drive. At the end of a ride your arms ache and your buttocks feel like refrigerated meat. Don’t even think about your kidneys if you have forgotten to wrap a long cummerbund round to prevent your innards rattling. Sometimes your hands are like lumps of ice or, alternatively, your leg gets burned on the exhaust pipe. In the sun, the helmet saps your morale and in the rain your eyes feel like shrapnel is attacking them. Take the occasional toss when overtaking buses drive you into a ditch and, to dirt and grease of topsiding add mayhem and disgust.
  • But none of these gratuitous flips can outweigh the exhilaration and ecstasy of a well-tuned bike banking into a corner. With every fibre alive and pumping, you open up perfect chord, at one with the machine. The world moves and you are momentarily part of the cosmos, fully aware for eternity of that curve, of what life is all about and completely certain of its rightness. So the price you pay for exposure and discomfort on a motorbike is more than balanced by the poetry you discover and a sensation that sometimes feels like the next best thing to sex.
  • To stay alive demands full alertness and my motorbike rides around India have, above all, stimulated that rare faculty. The reason one wants to share the pleasure of those rides is to underline how easy it is for the ordinary Indian, in a country, which boasts the world’s highest population of two wheel vehicles, to get up and go discover his very own India, as marvelous as Pandit Nehru’s literary journey.
  • The first rule governing motorcycling ought to be obvious. Choose your bike to match your physique. In other words, be able to handle it so that the bile knows who’s master. Choosing a bike is a bit like getting married and I suspect more men stay with their bikes than with their wives these days. (Motoring by bike must be the only situation where bigamy arouses no censure).
  • I don’t treat my bike as anything but an equal partner on our expeditions. I depend entirely upon her and consider her feelings before taking on particularly rough terrain. I depend so much on my bike that I would not deny the charge of being fixated. The intense relationship you share with a bike after an excruciating challenge is a bonding experience. You sense the bike is sentient and appreciates your affection for her. After all, you couldn’t have done it without each other.
  • It is vital to note that while revelations come in the hush of a cave and scientific codes are cracked in a dream, penetrating thoughts are only admissible on long hauls on traffic free roads. For in-town riding, the quickest way to an accident would be to plunge into a reflective mood. It’s only when you are touring far from population centers that your autopilot switches on to let the mind range free. Your body remains alert and your eyes keep straying to the rear-view mirror but that laid-back entity, the mind, is undisturbed by your outer motions. It gazes like the Upanishadic bird on the overview of any problem, calm and presiding, an uncanny presence to have arisen from steady beat of a well-balanced ordinary-production bike.
  • Drinking and driving may not be an ideal combination, but certainly after a hard day’s drive, a nightcap of locally distilled spirits is of vital pick-me-up value. I remember returning from Kashmir after a day’s marathon run pulling up, stiff and shattered, outside a dhaba near Chandigarh. Painfully climbing off the bike I ordered tea and biscuits. But Sardarji, the proprietor, took one look at my condition and said scornfully, “ You don’t need chai-biskoot, you need rum-murgi”.
  • Intoxication, it should not be forgotten, is the object of life, to drink in the beauty of the land and its people. In spite of the obvious backwardness and grimly primitive living standards, India at heart, is perhaps the world’s richest country. If it seems a weird conclusion to reach, and defies all the accepted economic parameters, I can only contend that the world appears a much more joyous place when viewed from the saddle of a motorbike. Seeing the great ranges in profile I was immeasurably enriched. For a small investment I received manifold returns. If some risk was demanded, this was acceptable. After all, risk is God’s choicest gift to two wheelers.

  • 99% of mountaineering narratives lie when they make out their expeditions were performed in a haze of euphoric enjoyment. They know this is what the untried public wants to hear. After all, the topping out on Everest is supposed to be manly and noble. But most of the time life above 10,000 ft is sheer misery. The glory of being in the high Himalaya is an exalted myth.

