Skip to main content

Maybe It's Peace


That man he had no resistance in him
Even as they brought him to his death
I resist every moment that I have
I fear the future
I rewrite my past

Maybe it's peace that lies beyond fear and desire
Maybe it's peace that's calling me home
If I pass through the doorway of fear and desire
Maybe it's peace that will welcome me home

I knew there must be a way for the finding
Though I feared it could not be of this world
If I worry or speak ill of you
I'll just say a prayer or two
And my soul will remind me I'm still loving you

Chorus

©2004 Heaton/Marotta

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Constructivist Crap

Reading this post was like deja vu for me! I took a class just like this as an undergrad... (surprise, surprise) in the education department. I made it through that semester by taking solace in two facts: (a) I was also taking The Sociology of Education in the soc department, with a professor who actually taught the material and (b) most of us in my little liberal arts bubble wouldn't end up teachers, thus wouldn't have an opportunity to inflict such pedagogical torture on kids who needed to actually learn stuff. It would appear that Newoldschoolteacher has neither of those to help her out. God save her. The professor in my class repeatedly insisted that we were a "democratic classroom" and that she wasn't any more of an expert on the material than us. WHAT? I paid good money for that course, money that employed her to teach me. I hope that she was more expert on the material than I was! Also, when I "took responsibility for myself" and said that ...

Privilege of Being

Robert Hass Many are making love. Up above, the angels in the unshaken ether and crystal of human longing are braiding one another's hair, which is strawberry blond and the texture of cold rivers. They glance down from time to time at the awkward ecstasy-- it must look to them like featherless birds splashing in the spring puddle of a bed-- and then one woman, she is about to come, peels back the man's shut eyelids and says, look at me, and he does. Or is it the man tugging the curtain rope in that dark theater? Anyway, they do, they look at each other; two beings with evolved eyes, rapacious, startled, connected at the belly in an unbelievably sweet lubricious glue, stare at each other, and the angels are desolate. They hate it. They shudder pathetically like lithographs of Victorian beggars with perfect features and alabaster skin hawking rags in the lewd alleys of the novel. All of creation is offended by this distress. It is like the keening sound the moon makes sometimes, ...

Up to Day 144: Fresh Produce Bounty

Hi everyone! I'm back to share some delicious things we've cooked recently, featuring fresh fruits and veggies from peak Farmer's Market season.  We even grew some of these ourselves! Time is flying here-- it's hard to believe we're coming up on five months of quarantine.  When I revisit blog posts from early on, it's amazing how much has changed since then.  It turns out, people are very adaptable.  But the feelings still come in waves.  I miss the casual ease of getting together with friends.  And meeting new people.  I've made a renewed effort to connect with folks outside of my routine circle, and it is helping some (If we haven't seen each other in awhile-- please do say hi!). On the other hand, we've already hit our summer average of days over 90 degrees, and we're only at the beginning of August.  It's seriously swampy out there, and not needing to commute means no longer doing the summer "how many layers should I wear?" danc...