{"id":29338,"date":"2026-02-27T10:56:05","date_gmt":"2026-02-27T15:56:05","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/?p=29338"},"modified":"2026-02-27T10:56:12","modified_gmt":"2026-02-27T15:56:12","slug":"a-dance-to-the-lilt-of-the-moment","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/2026\/02\/a-dance-to-the-lilt-of-the-moment\/","title":{"rendered":"A Dance to the Lilt of the Moment"},"content":{"rendered":"\n
\"\"<\/figure>\n\n\n\n

[Image: “Play <\/em>that<\/span> Tune,” by John E. Simpson. (Photo shared here under a Creative Commons License; for more information, see this page<\/a> at <\/em>RAMH.)]<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

From whiskey river’s commonplace book<\/a><\/em>:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n

You have consented to time and it is winter. The country seems bigger, for you can see through the bare trees. There are times when the woods is absolutely still and quiet. The house holds warmth. A wet snow comes in the night and covers the ground and clings to the trees, making the whole world white. For a while in the morning the world is perfect and beautiful. You think you will never forget.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

You think you will never forget any of this, you will remember it always just the way it was. But you can’t remember it the way it was. To know it, you have to be living in the presence of it right as it is happening. It can return only by surprise. Speaking of these things tells you that there are no words for them that are equal to them or that can restore them to your mind. And so you have a life that you are living only now, now and now and now, gone before you can speak of it, and you must be thankful for living day by day, moment by moment, in this presence.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But you have a life too that you remember. It stays with you. You have lived a life in the breath and pulse and living light of the present, and your memories of it, remember now, are of a different life in a different world and time. When you remember the past, you are not remembering it as it was. You are remembering it as it is. It is a vision or a dream, present with you in the present, alive with you in the only time you are alive.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

(Wendell Berry [source<\/a><\/em>])<\/p>\n\n\n\n

…and:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n

That’s the big question, the one the world throws at you every morning. “Here you are, alive. Would you like to make a comment?”<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

(Mary Oliver [source<\/a><\/em>])<\/p>\n\n\n\n

…and:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n

Landscape And Soul<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Though we should not speak about the soul,
that is, about things we don’t know,
I’m sure mine sleeps the day long,
waiting to be jolted, even jilted awake,
preferably by joy, but sadness also comes
by surprise, and the soul sings its songs.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And because no one landscape compels me,
except the one that’s always out of reach
(toward which, nightly, I go), I find myself
conjuring Breugel-like peasants cavorting
under a Magritte-like sky – a landscape
the soul, if fully awake, could love as its own.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But the soul is rumored to desire a room,
a chamber, really, in some far away outpost
of the heart. Landscape can be lonely and cold.
Be sweet to me, world.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

(Stephen Dunn [source<\/a><\/em>])<\/p>\n\n\n\n

…and:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n

It is easy to overlook this thought that life just is. As humans we are inclined to feel that life must have a point. We have plans and aspirations and desires. We want to take constant advantage of the intoxicating existence we’ve been endowed with. But what’s life to a lichen? Yet its impulse to exist, to be, is every bit as strong as ours–arguably even stronger. If I were told that I had to spend decades being a furry growth on a rock in the woods, I believe I would lose the will to go on. Lichens don’t. Like virtually all living things, they will suffer any hardship, endure any insult, for a moment’s additions existence. Life, in short, just wants to be.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

(Bill Bryson [source<\/a><\/em>])<\/p>\n\n\n\n

From elsewhere:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n

Naturalists call [stickywilly] by its botanical name, Galium aparine<\/em>. It grows nearly everywhere and offers itself for many human uses: as a hot drink, in a cake, as a salve for eczema, or as protection from scurvy. But it goes by so many common names that stickywilly recipes passed down in rural families are hard to share because it would not be clear to others what wildflower, when dried and brewed, actually serves as a half-decent substitute for coffee. Is it catchweed? Bobby button or bedstraw or cleaverwort? Possibly it\u2019s cleavers, or clivers, or any of the nearly endless riffs on the plant\u2019s tendency to cling: stickyweed, stickybob, stickybud, stickyback, sticky molly, sticky grass, stickyjack, stickeljack, gripgrass, whippysticks. Shall I keep going? I could keep going for days…<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I embrace the old-timey plants that evolved to feed wildlife, the plants with names that change from place to place and people to people. And I will always insist on the homely names of my Wiregrass ancestors. It was stickywilly in the fields of Lower Alabama, and it remains stickywilly to me all these years later in Tennessee. What you call the wildflowers will tell you who you are.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

(Margaret Renkl [source<\/a><\/em>])<\/p>\n\n\n\n

…acnd:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n

Prayer for Joy<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

What was it we wanted
to say anyhow, like today
when there were all the letters
in my alphabet soup and suddenly
the \u2018j\u2019 rises to the surface.
The \u2018j\u2019, a letter that might be
great for Scrabble, but not really
used for much else, unless
we need to jump for joy,
and then all of a sudden
it\u2019s there and ready to
help us soar and to open up
our hearts at the same time,
this simple line with a curved bottom,
an upside down cane that helps
us walk in a new way into this
forest of language, where all the letters
are beginning to speak,
finding each other in just
the right combination
to be understood.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

(Stuart Kestenbaum [source<\/a><\/em>])<\/p>\n\n\n\n

…and:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n

We frequently walk with the sole purpose of getting from one place to another. But where are we in between? With every step, we can feel the miracle of walking on solid ground. We can arrive in the present moment with every step.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

(Thich Nhat Hanh [source<\/a><\/em>])<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

[Image: “Play that Tune,” by John E. Simpson. (Photo shared here under a Creative Commons License; for more information, see this page at RAMH.)] From whiskey river’s commonplace book: You have consented to time and it is winter. The country seems bigger, for you can see through the bare trees. There are times when the woods […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":29340,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"_genesis_hide_title":false,"_genesis_hide_breadcrumbs":false,"_genesis_hide_singular_image":false,"_genesis_hide_footer_widgets":false,"_genesis_custom_body_class":"","_genesis_custom_post_class":"","_genesis_layout":"","h5ap_radio_sources":[],"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"activitypub_content_warning":"","activitypub_content_visibility":"","activitypub_max_image_attachments":3,"activitypub_interaction_policy_quote":"anyone","activitypub_status":"federated","footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"Mary Oliver, Stuart Kestenbaum, et al.: 'A Dance to the Lilt of the Moment'","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":false,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2}},"categories":[183,247,1393,4701,250,4878,251,4159],"tags":[179,595,1579,2220,4508,4703,6053,6117,6279],"class_list":{"0":"post-29338","1":"post","2":"type-post","3":"status-publish","4":"format-standard","5":"has-post-thumbnail","7":"category-everyday-life","8":"category-ruminations","9":"category-whiskey-river-runningaftermyhat","10":"category-my-photography","11":"category-art","12":"category-fiction","13":"category-poetry-writing_cat","14":"category-essays","15":"tag-stephen-dunn","16":"tag-mary-oliver","17":"tag-wendell-berry","18":"tag-bill-bryson","19":"tag-thich-nhat-hanh","20":"tag-noticing","21":"tag-margaret-renkl","22":"tag-mindfulness","23":"tag-stuart-kestenbaum","24":"entry"},"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/02\/theycalllittheblues_johnesimpson_med.jpg?fit=1024%2C1024&ssl=1","jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6kZSG-7Dc","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/29338","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=29338"}],"version-history":[{"count":7,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/29338\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":29346,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/29338\/revisions\/29346"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/29340"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=29338"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=29338"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=29338"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}