  • Relaxation is one of life's choisest gifts but u can only experience its plentitude after an exciting stretch of tension

  • The most valuable lessons are to be extracted from the toughest situations. My quest was to sample the elements and, all too often, an easy outing strengthens the illusion that man's creative urge will enable him to subdue the apparently inert opposition of supposedly blind nature.

  • My findings went counter to the projection of the political school with their bright predictions of ultimate planetary harmony. How does one convince people in an age of Hindu revivalism that Indian civillization, for example, owes one percent to the philosophy of Shanakaracharya and 99 percent to the accident of the monsoon?

  • When soaring free in the hills the rider realizes how chained we are to the illusions of our lesser selves. To get astride a powered steed is to overcome mankind’s worst affliction, a sense of inadequacy that gives rise to popular need for netas, saviours and lotteries. Our miseries are self- induced, our free-ranging minds bartered for an urban conformity that encourages us to believe rather than think, and follow rather than discover for ourselves

  • We need to travel slowly, not because rushing is bad for the health but because contentment only comes from a mood of introspection. The excitement of fast riding is real because we are aware that death is a fraction away but it is the fullness of life that meaningful motion seeks. Sometimes while riding the great ranges of India I have had to clutch my heart at the blinding wonder and felt a ripple of bliss at the orgy of beauty suddenly revealed.

  • Life is a cyclical process and you can spot the youthfulness of Himalayan granite in the cragginess of the spires just as you can sense the hoariness of the peninsular shield in its compacted layers of granite, a mere 2000 million years older! The crest of Sahyadri once lay where the Laccadive corals stand, the truth of geology mocking both the cant of religion and the claptrap of politics. I rode to exult in the raw beauty of these inspiring indicators of the earth’s molten matrix.

  • Human beings need inspiration almost as desperately as respiration and simply to be on the mountain road on a bike is to trigger felicity. We lift our eyes to the great ranges because their help is immediate. They dispel the disillusionment that attaches to the bittersweet taste of worldly success, so soon to turn sour. The ranges beckon because they help answer the human longing to discover meaning in the fragmentation all around us. Their steadfastness is sufficient to echo a witnessing spirit that reminds us of primary loyalty to the underlying flame within.

  • A good trek is not measured just by the physical coordinates of the cool heights attained and scenic ridges traversed. Perhaps more crucial is the inner satisfaction that derives from walking with companions who stay agreeable under testing conditions and whose sympathies remain as a warm afterglow.

The Nanda Devi Affair - Bill Aitken

It is only when you top sixty and find your knees beginning to protest
against the gradient that you begin to appreciate the rewards that can come from the least challenging of mountain trails. Widely regarded as beginners country, the Kumaun treks to Pindari and Milam can be rediscovered as pleasurable outings for oldies provided you are more concerned with honouring the central place of Nanda Devi in the scheme of things than your own reputation as a seasoned hard-man.

***

Travelling slow and in comparative comfort has the great advantage over vertical expeditions strivings of not feeling bound by the hand of clock or resentful of middling weather. The very state of beatitude we seek in turning again to mountains can be compromised by the lure of impressive toppings out that may look better in the record book than they feel in our immortal seam of recollection.

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Too much challenge can be just as dispiriting as too little. We need above all explore those areas dear to each individual and traditionally the expedition is expected to serve a common aim; which too often translates as shared misery.

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By joining an expedition you are perhaps moving further from your aim of discovering your true being. A poor pilgrim wandering tried trails may get nearer that ineffable experience the trained mountaineer expects to find by virtue of going where no foot has trod before.

***

The week's trek to Milam proves ideal for old bones to overcome modest challenges. It provides a glimpse of the bliss that awaits any who join with the Gori Ganga to force a passage through the Himalaya.

