So what heve I been up to these weeks on non-journaling?
Well, I've doned my muck boots once more to explore the rare and beautiful wet places of our country. These outings brought me to the Fall Creek Watershed which is btw. Cortland and Ithaca to help out my friend Stephen with his master's research. I'll spare you the details in prose and instead send out a few pics of my time working in the fens and hanging out in Syracuse with all my rad ex-roomies at the Bread and Roses Cooperative.
Oh, ignore the double text coming later. I was getting used to the way images are uploaded.



Here's my cool compatriot in crime, Stephen.



This is Kate, a beautiful butterfly whom I've gotten to flutter around and play with, here at Jacob's fen.


This might be a beautiful picture of the ladies tress, a native orchid that was in flower at the fen, except that my camera was running out of power and so I could'nt focus correctly. Well, I guess some things are not meant to be captured except in the mind.
There were lot's of orchids at this fen, including some real beautiful, showy ones though unfortunately they mostly were'nt in flower.



Flat topped aster.


Hmmm, nicotiana from the garden. I'd rather smell this than the kind people smoke any day. type type type type

So what heve I been up to these weeks on non-journaling?
Well, I've doned my muck boots once more to explore the rare and beautiful wet places of our country. These outings brought me to the Fall Creek Watershed which is btw. Cortland and Ithaca to help out my friend Stephen with his master's research. I'll spare you the details in prose and instead send out a few pics of my time working in the fens and hanging out in Syracuse with all my rad ex-roomies at the Bread and Roses Cooperative.

Here is a rendition of one of the first poem's I ever wrote. It was 7th or 8th grade. I was very proud as I scrawled the words that had come to me whilst delivering newspapers. They more than fullfilled the asignment given in english class, and had come so easilly. I felt smart - gifted.
What a helpless feeling came when the asignment was collected the next day and I spoke out to say squeamishly "I left it at home". The reply: "Yeah, right".
So I was not to develope that gift. Oh, well. I never have been very attracted to poetry in my adulthood - always sticking with prose. Joining a poetry circle at a freinds invite a few nights past, I realized this and remembered the old story. So here is my first rebelious punch - a rewriting of a long lost childhood poem. Not very timely, I'm afraid, but then with the August that we've been having so far maybe it is in a weird way. Take that Miss George.

warms rays shine down,
snow melts away.
A bird is heard chirping,
but its January not May.

I saw a robin, some geese,
tread the sky today.
They squawked of their travels
but it's January not May.

The birds shall fly south twice this year,
seeking the warmer day.
They must have forgot,
It's January not May.

This is love: to fly toward a secret sky,
to cause a hundred veils to fall each moment
First, to let go of life.
In the end, to take a step without feet.
To regard this world as invisible,
and to disregard what appears to the self.

Heart, I said, what a gift it has been
to enter this circle of lovers,
to see beyond seeing itself,
to reach and feel within the breast.

My soul, where does this breathing arise?
How does this beating heart exist?
"Bird of the soul, speak in your own words,
and I will understand.

The heart replied: I was in the workplace
the day this house of water and clay was fired.
I was already fleeing that created house,
even as it was being created.
When I could no longer resist, I was dragged down,
and my features were molded from a handful of earth.

-Rumi

I came across this poem in a neat little coincidence and it really spoke to me of some of the things that I have been pondering as of late. Several of the people in my life have been having heart problems lately (as in the actual physical manifestation, not just emotionally) which has led me to ponder the mystery that is bodily death. And life for that matter. The poem is from a book that I had asked my dad for some time ago and which he just found and lent to me the day after he got out of the hospital (with, it turns out, a healthy heart after all). This was the poem I flipped to when I first opened the book. I was contemplating whether to put someone else's words in one of my posts when the amazing pianist that I was listening to on the radio said something about whirling dervishes.
Well, I leave off with another quote, this from a certain recent Hollywood blockbuster: "I'll tell you a secret about the gods that they don't teach you in the temples. The gods envy us for our mortality. Everything is sweeter, more cherished, when you know that you may die at any moment."

We'll here I am at home. Not feeling my hotest. I can't say that I really have any distinct symptoms of anything like a cold or flu but I sure as heck don't have a lot of energy the last couple days. Fighting a bug, I suppose.
More trying than that, my dad is in the hospital right now with heart trouble. He spent last night there and has gone through a series of tests and depending on results may have an artery scoped (a camera inserted into it). So please send out your prayers (or whatever it is you do) for Bill Jungels. He's a good guy.
On a lighter note I am temporarilly jumping on the skin pick bandwagon (though not bearing it all) by inserting a pic of a slightly younger Jeremy workin away. Limited time only.