November featured a piece from e.e. cummings, a thought from Roger Ebert and a poem from Mary Oliver.
or anybody don’t
know where it her his
my next meal’s coming from
i say to hell with that
that doesn’t matter (and if
he she it or everybody gets a
lifting my finger i say to hell
with that i
say that doesn’t matter) but
or you are beautiful or
deep or generous what
i say is
sing that yell that spell
that out big (bigger than cosmic
rays war earthquakes famine or the ex
prince of whoses diving into
a whatses to rescue miss nobody’s
probably handbag) because i say that’s not
swell (get me) babe not (understand me) lousy
kid that’s something else my sweet (i feel that’s
“Kindness’ covers all of my political beliefs. No need to spell them out. I believe that if, at the end, according to our abilities, we have done something to make others a little happier, and something to make ourselves a little happier, that is about the best we can do. To make others less happy is a crime. To make ourselves unhappy is where all crime starts. We must try to contribute joy to the world. That is true no matter what our problems, our health, our circumstances. We must try. I didn’t always know this and am happy I lived long enough to find it out.”
Mary Oliver “Wild Geese”
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about your despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting —
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.