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The Mountaineer who helped discover (and best described) the ravishing realm of the Goddess
(Nandadevi) was Eric Shipton, perhaps the perfect choice since his romantic inclinations were miles away from the military manoeuvres school. Shipton's oneness with the Godness made him an odd man out and it was inevitable that his philosophy of an "overriding passion" as the motive force for mountaineering would be ruthlessly ignored by the English climbing establishment when they came to choose a winning leader for the 1953 Everest expedition. When peaks have to be conquered for prestige and funds poured in to guarantee the flutter of a flag from the summit it is only proper that corporals who aspire to be sergeants and
brigadiers smitten with the passion for full command should be recruited before poets and mountain mystics. It is coincidence that Nanda Devi has never hosted the conquerors of Everest- Hunt, Hilary and Tenzing - but in beckoning back Shipton and Ang Tharkey the Goddess proved that she could recognize her own.

***

Winter in the hills is a visibly quiet time. The days though cold are magnificiently sereneand viewing the snows now is to experience the distinct sensation of nature aslumber. A somnolent azure lies about the winter snow-line where the cold air traps the wood smoke of the village fires. The flattened cling of this heavenly shade lazily gives way to the deeper blue of the winter sky caused by the sun's southmost journeying. Unlike the plains where the cosmic junction at the turning back of the sun makes little impact, in the Himalayas one is aware of the solstitial reversal process. Southwestwards the sunset becomes more hauntingly beautiful than in the monsoon when the bruised texture of the clouds had caught scarlet inspiration. The January twilight horizon is the most moving of natural spectacles when the sky changes dramatically from the fury of red to the promise of gold then briefly yields to the poignancy of green that brings tears to the eternal witness in man.


October is the best trekking season when the golden days yield the full fragrance of harvested sap. The sky is a celestial blue and the air perfectly attuned to vigorous marches. Sun dappled trees and the roar of rushing water coursing off the mountainside stimulate the taste of salt on one’s lips while the sifting wind soothes any regret at the sweat. It is good to be alive in high Garhwal in October as the crickets fill the clear air with a deafening drone of plentitude. The intensity of the sky with few puffed clouds abroad by early afternoon contrasts with the map-like spread of fields below. Crops of ripening red buckwheat shock the eye as do the yellow stalks of scarlet coxcomb. The multihued greens of the jungles begin to enclose one’s progress and range from the deep chrome of oak and dark viridian of spruce to the fresh gloss of chestnut and maple.


Savage encounters (like Joe Tasker’s on Dunagiri) might be thought to have imprinted a conviction of immortality forever on the survivor’s forehead but no theory fits when the human vessel insists it is too small and any overflowing is mistaken as a leak that needs constant replenishment. Like greatness sainthood is thrust on the climber who desides his mountain is worth dying for, and who can judge that such singular (seemingly suicidal) devotion in surrendering the gift of individuality (and causing unbearable grief to companions) is not a valid way for some? ‘ Better die trying to wake than live in sleep’.

In my benign walks around the sanctuary meadows, viewing the peaks and considering some of the achievements of the, studying the religious feelings of local people and noting the glories in the rare beauty of the forests and the riotous sexuality of the flowers, I followed my inmost instinct to worship.

As a male writer I make no apology for viewing the mountain Goddess as a village woman for that in fact is the way hill theology pictures Nanda Devi. Mountaineers married to the craft have perhaps realized that it is more pleasurable to learn the many moods of feminine unpredictability from the stern lessons of the Alps and Himalayas rather than have the same gripe voiced daily down the years from a contracted rope-mate over breakfast table. To find the real woman of one’s choice is indeed a mountaineering task since achieving the impossible is what climbing is all about.

