[Image: “Magic Mirror – wine glass with dandelions,” by a photographer identifying themselves as “Traveller_40.” Spotted on Flickr, where it’s shared under a Creative Commons license (thank you!). Per the photographer’s caption there, “There are two glasses and no reflection.” How about that?]

From whiskey river’s commonplace book:

The Life of a Day

Like people or dogs, each day is unique and has its own personality quirks which can easily be seen if you look closely. But there are so few days as compared to people, not to mention dogs, that it would be surprising if a day were not a hundred times more interesting than most people. But usually they just pass, mostly unnoticed, unless they are wildly nice, like autumn ones full of red maple trees and hazy sunlight, or if they are grimly awful ones in a winter blizzard that kills the lost traveler and bunches of cattle. For some reason we like to see days pass, even though most of us claim we don’t want to reach our last one for a long time. We examine each day before us with barely a glance and say, no, this isn’t one I’ve been looking for, and wait in a bored sort of way for the next, when, we are convinced, our lives will start for real. Meanwhile, this day is going by perfectly well-adjusted, as some days are, with the right amounts of sunlight and shade, and a light breeze scented with a perfume made from the mixture of fallen apples, corn stubble, dry oak leaves, and the faint odor of last night’s meandering skunk.

(Tom Hennen [source])

…and (ibid.):

A monk said: “I have been with you, Master, for a long time, and yet I am unable to understand your way. How is this?”
The Master said: “Where you do not understand, there is the point for your understanding.”
The monk said: “How is understanding possible when it is impossible?”
The Master replied: “If one reaches the point where understanding fails, it is simply a reminder to stop thinking and start looking. Perhaps there is nothing to figure out after all — perhaps we only need to wake up.”

(Thomas Merton, quoting D.T. Suzuki (in slightly modified form) [source])

…and (ibid.):

Looking, Walking, Being

“The world is not something to look at. It is something to be in.”
Mark Rudman

I look and look.
Looking’s a way of being: one becomes,
sometimes, a pair of eyes walking.
Walking wherever looking takes one.

The eyes
dig and burrow into the world.
They touch
fanfare, howl, madrigal, clamor.
World and the past of it,
not only
visible present, solid and shadow
that looks at one looking.

And language? Rhythms
of echo and interruption?
That’s
a way of breathing.

breathing to sustain
looking,
walking and looking,
through the world,
in it.

(Denise Levertov [source])

Not from whiskey river’s commonplace book (nor from the river itself):

The cry you emitted on your appearance in the world. Your first tottering, uncertain steps. The pain when Susan’s wildly swinging arm knocked out your wobbly tooth in primary school. Recognizing that cluster of trees in the distance, and the relief of knowing you’ll now find your way across the damp, foggy hills back to the welcome warmth of the car. Plucking up the courage to ask for a date, and blurting it all out in a rush. The flush of embarrassment. The quiet euphoria of a yes. Deciding you just have to do something about the clash between the purple sofa and the lime green curtains. Remembering the smell of your mom’s bread and dad’s roast chicken. Cradling your baby. Reading this sentence. And this one…

(Mark Humphries [source])

…and:

Oscar said, “I remember the time that busload of psychoanalysts got stranded here in December. What year was that? They were going to a convention in Vancouver and took the bus because they were afraid to fly. It was a snowy night and the bus rolled into town and stopped to use the men’s room at the Bon Ton and that took a couple hours because there was just one stall and they all had to do Number 2 and each of them had his little ceremonies and reading material and so forth, and by the time they were done, the roads were drifted over and we had to put them up for the night. Actually, for three days. Forty-five short bald men with beards. I remember they loved macaroni noodles in mushroom soup sauce and canned tuna and peas. We took them ice fishing, and they loved that. It was a great novelty to them, sitting in a dark house and looking at a hole in the ice with a fish-line hanging down and a bobber floating in the water. They sat for hours, watching the bobber, writing in their little notebooks. They were sad to leave, I remember. Got on the bus and put their faces to the windows and waved their hankies and away they went.”

(Garrison Keillor [source[)

…and:

Untitled

The story is written, the slip of a girl is loosed
And her life folds over. Against the cold, the waiting
For the what will happen. The next. Wonderful
Awful. The blonde in a chemical bath.
The story keeps on being written
As a woman who waits for never to happen
As an empty wall waits for light to form a bridge
And under it, a mass of open eyes,
Waiting for the awful eventual. Now?
And yes is what is said. Then here it is, the box
We live in where the crazy face of the day looks back
At the closed eye of the night looking in.
A boy of four comes in as an example
Of where the door of life is left open for a moment.
Time tumbles hour after hour until it’s morning again.
Some glass is for looking through, some is for seeing back.
Every outline is a cage one way or another.

(Mary Jo Bang [source])