And I am not going to let my words interfere. Just read this.
ooOOoo
Clear the Needle
Who is she, if she does not even know herself?
Trajectories confuse when forced into linear containers..
Like the cosmos — all spirals and orbits — we spin and dance,
sometimes skillfully, sometimes clumsily.
The vinyl record spinning, fine dust collecting on the diamond needle.
We must stop from time to time and clear it
so that we might perceive sound more accurately, truer to itself.
I have collected more than my share of detritus.
But I have never been granted the grace of someone or something clearing the needle for me.
It remains a reminder to pause.
Stop the music. Lift the arm. Clear the cartridge.
Begin again.
ooOOoo
Not only was Bela’s poem perfect so, too, was the comment left on Bela’s site from Shakti that I am going to share in full.
Hi Bela,
I found in the verse a striking metaphor for the human condition.
We spend so much of life assuming the music has changed, when often it is the dust on our own needle that has altered the sound. Memory, hurt, ego, assumptions, fatigue—each leaves its fine sediment, subtly distorting how we hear ourselves, others, and the world.
The most profound act, perhaps, is not to keep forcing the song forward, but to pause with enough honesty to ask: what in me is creating this static? The verse’s quiet power lies in rejecting rescue—no one may come to clear the needle for us. Self-awareness, then, becomes both responsibility and grace. To stop. To clean. To begin again—not as the same listener, but as a truer one
Shakti
“To begin again—not as the same listener, but as a truer one“
Bela writes frequently and publishes her poetry online.
Recently she published a poem, Do You Need Time?
I am delighted to share the poem with you all. Here is the link to Pulse.
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Do you need time?
I’m not sure I need time — at least not as it’s commonly considered. It’s simply what we’re given, like it or not, for as long as we draw breath: a new sunrise, a fading sunset, and the spaces in between, where we live out an unknown number of days on this breathing planet.
Time to ponder or to provide, to nurture, to rest, depending on the moment and the hands we’re dealt.
There is time for mountains to rise, for seas to tumble rhythmically on distant shores. Time for ground creatures to burrow in before winter, for hawks to circle rivers and fields, searching — always searching — for what sustains them. Time for trees to grow or go dormant, for planets to whirl their patient orbits — there is time.
How we humans engage time is another matter. We guard it, chase it, curse it, as though it had power over us. But time simply is. Rushing or hoarding has never bought us one more minute in an hour or one more day in a year.
Perhaps all that’s left is to flow with it — scheduled or not — to find our own rhythm within its turning frame. We can wrangle with it until the end, but still, it will roll on.
And maybe that’s mercy: that time needs nothing from us but our willingness to live inside it — fully, gratefully, while we can.
You don’t want me waffling on so I’m going straight over to Bela’s poem. It is called River Thoughts and was published on Bela’s website on the 24th May, 2021. With Bela’s permission, I should add!
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River Thoughts
The river thunders, to no applause in particular; rolls along, rippling and eddying without thought or expectation of feedback, though I can’t help but think all of nature thrives under an appreciative gaze;
We once watched endangered river otters cavorting in plain sight just under the bridge of a much larger river, we told no one; fishermen dislike that they are forced to share with these sleek creatures we thought dolphins, when first they caught our eyes, out of context, having come from Hawaii only recently;
Our smaller Vallecitos river is magnificent in its own right, rushing lifeblood to this struggling ranching community, altitude too high to receive much precipitation in liquid form, preferring the snows of winter, and those have been in shortfall for years now, water levels everywhere having dropped precipitously, and with the decline comes the invariable unrest in people dependent on the bounty of the land;
And so this rainy day is particularly welcomed while the dampness is in marked contrast to the bone dry of the region, and as a fire blazes in the hearth, ranch dogs lie fidgety like grammar school children forced inside for recess in inclement weather.
I came upon Elizabeth when she left a comment to my post on the 26th August, The science of dog learning.
This is what she wrote:
Reblogged this on The Last Chapter and commented:
Please visit Paul’s website, something new to read and learn each day. Thank you Paul for bringing your site to the blogging world.
Naturally, I replied:
Elizabeth, thank you for leaving your response, and thank you so much for your republication of my post. I read a little about yourself and, I must say, found it fascinating. And your poem The Last Chapter – wow!
Now I will hopefully republish The Last Chapter for another day. (And I have now heard that I have permission to republish it!)
But today, I want to publish the words of Elizabeth in writing about her dear, dear, recently departed dog.
