by Bela Johnson | Mar 29, 2016 | musings, nature, personal, philosophy, Uncategorized
Red and thorny rose, Rugosa memorized my heart while cruising Acadia’s coastline trail in younger times, longer times, youth captured in floral scent, theories one espouses while waiting for life to begin in earnest. I regret nothing. There is nothing to return to,...
by Bela Johnson | Mar 22, 2016 | nature, philosophy, spirituality, Uncategorized
It might as well be my shroud. Confusion of tapestry woven daily in knobbly hues, threads pulled straight when ease marks the course, twisted and frayed when impaired; How many acres of worries it covers! Like prayer beads worn shiny with use, stitched string upon...
by Bela Johnson | Mar 8, 2016 | musings, philosophy, politics, popular culture, Uncategorized
I worry in these times of tumultuous inequality, masses awaiting what passes as wisdom, poured liberally from the lips of the rich and famous as if one’s financial status automatically confers erudition; At the very least, living amidst the bizarre loosens folds in...
by Bela Johnson | Feb 23, 2016 | musings, philosophy, poetry, spirituality, Uncategorized
Those who peer into the soul of things may offer guidance to others more easily than accessing that wisdom within. Perhaps it keeps them human. The Trickster is afoot in daily living, throwing us off-balance which, ironically, keeps us poised on our toes. It must be...
by Bela Johnson | Feb 16, 2016 | culture, lifestyle, philosophy, popular culture, spirituality, Uncategorized
It’s a tricky thing, ask for one thing, get another, just what is needed. Understood. Shake hands with fate, agree to the veiling not an ending, rather the beginnings of a new life, tabula rasa. Oh, the beauty! Tastes and smells and five, maybe six senses all...
by Bela Johnson | Feb 1, 2016 | inspiration, nature, philosophy, spirituality, Uncategorized
Circling myself now like an osprey I once observed fishing, sitting by the Union River on a chill fall day, eyes fastened upon icy grey currents, swirling and eddying under the arched bones of trees; who could guess what she saw and how, yet surely as my beating...