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Extracts from Edward Hamilton Aitken's "The Common Birds of Bombay"

We have two kinds of Kites in Bombay the Common (Milvus govinda) and the Brahminy (Haliastur indus), so called because it seems to be a bird of higher caste. For the avoidance of family brawls nature seems to have assignedseparate portions to these two birds, giving the refuse of the land tothe one and the refuse of the water to the other. It is not that oneeats flesh and the other fish. Nothing that goes overboard from a shipcomes amiss to the Brahminy, and the Common Kite will snatch fish fromthe very basket on a woman's head. But the one likes to pick itsfood off the water and the other off the ground. So the one haunts theharbor, while the other tales charge of the bazaar.
For the Myna has a character. I once had a Myna and a canary in cages, which hung at my window. A ruffian crow came in one day and perched on the top of the canary's cage. Of course the silly bird fluttered allround the cage, dinging to the bars, and gave the crow the chance it wanted. It caught a leg in its powerful beak and tried to pull itthrough the bars. But the canary's body could not pass through, so the poor bird's leg was literally torn out by the roots, and it died in a few minutes. I suppose the crow swallowed the leg, and shortly afterwards it returned, thinking to have a leg of the Myna for its next course. I was in the room, but it did not see me; so, after glancing round the room with a proprietary air, it bounced on to the top of the Myna's cage. But the Myna, sitting on its perch, knew it was quite safe and felt no agitation; so it was free to take an interest in the crow, and its interest fixed instantly on an ugly black toe, which hung down through the bars over its head. It caught that toe in its sharp beak and made an example of it. I tell you, it was exhilarating to observe the suddenness with which that crow jumped to the conclusion that it had urgent business elsewhere. Here is the difference between a Myna and a canary. A canary cannot learn that it is safe inside a cage.

Lapwings : It belongs to the family which includes those long-shanked birds which bare their legs and walk about in shallow waters, or walk upon dry ground on stilts. They have no hind toe. (check). For those who never perch on tress or for that matter anywhere, of what use is a hind toe. They all lay their egg on the ground, and the young run as soon as they are hatched. The Red-wattled Lapwing also commonly found in our villages, has on its cheeks two bright red lappets, like the wattles of a cock. It is a greenish-brown bird with a good deal of black and white upon it. The head is black, with the throat, down to the upper part of the breast. Below this the under parts, with the lining of the wings, are pure white, as you see when it flies. Actually it needs no description and wants no introduction. It introduces itself to you: impresses itself on you; dins itself into you. And all the time it is reiterating, with piercing emphasis, that mysterious taunt, "Did you do it? Did you do it? Pity to do it." Suddenly its mate springs into visibility and joins it. That’s reason enough to suspect that somewhere on the ground, not far from your feet, there are four stone colored eggs, with black blotches on them, arranged in a cross with their points inwards. But it is no use looking for them. The Lapwing is such an accomplished liar that it will throw you off the scent one way or another. There is another kind of Lapwing, with yellow instead of red wattles on its cheeks. Otherwise it is very like the common one, but somewhat paler in color and with less black on it. There is a syllable less in its cry. It, however, likes a dry climate, and I have not often seen it on the coast.

