wordswordswords.

"The sublime is not opposed to the beautiful, and must not, furthermore, be considered an esthetic category. The sublime may be sensed in things of beauty as well as in acts of goodness and in the search for truth. The perception of beauty may be the beginning of the experience of the sublime. The sublime is that which we see and are unable to convey. It is the silent allusion of things to a meaning greater than themselves. It is that which all things ultimately stand for; 'the inveterate silence of the world that remains immune to curiosity and inquisitiveness like distant foliage in the dusk.' It is that which our words, our forms, our categories can never reach. This is why the sense of the sublime must be regarded as the root of man's creative activities in art, thought, and noble living. Just as no flora has ever fully displayed the hidden vitality of the earth, so no work of art, no system of philosophy, no theory of science, ever brought to expression the depth of meaning, the sublimity of reality in the sight of which the soul of saints, artists, and philosophers live.

The sublime, furthermore, is not necessarily related to the vast and the overwhelming in size. It may be sensed in every grain of sand, in every drop of water. Every flower in the summer, every snow flake in the winter, may arouse in us the sense of wonder that is our response to the sublime." 

Abraham Heschel

 "God in Search of Man: A Philosophy of Judaism" 

monday.

        we took a trip down to the shoreline and watched the waves wrestle one another to the depths. their bubbly white scalps somersaulted and our eyes refused to move. the wind blew strong, like the lion that march has been so far. flecks of water pierced my face, scrunched and wrinkled, unable to remain stolid beneath the weight of wind and water. thoughts of the sublime and abraham heschel danced in my mind. the ocean, though not the goal of the trip, a much welcomed detour.

monday.

       plants are growing in my window. like a concerned parent i scoop them up each morning and take a head count... and then a child-like wonder fills my soul as i realize that while i was sleeping, they grew! my eyes scour the soil as though if i just wait long enough, i can watch them grow taller right before my eyes.

monday.

      a young girl stands outside my window - her mother beams and takes her photo, the snow and the flag mark her college visit. she smiles- glad to be where she is, yet so anxious for what is to come. how can it be that i was you not so long ago - and soon you'll be me - and each of us your mom...

monday.

     studying, because it's love. 






wednesday.


the air hung heavy.
our scraggly strands of hair buckled
beneath both weight and scent.
a solemn sort of gray
graced the empty spaces.

whispers.
shuffling of feet.
striking organ chords.
these were fitting,

a dense plume of ash
rose like a balloon -
released from the dirt,
from the flames,
from the light . . .

its presence reminds us
from where we've come.



thursday/friday.

home.

listen:
to the rain tap-dance on the windows,
familiar and missed voices,
stories,
laughter.

watch
the raindrop races from beneath a quilt.

read, write,
silence.

grilled cheese.
green tea.
waffles and soft pretzels.

sunshine,
blue skies and rest.

wonder-full.