tipping point noun : the critical point in a situation, process, or system beyond which a significant and often unstoppable effect or change takes place
Today’s things are all about tipping points.
I have reached the tipping point of my sweater…you know it, that moment when it suddenly looks sweaterish and there is no stopping the outcome: a finished sweater is in sight! Today’s rain will spur along the finish of the front. It feels so good, this downhill portion of the project!
Last year’s garden had the slow crest to a tipping point and, in fact, we did not even realize we were reaching a tipping point until all the beans and a good portion of the peppers were decimated. Slowly, bit by bit, the rabbits diligently worked their way into the garden – hiding their handiwork behind the wall of raspberry canes. However, dear little bunnies, your comeuppance has arrived! Welcome heavy-duty gage wire! Bunnies!! Your day is over! Long live the beans and peppers!!
And, finally, I believe that this week we have reached the tipping point of this train-wreck of a presidency. Thank God.
And there, Gentle Reader, you have my tipping points for this week. Want to see more lists of amazing things? Head on over to Carole’s!
Spring has definitely sprung in my little corner of the world. Everything is blooming everywhere you go! But, apparently all this spring springing has awoken other things…
A fear of snakes or “excessive fear of snakes”; also called ophiophobia.
Or, me! Yes, I am terrified of snakes and I realize it is an irrational fear, but there is nothing I can do about it.
I saw not one, but three snakes on our walk yesterday…as in on the path and moving and entirely too close for comfort! Oh, and did I mention they were fairly large? Yeah, there might have been some screaming involved as well.
On a positive note, I did clock in at a much faster pace during yesterday’s walk. So, there’s that. However, I now need to find a new place to walk.
There you have my Three for Thursday. Want to see more? Head on over to Carole’s!
Kym so kindly reminded me yesterday, today is Poem in Your Pocket Day! She asked us to share our favorite poem. I could easily share with you two of my absolute favorites: Fog by Carl Sandburg or Joyce Kilmer’s Trees. But, today, I am hoping that the poem you put in your pocket changes you, wakes you, and engages you – and while these poems do that most certainly. Today, I am sharing something that does those things to me!
One of my absolute favorite poets is Pablo Neruda and I first became aware of him more than 20 years ago in the film Il Postino. And, so began my love of Neruda.
Die Slowly Pablo Neruda
He who becomes the slave of habit,
who follows the same routes every day,
who never changes pace,
who does not risk and change the color of his clothes,
who does not speak and does not experience,
He or she who shuns passion,
who prefers black on white,
dotting ones “it’s” rather than a bundle of emotions,
the kind that make your eyes glimmer,
that turn a yarn into a smile,
that make the heart pound in the face of mistakes and feelings,
He or she who does not turn things topsy-turvy,
who is unhappy at work,
who does not risk certainty for uncertainty,
to thus follow a dream,
those who do not forego sound advice at least once in their lives,
He who does not travel, who does not read,
who does not listen to music,
who does not find grace in himself,
she who does not find grace in herself,
He who slowly destroys his own self-esteem,
who does not allow himself to be helped,
who spends days on end complaining about his own bad luck,
about the rain that never stops,
He or she who abandon a project before starting it,
who fail to ask questions on subjects he doesn’t know,
he or she who don’t reply when they are asked something they do know,
Let’s try and avoid death in small doses,
reminding oneself that being alive requires an effort far greater than the simple fact of breathing.
Only a burning patience will lead
to the attainment of a splendid happiness.
There is my poem for your pocket today, Gentle Reader. As always on Thursdays, I am joining Carole where you just might find another poem or two as well!
April is National Poetry Month and today I am sharing with you three poems that I frequently think of or read. Poems that were introduced to me by my grandfather, poems I discovered on my own, and poems that I discovered through you…
Purple Martins by Carl Sandburg
If we were such and so, the same as these,
maybe we too would be slingers and sliders,
tumbling half over the water mirrors,
tumbling half over at the horse heads of the sun,
tumbling our purple numbers.
Twirl on, you and your satin blue.
Be water birds, be air birds.
Be these purple tumblers you are.
Dip and get away
From loops into slip-knots,
Write your own ciphers and figure eights.
It is your wooded island here in Lincoln park.
Everybody knows this belongs to you.
Five fat geese
Eat grass on a sod bank
And never count your slinging ciphers,
your sliding figure eights,
A man on a green paint iron bench,
Slouches his feet and sniffs in a book,
And looks at you and your loops and slip-knots,
And looks at you and your sheaths of satin blue,
And slouches again and sniffs in the book,
And mumbles: It is an idle and a doctrinaire exploit.
Go on tumbling half over in the water mirrors.
Go on tumbling half over at the horse heads of the sun.
Be water birds, be air birds.
Be these purple tumblers you are.
Ode To Ironing by Pablo Neruda
Poetry is white:
it comes from water swathed in drops,
it wrinkles and gathers,
this planet’s skin has to spread out,
the sea’s whiteness has to be ironed out,
and the hands keep moving,
the sacred surfaces get smoothed,
and things are done this way:
the hands make the world every day,
fire conjoins with steel,
linen, canvas, and cotton arrive
from the scuffles in the laundries,
and from light a dove is born:
chastity returns out of the foam.
The Journey by Mary Oliver
One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
their bad advice—
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
“Mend my life!”
each voice cried.
But you didn’t stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do—
determined to save
the only life you could save.
And, there you have my Three on Thursday contribution… want to see more? Head on over to Carole’s!