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Mason Murphree
A tribute
Mason Murphee
Mason Murphree was born on January 31, 2012; what can one say about Mason, I bought him off the back of a pick-up truck, only two pups left out of the litter I held both in my hands as they lay upon my chest; one yellow and the other white. I did not see their mother or father; I was told that the father was Bichon Frise and his mother Shih Tzu. The white one instantly begins to crawl into my sports bra, nuzzled himself against my warm flesh and I was instantly in love.
I did not believe that he was six-weeks-old he was still wobbly on his feet when trying to walk. I made him what the old folks call a “Sugar Tit”, a rag rolled on the end tightly and the tip soaked in warm sweet milk. I fed him laying on his back in my hand for a week, the second week I started him on baby food. Then, what I thought to be the seventh-week, he begins to walk with unsteady confidence and I thought was ready for the big world around him.
I found quickly that he had a set of razor-sharp teeth, yep, time for the hard bits of puppy food. I took him to the Vet when I brought him home, and he was given an “A” in health. But, I am getting ahead of myself. When I brought him home I sat him on a potty pad he used until he was six-months-old, then he discovered grass. I might add that in the nine years he was with me he never did his business in the house.
Alas, it was his six-month birthday, and his first time to the groomer, which I found that he had to be calmed down by medicine to get groomed. It was not too long until the Vet announced that he was out of this world’s atmosphere with anxiety. He had “MaMa” withdrawal big time when he was not with me. He would bark for half-an-hour before settling down to wait for me to come back from the store, gym, or anywhere I had gone! He disliked children, anyone less than teenagers. He loved every adult he met. He begins life attached to my hip and me to his.
Mason loved paper products; he would wait patiently to see if anyone would drop a Kleenex, paper towel, or napkin. The pursuit would begin chasing a four-legged speed demon around the floor, me never winning. We called him the Tasmanian devil, and he looked like it when he tried to defend his catch of the day. It was impossible to go on vacation without him; he would stay with one of his two-legged siblings. Of course, that was only for one day, he would accept his situation for about twenty-four-hours, then once again turn into the Tasmanian devil, the telephones would ring trying to find him another place to stay, he traveled back and forth from house to house until my return. A chore to his brothers and sisters, but finally he must have thought he had caused enough trouble for me to return home, and he did.
He loved everyone he met except children, let me explain; when he was six-months-old I took him to the park. On the playground were about a dozen small children, when they spied him, they came running. He jumped up for me to protect him, and that was that. He loved his favorite human friends and his family.
He was the best companion anyone could have; his personality was so individual those who would see him thought he would start talking at any moment. He look intently at you when you were talking, always smiling. He thought he was a Great Dane when in his protection mode, but a clap of lighting and boisterous thunder would send him under my feet. He loved to walk; he loved all the trees on his block and several other blocks.
I won’t describe Mason’s death other than it was quick and painless, he got to spend one day saying good-bye to his two-legged brothers and sisters. We covered our faces and our tears and sadness until we walked away, he knew. As his MaMa, I watched him go from a lively, wonderful, sweet little dog to one that was holding on to every minute waiting for his family to arrive. There are not enough words for me to describe the heartache and loneliness with him gone.
My heart feels much like a patchwork quilt, many little pieces sewn back together after being shattered. Saying good-bye, he took a piece of my heart and soul with him. I know that I will see him again, that is the only thing I have to hold on to this moment. And, that is how I am living my life one moment at a time until I see my four-legged fur baby again. He loved and he was loved.
Sweet dreams little boy.
ooOOoo
How we become so attached to our dogs. Elizabeth not only was beautifully attached to Mason but also wrote perfect words in her tribute.
So who is Elizabeth Ann Johnson-Murphree?
This is her biography but it doesn’t really tell me who she is; in a feeling, living, emotional sense. I suspect one has to read her writings to learn more.
Born in Alabama to a Native American father and an emotionally absent mother.
Raised by her father, her Native American Great-grandmother, her Aunt, and an African-American woman, all magnificent storytellers. Her childhood was filled with listening to the stories her great-grandmother would tell about the grandfathers and grandmothers that perished on the Trail of Tears, of she and the grandmother living in the slave quarters in northern Alabama.
Aunt Francis needed a home when her son went to prison, she would tell the stories of her parents being slaves and how she survived the Civil War. Aunt Vina, her father’s sister a fantastic storyteller; she could bring together characters and build a story that would have you at the edge of your chair, only to find it was all fiction.
