How things are now

The moment is now
you can test it all by now
by how things are now.

This is the opening of a poem, “Aspects of Now,” written by Gwyn Williams, father of Teleri Williams. Today is Teleri’s birthday, and I think if she were alive she would be very happy about what's happening with Blip. The poem appears at the end of a book of Gwyn’s writing edited by Teleri and her sister Lowri Gwilym, with paintings by their mother, Daisy Williams: Summer Journal 1951. 

Gwyn and Daisy are gone, Teleri and Lowri are gone, but in Gwyn’s vivid words and Daisy’s images, the summer of 1951 is still alive for anyone who holds that book in their hands. It is sheep-shearing time in Trefenter, time for planting lettuce and turnips. Time for orchises, foxglove, wild roses, and honeysuckle opening everywhere as the black-headed gulls come in to the sheepfold again. 

I lift my eyes from Gwyn’s summer to steer my way safely through traffic in Portland. Bicycles weave in and out among cars next to the Crystal Ballroom, and the petals of ornamental cherry trees rain down on the hoods of cars. Gwyn would not recognize this way of life, but that summer in Wales is now in the pages of that book, and I am grateful to Richard for putting it in my hands. 

I spent the morning with Sue at the Zen Center and the afternoon and evening recovering from the last few very active days and being gentle with myself, reading and writing, thinking with love of Teleri, Richard, and the passing of time. Thank you for the many wise and loving responses to my complicated embrace of April 1st.