Friday, August 13, 2010


Recognition can be laborious. Hints of truth linger in my waking mind and fight against desires to turn back over to sleep. When truth wins out and I rise from my mattress on the floor, the struggle is not over. How much easier to move to the couch for a few more blissful moments! Until I have no choice and time forces me to prepare and leave for work. But…

But, when I awake and do pull on shorts and helmet and take my bike out for a spin in the freshly crisp morning air, truth hits me square between the eyes. Morning sunrays find their way down over the Sandias to filter between leaves into my north valley and bronze my skin. I return rejuvenated.

Morning patterns turn into creative actions, satisfying and complete. Meaningful. Juicing yesterday’s cucumber, reading poetry by a Santa Fe woman I’ve never met, written to Thomas Merton, whom she never met. Connections are made. Threads weave themselves together, emotions form into ideas. I find myself writing. I juice some more. The sight of the peach jam I’ve canned from the gifts of neighbors pleases me. I plan to invite friends over this evening to share a good bottle of wine. To share in this earthy life. I can’t help but write.

I decide to put a kettle of water on the stove. While it heats to a boil, I select some fine Chinese tea. Perfect for a cool morning of reflection, writing, listening to Navajo prayers sung from my CD player. A good day to take my writing utensils, paper, some Sumi ink and ride with my artist’s bag to the river. Somewhere under the boughs of an achingly beautiful, large Cottonwood, I will sit and open up life’s secrets. A treasure will be revealed to me.

If not, no loss. It will be a good day of being comfortable in my own skin. Of absorbing nature. I might even visit the museum or botanical garden and, in silent reverence, enjoy the company of strangers passing by, enjoying too the beauty which surrounds us.

However, from the moment of needing to write onward, the day is but a fantasy of my mind. It is a weekday. Time has forced me to lumber towards work instead of following flowing, creative juices.

Oh, don’t pity me. I have the option every day of getting up early to allow for more of the experience that I’ve described. And, again, every day in which work does not call or demand attention. I recognize that I can shape my mornings, my days, my evenings and nights quite differently. But recognition comes hard.

Different 45 patterns used for pattern recognition.
(Veraart, C., et al. "Pattern Recognition with the Optic Nerve Visual Prosthesis."
Artificial Organs 27.11 (2003): 996-1004)

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