Stone curlew- Eurasian thick knee – It receives its name from the bulge at the knee in contrast to its reed thin legs. These ground nesting birds are masters of camouflage. Their nest consists of little more than a collection of pebbles and twigs put together in a mess. The bird makes up for this inadequacy by laying eggs that superbly gel with the surroundings. The patterns on the eggs break the contours and they become impossible to locate. This prevents them from being gobbled up by other creatures looking for a tasty meal. Moreover the female detests attracting attention. She will sit still like a statute while hatching. When she can no longer resist moving away she reduces attracting attention to herself and the nest by interspersing her movements with brief periods of immobility. The chicks when they hatch are equally difficult to locate. They merge in the mess of pebbles, sand and dry grass. To add to this they are very obedient kids. On an alarm call by the mother they will freeze and merge with the background without moving an inch, and remain so till the mom gives an “all clear” signal.
Vulture : The Long-billed Vulture breeds always on high cliffs," while its Bengal brother is content to build its nest on any tree big enough to bear the weight of such a ponderous. I have seen a single mango tree groaning under several nests. Each nest contains one egg, generally (if clean), but sometimes blotched with brown. The breeding season extends over the greater part of the year and eggs may be found from October to March at least. Most young birds are hungry and clamorous, crying give, give, from dawn till dusk. But the young vulture learns patience early. Its mother leaves it before sunrise and it sits hour after hour, motionless and noiseless, waiting for her return. It may be noon before it detects her, a mere speck in the sky, but growing bigger every moment as she slopes down towards the nest. At last, with heavy flapping, she lets herself down, and great is the cackling, for though she carries nothing in her beak, the youngster knows that she is loaded. What follows is not polite. In plain language she disgorges great lumps of meat and thrusts them into its mouth.
A vulture cannot feed her young any other way than this, for the carcass on which she dined may be ten miles away. And indeed a vulture never carries food, or anything else, except a stick for its nest, and that too in its beak. Vultures do not have strong talons for killing prey because they are scavengers that do not hunt down live prey. All other birds of prey carry with their feet, but this is impossible to the vulture because it is incapable of swooping and cannot even rise off the ground without taking a run. Once fairly in the air, no bird surpasses the majesty of its flight.
Vultures are extremely good at detecting a dead creature. Before the life has left the old body some distant “pater-roller” has seen it, and, with rigid wings slightly curved, is sloping down at a rate, which wipes out five miles in a few seconds. A second sees the first and, interpreting its action follows with all speed. A third pursues the second, and so on till, out of a sky in which you could not have described two birds half an hour ago, thirty or forty dark forms are converging on one spot . When they get right over it, they descend in decreasing spirals and settle at various distances and wait for the end like American reporters. When the end comes, if you are squeamish or fastidious, go away. All that will corrupt, everything in short but the bones, is to be removed from that carcass within twenty-four hours, and the vultures have taken the contract to do it. Such work cannot be made artistic and the vulture is not aesthetic. That baldhead and bare neck are not ornamental, but they mean business; they are the sleeves tucked up for earnest work. It allows them to thrust their heads deeper into a dead carcass without getting their feathers dirty. The gourmands jostle and bump into each other. And chase each other round the board with long, ungainly hops and open wings. One has no sooner thrust its head well into the carcass than another leaps upon its back with loud laughter. Two get hold of opposite ends of a long strip of offal and dance before each other with wings outstretched. And the cackling and grunting and roaring that go on all the while may be heard for half a mile. When darkness overtakes the revelers some of them have so shamefully over-eaten themselves that they cannot rise from the ground and are forced to spend the night where they are.
Woodpecker: The golden backed woodpecker industriously hammering into the bark. Peeling and chipping away at the loose bits. What is it up to? The Woodpecker's trade is a curious one. While other birds are hunting for all sorts of insects that fly in the air, or crawl on the ground, or hide among the leaves of trees, it lays siege to those which fancy they have defied their enemies by burrowing into the solid trunk. Like many of the insect eating birds, the wood pecker has a long sticky tongue. As it drills in the bark it thrusts its tongue in the holes, openings and cracks to pick/suck up juicy grubs, worms, and insects that live underneath the protective covering of the bark.
It does not perch along the branches of a tree, like the other birds, but runs up the trunk and boughs like a squirrel, clinging with its strong claws and propping itself up with its short, stiff tail. Its head, set crosswise on the thin, supple neck looks like the hammer of a gun, and it stops at intervals to hammer fiercely at the trunk of the tree. Its blows are delivered with extraordinary rapidity and energy; indeed, all its actions are impulsive and hasty. Its beak is a regular chisel, square at the point, with an edge kept always sharp, on what grind-stone, we don’t know. Its tongue, which can be thrust out for a distance of three or four inches, is armed at the point with strong and sharp hooks, and is sticky so that it forms at once a very searching and a fast holding instrument. Specialized functions and structures that allow a woodpecker to live off insects burrowed in trees include a strong beak, highly developed neck and tongue muscles, stiff feathers sized for stability, sturdy leg bones and skull, a curving spine, and a reversed toe.
Hoopoe: Its beak is more than two inches in length and very slender, and the Hoopoe probes the dry land and draws out "ant-lions" and other subterranean grubs. The legs of the Hoopoe are very short indeed, so that it is obliged to carry its body very level in order to keep its tail off the ground. This, together with its erect neck and prim gait, gives it the appearance of being a very precise sort of person, which no doubt it is. It is always exquisitely dressed, in a suit of reddish fawn with the skirts, of some black material, with broad white bars, which flash out with beautiful effect when it starts to fly. On its crown it wears a crest, which is usually, folded down and projects behind, giving its head and neck the appearance of a toy pickaxe; but at times, when it is startled, and always in the act of alighting, the feathers start up into a lovely corona of cinnamon red bordered with black.