As a child, Elizabeth ran free in the woods, fields, and the caves below Burleson Mountain where she grew up. Elizabeth has been writing all of her life, seriously since 2010. She has published a memoir about her daughter who passed in 2010; a small coffee table book filled with pictures of her precious Mason, and ten books of poetry. Her poetry is filled with happiness, sadness, spirit, and anger. The memoir is the private life of her daughter, living with bipolar, and schizophrenia. The books of poetry range from light to darkness that appeared during the creation of each book.
That is a special post, as I said at the start.
I look forward immensely to sharing with you Elizabeth’s poetry.
In fact, I am ‘stealing’ the whole of Colin’s post, albeit with his permission, because recently he posted on his blog Wibble a poem written by Linda Ellis that is perfect. Indeed, it is more than perfect, it is a unique view of our lifetimes: yours; mine, everyone’s.
I learnt about ‘living your dash’ from Robby Robin’s Journey. ‘The dash’ is the one that goes between your dates of birth and death. Mine, for instance, is in “1960-” (because I’m not dead yet). Jane Fritz says:
This expression was popularized by Linda Ellis’s poem
The Dash; it provides a powerful metaphor for your life and helps us think about how our own dashes might be evaluated.
I went googling for the poem. It wasn’t hard to find it. However, reproducing it is subject to licence… which I applied for and was kindly granted. So here it is:
~~~~~~~~
The Dash
by Linda Ellis
I read of a man who stood to speak at the funeral of a friend.
He referred to the dates on the tombstone from the beginning… to the end.
He noted that first came the date of birth and spoke of the following date with tears, but he said what mattered most of all was the dash between those years.
For that dash represents all the time they spent alive on earth
and now only those who loved them know what that little line is worth.
For it matters not, how much we own, the cars… the house… the cash.
What matters is how we live and love and how we spend our dash.
So think about this long and hard; are there things you’d like to change?
For you never know how much time is left that still can be rearranged.
To be less quick to anger and show appreciation more
and love the people in our lives like we’ve never loved before.
If we treat each other with respect and more often wear a smile…
remembering that this special dash might only last a little while.
So when your eulogy is being read, with your life’s actions to rehash,
would you be proud of the things they say about how you lived your dash?
Maybe it is because I am in my mid-seventies. Maybe it is because I have never thought of it before; as in the dash! Maybe it is because I am looking for something that is beautifully clear; an antidote to the complicated world we appear to be living in.
I can’t fathom it out but that doesn’t matter in the slightest.
It is a very beautiful, inspiring poem that gets to the heart of living!
A quick scan of the horizon every twenty or thirty minutes and then back down to my bunk.
But what was that!
For the first time in ages there was a strange light off the starboard bow.
Impossible to gauge the distance.
Then I had it!
It was no ship’s light,
It was the edge of the rising moon.
My bunk below was forgotten in an instant.
The sight of the rising full moon was everything.
It rose seemingly rapidly and now cast its light over the ocean.
My ketch sailed in its golden light.
We seemed to sail on forever.
Now that’s coming on for thirty years ago,
But it is still clear in my mind.
Clear as if it was yesterday,
Reminded of it each full moon.
My ketch still sailing in its golden light.
The following is not Songbird but a much more appropriate photograph.
And the poem came to me just the other day. The memory of that full moon out in the Atlantic en-route to Plymouth from Gibraltar in 1991 will be with me for ever.
We can learn so much from our dogs. I have written about it and we can feel it. So many of us are lucky enough live with that special dog connection. They can help us through hard times and we feel like our dogs came into our lives for a reason. Here is a little poem dedicated to Jesse.
Ode To My Dog
Jesse- Yellow Labrador, 12 years old
My dog and I have a connection like no other. Unconditional love. She is my shadow and winks at me as I talk to her from above.
Although she is deaf, she knows what I am saying, and wags her tail around. She remembers my voice and can hear it in her head while her tail is pounding on the ground.
My dog is getting older although she still has a youthful mind. Her body tries to keep up when she asks me to throw the ball for her to find.
Even though Dogs only live on Earth about a decade or so. The work they do while they are here will stay with us after they go.
So hold them tight, treat them right and give them your attention while they are here. You never know when the time is up and it’s their last year.
I cherish the moments I have with my furry soul mate and I am excited to see her everyday. To spend time with her and show her love because she can’t hear what I say.
Dogs come into our lives for a reason and that reason is love. To guide us and teach us those important lessons we need to learn from above.
Everyday with your dog is a blessing. Take time to feel the positive influence and give them a great life. You are here for each other not only on Earth but in the afterlife.
The Dog Connection~
Dog Bless!
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As Holli so aptly says, “So many of us are lucky enough to live with that special dog connection.”
I learnt about ‘living your dash’ from 
Learning from Dogs 