Tag: Kahlil Gibran
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‘Oh, how this spring of love resembleth the uncertain glory of an April day which now shows all beauty of the Sun, and by and by a cloud takes all away’
Can we really speak from places where we are not; from times we have visited and then been forced to leave; pretend we still understand how it felt to be young? What truth can memories tell us of our lives…? Do we only remember the sharp edges of things: the significant comings and goings of…
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Ich und Du?
When I was a child, I had no inkling of cultural appropriation. I eagerly dressed as the cowboy Roy Rogers, and enmeshed myself in what I mistakenly assumed were aboriginal customs of dress and philosophy; I once (and, it must be stressed, unwillingly) played the role of a girl in a Grade 4 school play…
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Death be not proud
Sometimes I think I spend too much time with myself. I realize, however, that the only way to spend any time away from me is to die, and that seems a bit harsh. Death is one of those subjects they never taught in school -in my day, anyway. Of course, when you’re young, Death is…
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Timeo tenebris
There are some things of which we rarely speak; we did, at one time perhaps, but times have changed. Societal norms and cultural permissions have shifted; there are caveats, locked doors, and windows with blinds pulled down for our protection… or somebody’s protection -the people aren’t always named for fear that… for fear that what?…
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Does light, seeking light, the light of light beguile?
Is the sense of control of one’s life, of one’s surroundings, of oneself, merely an addendum tacked on to the accumulating years that follow maturity? A garb one wraps around oneself to adapt more successfully to the role assigned -a costume meant only for the play? Or is it really the emperor’s clothes, borrowed and…
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Flowers are slow and weeds make haste
Sometimes it’s obvious that we all need to cope –In the fell clutch of circumstance, I have not winced, nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeonings of chance, my head is bloody but unbowed, in the immortal words of the poet William Ernest Henley. Those words have seen me through many of Life’s crises, but each…
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Wast thou o’erlook’d, even in thy birth?
That Age can do some funny things to the mind seems fairly obvious. The accumulation of years, brings with it a panoply of experience that, hopefully, enables a kind of personalized Weltanschauung to emerge -things begin to sort themselves on the proper shelves, and even if they remain difficult to retrieve, there is a satisfaction…
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