October 26, 2012

Boy, fall has arrived with a vengeance!  Twenty degrees cooler at the moment than yesterday!  When standing out in front of the library waiting to vote, I thought I would freeze, having forgotten my shawl because when I left it was still pretty warm.  At least I didn't need my sunglasses, as it is cloudy and gray for the most part, and windy, I shouldn't forget to mention really gusty blustery wind!  I heard a bird a few minutes ago that had the sweetest voice, one I have not heard before.  I went to the back door to see if I could see it, but I couldn't.  Its song was like a random collection of the sweetest notes with long pauses between.  I wish I knew what bird had that lovely song.  My wind chime is making its own wonderful music because the wind is directly from the north and hard enough to really blow the long tubes of it around.  It's supposed to be in the 40s tonight, and only barely into the 60s tomorrow.  All the weather folk are talking about a possible "perfect storm" for the east coast, they just don't know where it will go yet, but it looks like no matter where it ends up, lots of people are going to have really bad weather!

This poem has wind and an attitude I understand lately . . .

In our souls everything
moves guided by a mysterious hand.
We know nothing of our own souls
that are ununderstandable and say nothing.

The deepest words
of the wise man teach us
the same as the whistle of the wind when it blows
or the sound of the water when it is flowing.

 Antonio Machado

I feel that I know nothing of my soul, that it exists, I believe that, but what makes it mine, what keeps it tethered to the body, how it influences what I do or believe, I don't know.  Does the soul keep its own accounting?  Does what we know affect it?  Is it what makes the "me" inside me?  The wise man's words, the whistle of the wind, the sound of water, they all exist in the moment, when we take them in with our senses, and the soul somehow also responds to them, or I do.  Some days I feel like my soul is just bursting to be free of this flesh, that it would not take much, a mere pinprick to release it, and other days it seems immortal, firmly ensconced in its clay housing.  Perhaps it's the soul that gives us that restless feeling we are subject to at times, when nothing seems to fit or make sense, maybe it is looking for something, something deeper than we are giving it.  Is the soul mute, or are we its only voice?  How to answer the question with no answer?   I don't know and for awhile I will just listen to the wind rattling the trees and shaking leaves down.  And, then . . . I will grade papers <smile>.   Even if there are ten thousand unanswered questions, the day goes on!