Here are 3 maps courtesy Lanark Archive Chair Marilyn Snedden showing the area in the late 19th Century. We are looking for an archeologist (with Marilyn’s help) to prepare a report about the site. This is part of our Official Plan Submission.
Here is our new logo, designed by Kara:
What we could build… http://www.superaje.com/~sustain5/nuts_and_bolts.html
Here is a clustered approach to living…
Some poems we like that’ve been part of our meetings, and likely will be again! Andrew says that it’s a useful and fun practice to commit poems to memory so you’ve really got them and can say them out loud. When they’re lying on the page it’s like they’re being waked – remembered for vitality they might have had somewhere.
One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
their bad advice-
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
“Mend my life!”
each voice cried.
But you didn’t stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations, though their melancholy
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen branches and stones.
but little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do-
determined to save
the only life you could save.
Mary Oliver, Dream Work, Grove Atlantic Inc., 1986 & New and Selected Poems, Beacon Press,
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 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.
There’s a two-million year old man
no one knows.
They cut into his rivers,
peeled wide pieces of hide
from his legs,
left scorch marks
on his buttocks.
He did not cry out.
no matter what they did,
he held firm.
Now, he raises his stabbed hands,
and whispers we can heal him yet.
We begin the bandages,
the rolls of gauze,
the unguents, the gut,
the needle, the grafts.
We slowly, carefully, turn his body
and under him,
his lifelong lover, the old woman,
is perfect and unmarked.
He has laid upon
his two-million year old woman
all this time,
with his old back, his old scarred back.
And the soil beneath her
is black with her tears.
And here’s one by a “progressive Christian” guy that Andrew likes …
The Uncertainty-Driven Life
Wandering, I stumbled upon my purpose,
Adrift, I made port,
Unbidden, love arrived,
Asleep, I learned my lesson,
In silence, notes danced across my score,
Dreaming, my problems solved themselves.
Visual Aids to Ideas
Contributed by Kara Stonehouse