Tag Archives: gratitude

#ActsOfKindness – essay

Kindness is the language which the deaf can hear and the blind can see. ~ Mark Twain #quote

Kindness is the language which the deaf can hear and the blind can see. ~ Mark Twain #quote

#ActsOfKindness – essay

More and more, recently, it seems to me that what’s needed are more acts of simple courtesy and kindness. A smile to a stranger. The door held open for the next person behind you. A call and/or handwritten note to a loved one you know is not in such a good place today; or, to whom you’ve not reached out for too long. The simple “Please.” and “Thank you.”

With that in mind, via various social media, I’ve been posting with the hashtag #ActsOfKindness.

If you, like me, agree that our Big Blue Marble could use just a little more courtesy, a little more kindness, please be free to use and/or post using #ActsOfKindness.

Thanks, in advance and anticipation ~

~ Jessan

Before All Our Lives Began To Change – narrative

Before All Our Lives Began to Change – narrative

In every life there are times that drive us back inside ourselves, that cause us to remember people, places, events that may have been met, passed through and/or witnessed many years earlier; and, to reflect upon those remembrances from a different point of view.

In particular, the past year and a half has been another period of that kind of reflection in my life.  Often, these times a hard.  Frequently triggered by a loss.  That is true with me.

I write about this not from the point of pity but, rather, with gratitude.  It’s been another kind of refining, tempering and becoming more clear, less “cluttered” and closer (still) to my truer self – a life-long process.

This is just to say that if you, too, have been suffering, felt lost, are confused or are in a moment of pain and seek peace – keep searching, go to those “hard places” that only you truly know about your life, open your Spirit to the simple beauty that is always available.

No one ever told me this living would be easy.  I’m not telling you that either.

What I’m saying is face your fears (they are illusions).  Embrace (wholeheartedly and openly) your pain.  Call it by name, deal with it and, then, move on to the better parts that are waiting for you to arrive.

What I’m continually reminded of when I re-emerge from these times is that the singular gifts of love, light and laughter are always available, it is a choice to receive or reject them.

In gratitude,

~ Jessan

The Cambridge Poem

T H E  C A M B R I D G E  P O E M ~ #poetry

 

Commencement Address – Class of 1990 – The Cambridge School, Weston, MA

 

Give your regards when you go to the reunion and at the dinner,

say that you were thinking about them     They’ll, eventually, recall

your name; you went to the movies with that one, felt the weight

of their life when they sat next to you – they never said a word

 

All of you are rising friends: one used to play the piano, one once

wrote a play, one even seemed awakened enough to photograph the

fields as the unencumbered with tutored minds and unrehearsed passions

 

Meet them at the door, they’ve brought the souvenirs of time; a seashell

from the Pacific, the nose of a marble saint, and from the field

a spent casing divulged from the flower bed

 

Face a rising world bearing its gifts in its hands, kiss your incidental

dreams – rise, move away, take others

 

Give your regards to the well­-protected; you knew them, you went

to school together     There’s something to bury when you begin

to move away     When you are ready and rich in your wish for the

world, you have a new race to start

 

From the heart of this darkened quadrangle, I hear the library

hum, an immense chorus of writers murmur inside their books along

the unlit, alphabetical shelves; each one stitched into their

own private coat, (you will have to write your own) together forming

a continuous, enormous breath of language

 

I picture a figure in the act of reading, shoes on the desk, head tilted

into the wind, a person in two worlds, holding the nape of their neck

as another’s life saturates the page; or, in the middle of a thesis,

moving from paragraph to verse, touring endless rooms (you will have to  write your own)

 

I hear the voice of my mother and father reading and inside their

voices lie other, distant sounds

 

 

I see us reading ourselves away from ourselves, straining in circles of

light to find more light until the line of words becomes a trail

that we follow across a page and you will have to listen hard to

hear the voices going away (and, you will have to write your own).

 

 

© 1990 Jessan Dunn (DeCredico) Otis