Cattle egret: It lives principally on insects and follows cattle diligently when they are grazing, for the sake of the grasshoppers stirred by their feet, and also for the chance of usefulness in relieving the poor beasts of various small tormentors. The cattle appreciate the kindness and repay it by giving the birds the freedom of their backs. Sometimes yon will see a meek buffalo chewing the cud, while a Cattle Egret stands on its head and performs surgical operations on its ears. The name of this species in Jerdon is Buphus coromandus. During the monsoon its whole neck is clothed with plumes of a rich orange-buff color, and you may easily distinguish it. In the cold season it is all white, but even then you may always recognize it, if you get near enough, by its yellow bill. The bill of the Little Egret is black. It nests in company with Pond Herons and other Egrets, laying paler eggs. The common native name for all these birds is Bugla, but the Cattle Egret is sometimes distinguished as Gai-bugla

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Saturday, May 05, 2001


Vacation Bound – G V Roberts

With an open road before me
And a weary world behind
A blue sky up above me
And my troubles hard to find.

With my face kissed by the sunshine
Whipped by stinging winds that blow
Sweetly bathed in silver raindrops
That’s the life which I go.

There is carpet green and mossy
’Neath my city tired feet
There are songs of birds to cheer me
Softly low and softly sweet.

In the ripples of a streamlet
In the touch of thistledown
I shall learn the joy of living
And forget to sigh and frown.

There is joy in songs of songbirds
And there is happiness in trees
There’s dream in every flower
And a gladness in the breeze.

There is music in the meadow
Where the grasses sway and dance
That awakes dormant longing
Stirred a new by nature’s glance.

O, the dreamy peace of valleys
Where the wild roses sweetly grow
O, the carefree joy of hilltops
Where the playful breeze grow….

Join me in this great adventure,
Let your tortured soul go free
For the wonderous charm of Nature’s
Calling you and calling me.
**************
Step Into My Garden – Wilfred Beaver

When I step into my garden
In the cool of an early dawn
There I see a hundred faces
Smiling in the misty morn !

How I love the world at sunrise,
Then all fretful cares depart ,
When the dew is on the flowers
And a song is in my heart

Every bird note is a carol
In the silence of a quite dawn
Filling all the air with music
In the hush of early morn

Every bud and every flower
Is a touch of heavenly art
When the dew is on the roses
And a song is in my heart.

******************************
" INVITATION " - Ethelyn M Kincher

Come and ride with me to the mountainside
Where the road leads up and the world is wide

Come and bring your dreams that have gone astray,
You will find new ones on my tree-lined way.

Come and tour with me to the canyon's rim
And listen spellbound to nature's hymn.

Come and lift your eyes to the star - hushed night
And release your soul for the wind's delight.

You will know at last that your heart is free
When you follow this path and ride with me.

****************
Longing for the Mountain – Carmon F. Becker



There is a place where I long to be,
A place in mountain high & Free.

Away from the routine, procedures and strife,
Where one draws nearer to the beauties of life.

Where lonely streams plunge to depths below,
Churning from summits of sparkling snow;

Where the lawrel, aspen and lofty pine,
Remain untouched as in the beginning of time.

