I'm electric with vertigo, even though I'm on the ground, vertigo like I felt once when I stood on the edge of a high cliff in Arizona and looked straight down.
Reinvention is my philosophy, if you want to call it that,_ he says, looking out the window. __magination is the key to creating a life that is ever new._ Stanley turns his eyes to me. __e are each of us a changeling person,_ he says. __e are not going to be the same decade after decade. Wisdom results from confronting not only one__ desires and capacities but also one__ limitations._ __he Layers,_ one of Stanley__ best-loved poems, is his crystallization of this wisdom. I have walked through many lives, some of them my own, and I am not who I was, though some principle of being abides from which I struggle not to stray. When I look behind, as I am compelled to look before I can gather strength to proceed on my journey, I see the milestones dwindling toward the horizon and the slow fires trailing from the abandoned camp-sites, over which scavenger angels wheel on heavy wings. Oh, I have made myself a tribe out of my true affections, and my tribe is scattered! How shall the heart be reconciled to its feast of losses? In a rising wind the manic dust of my friends, those who fell along the way, bitterly stings my face. Yet I turn, I turn, exulting somewhat, with my will intact to go wherever I need to go, and every stone on the road is precious to me. In my darkest night, when the moon was covered and I roamed through wreckage, a nimbus-clouded voice directed me: __ive in the layers, not on the litter._ Though I lack the art to decipher it, no doubt the next chapter in my book of transformations is already written. I am not done with my changes.
When You're Falling, Dive: Lessons in the Art of Living
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Reinvention is my philosophy, if you want to call it that,_ he says, looking out the window. __magination is the key to creating a life that is ever new._ Stanley turns his eyes to me. __e are each of us a changeling person,_ he says. __e are not going to be the same decade after decade. Wisdom results from confronting not only one__ desires and capacities but also one__ limitations._ __he Layers,_ one of Stanley__ best-loved poems, is his crystallization of this wisdom. I have walked through many lives, some of them my own, and I am not who I was, though some principle of being abides from which I struggle not to stray. When I look behind, as I am compelled to look before I can gather strength to proceed on my journey, I see the milestones dwindling toward the horizon and the slow fires trailing from the abandoned camp-sites, over which scavenger angels wheel on heavy wings. Oh, I have made myself a tribe out of my true affections, and my tribe is scattered! How shall the heart be reconciled to its feast of losses? In a rising wind the manic dust of my friends, those who fell along the way, bitterly stings my face. Yet I turn, I turn, exulting somewhat, with my will intact to go wherever I need to go, and every stone on the road is precious to me. In my darkest night, when the moon was covered and I roamed through wreckage, a nimbus-clouded voice directed me: __ive in the layers, not on the litter._ Though I lack the art to decipher it, no doubt the next chapter in my book of transformations is already written. I am not done with my changes.
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If life were a highway, I would still look for the footpath, for walking that, I would learn about us, enjoying the extra time to do so.
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Life follows a rhythm and we hold the drum.