I sense there is this mystery:
All life is being lived.
Who is living it, then?
Is it the things themselves,
or something waiting inside them,
like an unplayed melody in a flute?
Is it the winds blowing over the waters?
Is it the branches that signal to each other?
Is it flowers
interweaving their fragrances,
or streets, as they wind through time?
Is it the animals, warmly moving,
or the birds, that suddenly rise up?
Who lives it, then? God, are you the one
who is living life?
– Rainer Maria Rilke
(Image by Stoiran Hitrov)
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Generally just Being. Nothing in particular, no claims to fame. I like gardening and the sea, nature, art in all forms from poetry to films and everything in between, and being in the company of my family.
To Rilke
Surely, ‘one’ does not live life.
Surely, it is the infinite variety of all
That is the essence.
We are our impulses
Our beliefs, our ignorance-
We are the brush of grass
Across the arm,
The scent of rosemary in the heat –
We are our friends and our enemies –
We are our journeys
And the journeys of the lost.
We are tears and celebrations,
Most of all, we are doubt….
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Thanks Wordwool.
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