Where bright red poppies untrampled by feet,
Lift to the heavens, which they seemingly meet .

Where the eagle in his domain so majestically fair,
Reels by the hour in the turbulent air.

Where at twilight is heard the voice of the thrush,
Which leaves me oblivious to the modern day rush.


**************
A Mountain Creek - Raymond R. Hopkins

In the forest depths is a mountain stream
Where the rainbows tinged with a golden gleam
And a glimpse gives birth to the awed sunrise
You have entered the portals of paradise

There are rocky steeps where the waters pour
And crash beneath with a booming roar,
Then quite down and begin to creep
Conversing its load of cones,
Chuckling in merry under stones

If you want to set your soul on fire
Just visit this land of the heart’s desire,
For the finest pleasures that one may seek
Hover like halos round a mountain creek .

******************************

PEACE – C. M. Schramn


As I sit beside the ocean
And I listen to its roar
All my thoughts are washed as clean there
As the rocks along the shore

All my cares becomes as small there
As sand the waves have crushed
And my mind becomes as still there
As the tree the wind has hushed

And I empty all my soul out
On ebbing of the tide
And I’m filled to overflowing
With a peace that comes inside.

**************
He who Plants A Rose – Grace Noll Crowell

He who plants a rose plants a beauty;
He who waters it until it grows,
A radiant throbbing thing of poignant glory
Serves mankind , oh , much better than he knows

He who plants a rose plants a splendor;
Breathless rapture flung across the sod
A light to shake the soul and lift the spirit
Up to the high white citadel of god

He who plants a rose plants triumph
Mastering the brown reluctant soil
He lifts at last a brave bright showing
Of beauty, splendor, triumph for his soil.

******************************
SLOW DANCE

Have you ever watched kids?
On a merry-go-round?
Or listened to the rain
Slapping on the ground?
Ever followed a butterfly's erratic flight?
Or gazed at the sun into the fading night?
You better slow down.
Don't dance so fast.
Time is short.
The music won't last.
Do you run through each day
On the fly?
When you ask How are you?
Do you hear the reply?
When the day is done
Do you lie in your bed
With the next hundred chores
Running through your head?
You'd better slow down
Don't dance so fast.
Time is short.
The music won't last.

Ever told your child,
We'll do it tomorrow?
And in your haste,
Not see his sorrow?
Ever lost touch,
Let a good friendship die
Cause you never had time
To call and say,"hi"
You'd better slow down.
Don't dance so fast.
Time is short.
The music won't last.
When you run so fast to get somewhere
You miss half the fun of getting there.
When you worry and hurry through your day,
It is like an unopened gift....Thrown away.
Life is not a race.
Do take it slower
Hear the music
Before the song is over.

*******************
Sunset – Eethel B. Null

Have you ever watched the Sun
As it sinks in the western sky
And another day is ended
As the soft wind moans and sigh ?

It may be a beautiful sunset
Of reds, purple, blue and gold
But the day is gone forever
As we watch the beauty unfold

Have you made use of every moment
Or have you wasted your time today
As the sun goes to rest at eventide
Marking time on life’s highway ?

Remember today is yestrday of tomorrow,
Then follow the golden rule each day
Forget the discord and sorrow
In the beauty of the sunset today

Have you helped a fellow traveler
As you travel down life’s highway?
Then you are ready to greet the sunset
At the ending of the day

With a heart filled with peace and comfort
With a smile and prayers on your lips,
You have won the greatest reward life offers
As master of your own life’s ship
******************************
Come, Climb with me …- D. L. Duncan

Come, Climb with me a Mountain,
Let me show you heven’s front door,
Where God looks out on his children,
From twilight through early dawn.

The walk is paved with the rocks of time,
Rugged and whether worn,
While the rain washes free and
the wind sweeps it clean,
And Man’s inspiration reborn.


The stairway that leads towards the gates above
Is solid and stayed and true,
And the portals are always open wide
Revealing a world always new.

