Singing through a rolled newspaper..

Heya dear all,
Been a long while (our usual refrain ) since our last rendezvous, in mine haven here, yea.

Times’ve been busy at work, with loadsa novel learning experiences ~ a pleasant mix of beautiful, and challenging times.

Well, let’s make haste then, to our long-awaited weekend musing.
Take care all & Wishes, as always,
Lookin’ forward to dear Harisaab’s b’day (Yayyy!), minerva*

Via 3 Quarks Daily:

Looking Around Believing

By Gary Soto

How strange that we can begin at any time.
With two feet we get down the street.
With a hand we undo the rose.
With an eye we lift up the peach tree
And hold it up to the wind — white blossoms
At our feet. Like today. I started
In the yard with my daughter,
With my wife poking at a potted geranium,
And now I am walking down the street,
Amazed that the sun is only so high,
Just over the roof, and a child
Is singing through a rolled newspaper
And a terrier is leaping like a flea
And at the bakery I pass, a palm,
Like a suctioning starfish, is pressed
To the window. We’re keeping busy —
This way, that way, we’re making shadows
Where sunlight was, making words
Where there was only noise in the trees.

* * *

Muse-worthy Watch: Do watch out for the beautiful, central message of how Friendship transcends such limiting identity-tags as race/religion/language, and even age.. Sweet.

Enjoy the video rendered by dear lady, Shubha Mudgal. Love her voice!
Take care all.

Baagon Na Jaa by Shubha Mudgal

In Time with the Echo of Your Song

Heya all,
Been a looong while I know (this seems the refrain of late, yea).
Hoping all dear souls have been keeping well.

To keep ’tis pulsing heart & its pursuits of love alive then, here, our weekend musing.
Do take care all & Stay lovely all,
minerva*

* * *

Via TED, an incredibly awesome performance by the amazing Teresa Carreño Youth Orchestra, comprising the uber-talented conductor, Gustavo Dudamel, with his orchestra of 18 to 28-year-old high school kids from Venezuela.

Truly, an ineffably lovely day-brightener to yours truly, who especially loved the effervescent closure of the second rendition, Arturo Márquez’ Danzón No. 2. Bravo!

Great musical masterpieces speak a joyous language of their own yes, but when such glorious work is rendered with the wondrous dedication & creative imagination of the young, what else could ever be more beautiful than this?

For another brilliant rendition of Arturo Márquez’ Danzón No. 2 (that yours truly can’t seem to get enough of), rendered by the Simon Bolivar Orchestra, but conducted by Gustavo Dudamel again.

* * *

Via 3 Quarks Daily:

Soleá *
By Randolyn Zinn

No singing. No dancing.
Let the spores multiply on the dishes. My feet won’t move.

Outside the window celadon leaves tremble against the glass
but they don’t comfort me. It will take stillness to recover

from yesterday’s news. What was I supposed to do…?
Oh yes, limes and plums. There are mouths to feed.

But first le me mark out the counts of your absence,
Palm against palm.

Uno dos quatro cinco siete nueve un dos…

Hands lay quiet in my lap now, fingers won’t make
a flower, and dreams are no help. I looked for you

all night in tablaos, found a shawl you might have worn once
strewn across the floor of an empty house in Càdiz.

I was strangely happy in the search.

“Por ti
las horitas de la noche
me las paso sin dormir…”

I haven’t forgotten the tangos, the siguiriyas,
the sequence of arms, right crossing left,

snapping pitos keeping time, awake all night.
The fleetest hours were yours.

I want to hear my shoes—black, with nails hammered
into wooden heels–pounding out zapateados as crisp

as machine gun fire. And my skirt—the tiny house I lived in,
my silk casita, dyed the color of blood to attract the bull,

swirling open from the cries of Gypsies.

¡Ay, ay! ¡Ole¡ ¡Asi se canta! ¡Asi se baila! ¡Ole.!

I could walk down the hill and buy a bottle of Rioja
to drink tonight at sunset, but my feet won’t move.

When I close my eyes, your face quivers on my lids,
in time with the echo of your song.

(*in flamenco, a song or dance of pathos, usually performed as a solo)

One window is enough for me.

Hey all,
Hope all dear souls have been fine.
Been a looong hiatus I know ~ and this’s only set to continue, what with the onset of the new year and its unique gifts.

