The First

I started one of these things on myspace, but I don't like the feel of the place so, as I have found several blogs that I like in this place, I am starting up here. Why blog at all remains a mystery, but I am a diary/notebook carrier/scribbler, so why not keep it up to date on line?

the poem that I read last night, whilst in severe physical pain and emotional hurt, that in turn precipitated this adventure, this morning, via another's blog (The River Blue):

Count the Roses, Mary Oliver in Blue Iris

Count the roses, red and fluttering.
Count the roses, wrinkled and salt.
Each with its yellow lint at the center.
Each with its honey pooled and ready.
Do you questions that can’t be answered?
Do the stars frighten you by their heaviness
and their endless number?
Does it bother you, that mercy is difficult to
understand?
For some souls it’s easy; they lie down on the sand
and are soon asleep.
For others, the mind shivers in its glacial palace,
and won’t come.
Yes, the mind takes a long time, is otherwise occupied
than by happiness, and by deep breathing.
Now, in the distance, some bird is singing.
And now I have gathered six or seven deep red
half-opened cups of petals between my hands,
and now I have put my face against them
and now I am moving my face back and forth, slowly,
against them.
The body is not much more than two feet and a tongue.
Come to me, says the blue sky, and say the word.
And finally even the mind comes running, like a wild thing,
and lies down in the sand.
Eternity is not later, or in any unfindable place.
Roses, roses, roses, roses.

Mary Oliver sustains me, offers me the possibility of possibilities, the possibility of potential, the potential for acceptance and wonder of the mystery.