The flower will bid you a welcome
No kingly domain can boast,
And the clear clean streams will refresh your soul
More than any majestic toast !

So leave behind your sorrows and woes,
Dispel all your misery ; come climb with me a mountain,
And I will show you god’s majesty .


***********

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Thursday, May 03, 2001

Nature is what we see
Nature is what we see;
The hill; the Afternoon;
Squirrel; Eclipse; the Bumble bee;
Nay; Nature is Heaven
Nature is what we hear;
The Bobolink, the See;
Thunder; The Cricket;
Nay; Nature is Harmony
Nature is what we know;
Yet have no art to say;
So impotent our Wisdom is
To her simplicity.

Heaven Is What I Cannot Reach!
Heaven is what I cannot reach!
The apple on the tree,
Provided it do hopeless hang,
That "heaven" is, to me.

The color on the cruising cloud,
The interdicted ground
Behind the hill,
the house behind,
There Paradise is found!
-- Emily Dickinson

It's economical
I hope you love birds, too.
It is economical.
It saves going to Heaven.
- Emily Dickinson

Three Things to Remember
Three Things to Remember
A Robin Redbreast in a cage,
Puts all Heaven in a rage.
A skylark wounded on the wing
Doth make a cherub cease to sing.
He who shall hurt the little wren
Shall never be beloved by men.
--- William Blake

If I could live again my life,
In the next - I'll try,- to make more mistakes,
I won't try to be so perfect,
I'll be more relaxed,
I'll be more full - than I am now,
In fact, I'll take fewer things seriously,
I'll be less hygenic,
I'll take more risks,
I'll take more trips,
I'll watch more sunsets,
I'll climb more mountains,
I'll swim more rivers,
I'll go to more places - I've never been,
I'll eat more ice creams and less (lime) beans,
I'll have more real problems - and less imaginary ones,
I was one of those people who liveprudent and prolific lives -each minute of his life,
Off course that I had moments of joy - but,if I could go back I'll try to have only good moments,
If you don't know - thats what life is made of,Don't lose the now!
I was one of those who never goes anywherewithout a thermometer,without a hot-water bottle,and without an umberella and without a parachute.
If I could live again - I will travel light,
If I could live again - I'll try to walk bare feet at the beginning of spring till the end of autumn,
I'll ride more carts,
I'll watch more sunrises and play with more children,
If I have the life to live - but now I am 85,- and I know that I am dying ...
- Jorge Luis Borges (Translated by Ursula)

The sun, with all those plants revolving around it and dependent uponit, can still ripen a bunch of grapes as if it had nothing else in theuniverse to do.
-Galileo

To me a lush carpet of pine needles or spongy grass is more welcomethan the most luxurious Persian rug.
- Helen Keller

Let children walk with Nature, let them see the beautiful blendingsand communions of death and life, their joyous inseparable unity, astaught in woods and meadows, plains and mountains and streams of ourblessed star, and they will learn that death is stingless indeed, andas beautiful as life.
- John Muir

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Wednesday, May 02, 2001

Nature 's wisdom

  • Nature makes only dumb animals. Its society that creates fools.
  • Teaching a child not to step on a caterpillar is as valuable to tehchild as it is to the caterpillar.
  • A bird does not sing because it has an answer. it sings because it has a song.
  • I have found the link between animal and civilized man; it is us.
  • The greatness of a nation and its moral progress can be judged by theway its animals are treated.
  • Don't think there are no crocodiles because the water is calm.
  • An animal's eyes have the power to speak a great language.
  • Animals are reliable, many full of love, true in their affections,predictable in their actions, grateful and loyal. Difficult standards for people to live up to.
  • Animals are such agreeable friends- they ask no questions, they passno criticisms.
  • Poor indeed is the garden in which birds find no homes.
  • To the ass, or the sow, their own offspring appears the fairest in creation.
  • A mule has neither pride of ancestry nor hope of posterity.

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