Just to friends close to the heart:
This year looks set to be one of new adventures, including some ventures that feel as if they easily rank amongst the zaniest choices yours truly has taken. Let’s see..

On the work front, have been entrusted with charges with an interesting mix of personality – some with the potential to be (dangerously) endearing and some, well, not so. A surprising realisation I guess, since I hadn’t really imagined any of them to be as beautiful as the old’ lot who’d been my reigning impetus to keep going on despite trying times.

Yes, am looking forward to meeting my old beloved Lit Kidz ~ with whom an irredeemable part of ’tis pulsing heart will always remain ~ when they return to the campus for their ‘O’ level results.
Want to be there when they get their official passports to their future journeys they’ll now chart on their own – not so much to know their grades, but just to see the sweet souls I’ve terribly missed.
Just looking upon them from the corner of the hall would suffice to make this heart leap anew.

Here then, our first Weekend Musing of 2009!

Have a Beautiful & Blessed New Year ahead all.
May this Earth be richly blessed.

Do take care all & Wishes, minerva*

* * *

Via 3 Quarks Daily:

Window
By Forough Farrokhzad

A window for seeing.
A window for hearing.
A window I like well
that plunges to the heart of the earth
and opens to the vast unceasing love in blue.
A window lavishing the tiny hands of loneliness
with the night’s perfume from gentle stars.
A window through which one could invite
the sun for a visit to abandoned geraniums.

One window is enough for me.

I come from the land of dolls, from under
the shade of paper trees in a storybook grove;
from arid seasons of barren friendship and love
in the unpaved alleys of innocence;
from years when the pallid letters of the alphabet
grew up behind desks of tubercular schools;
from the precise moment children could write
“stone” on the board and the startled starlings took wing
from the ancient tree.

All deep things are song.

All deep things are song.
It seems somehow the very central essence of us, song;
as if all the rest were but wrappages and hulls!
~ Thomas Carlyle

Heya all,
Hoping all dear souls have been keeping well.
Been away at an awesome 3-day Conference, hence the brief hiatus.

*Note to dearer souls: Will be away on a short trip this week.
Will leave kindred souls with a lovely video (you’ll know) I’d stumbled upon. Enjoy the video & Take care, dear all.
Wishes, as always, minerva*

Stand By Me by Playing for Change,
an awesome movement “created to inspire, connect and bring peace to the world through music”

While the heartwarming video above – a cover of Ben E. King’s lovely original – celebrates street musicians who hail from various countries & cultures across the globe, Playing for Change has been proving a beautiful fount of inspiration by itself too, as in *here*.

Music is the universal language of mankind.
~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

“And that, is Heaven.”

Heya all,
Been clearing out clutter in mine work/home worlds of late – and this ‘lil gem of a tale i’d kept aside some time ago, kept reappearing.. So there, sharing some food for thought with kindred souls here.
Take care all. Wishes*

The Secrets of Heaven and Hell

By Fr. John W. Groff Jr.

The old monk sat by the side of the road. With his eyes closed, his legs crossed and his hands folded in his lap, he sat. In deep meditation, he sat.

Suddenly, his zazen was interrupted by the harsh and demanding voice of a samurai warrior. “Old man! Teach me about heaven and hell!”

At first, as though he had not heard, there was no perceptible response from the monk. But gradually he began to open his eyes, the faintest hint of a smile playing around the corners of his mouth as the samurai stood there, waiting impatiently, growing more and more agitated with each passing second.

“You wish to know the secrets of heaven and hell?” replied the monk at last.
“You, who are so unkempt.
You, whose hands and feet are covered with dirt.
You, whose hair is uncombed, whose breath is foul, whose sword is all rusty and neglected.
You, who are ugly and whose mother dresses you funny. You would ask me of heaven and hell?”

The samurai uttered a vile curse. He drew his sword and raised it high above his head. His face turned to crimson, and the veins on his neck stood out in bold relief as he prepared to sever the monk’s head from its shoulders.

“That is hell,” said the old man gently, just as the sword began its descent.

In that fraction of a second, the samurai was overcome with amazement, awe, compassion and love for this gentle being who had dared to risk his very life to give him such a teaching. He stopped his sword in mid-flight and his eyes filled with grateful tears.

“And that,” said the monk, “is heaven.”