One of the books I’m reading now is “Sapiens” by Yuval Noah Harari. To be precise, listening to the the audiobook version.
While I occasionally could use a reference for this or that statement, and often feel depressed reading this, it’s a mind-twistingly fascinating read.
For instance.
A fantail zooms by inches from my face and lands, on a branch just a few feet away, so close that I can clearly see it. For the next few seconds anyway.
While I’m staying in somewhat remote locations, far from the Hipster Central, I figured, I’d eat eggs and even occasional dairy.
I wrote this several weeks ago, at a yoga teacher training at the Esalen Institute, in response to the prompt to write a poem or something about everything being connected. At that point I was blissfully offline for two weeks and counting. A day or two before that point we were in silence for 24 hours, which for me included zero screens and no books.
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We are born of mud, we are made of stardust. We are what we eat, what we take in.
I take in coffee, bananas, nuts; letters, words, abstract concepts; lately, little screens.
What comes around goes around. Goes nuts. Goes bananas. Goes words and letters. Goes little screens.
I let go of the little screens, the words, the letters. Maybe loosen the grip on that banana. My eyes drink in the ocean, the mountains, the sky.
I am the ocean, I am mud, I am stardust.
The author looks at the Foveaux Strait. That’s the one between South Island and Stewart Island in New Zealand or between the Tasman Sea and Pacific Ocean, depending how you look at it
Love letters understated 