Velveteen Rabbit

Our prompt: http://digital.library.upenn.edu/women/williams/rabbit/rabbit.html

He said, "You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand."

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Wilbur

Wilbur is rough, not sleek.
 His sweater is misshapen
and beginning to run.

The moths have eaten away
 at the wool herringbone
of his soles.

The forward lean I took
 for aggression is
actually curiousity.

The scruffy appearance is not
 from brawling but crawling
through the brambles, pushing
 to see what's on
the other side.

The head cocked to the side,
 the quizzical look,
“How's it going, guy?”

Compassionate, curious.
 What I want to be
when I grow up.

—Jeffery Taylor

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Zen Writing and The Velveteen Mouse

When JoJo came to Memorial Hospital in Houston

To be my special friend many years ago

He had wonderful bright green velvet pantaloons

And eyes that went around when he shook

And beautiful, big, round velvet ears.

JoJo was my very special amoravore.

I did not drag him around the trailer park by his foot

Like Annabelle—her head bumping along in the dirt.

JoJo was special.

Maybe it was those green velvet pantaloons?

When I flew to New York after graduation,

JoJo stayed behind in Texas.

But not for long.

I was trying to become,

And it just didn't work without JoJo.

To become takes a long time.

I ask myself, "How will you ever become

If you break easily, have sharp edges,

And have to be carefully kept?"

But I must have become

Because my joints are loose,

And lately I have begun to look very shabby.

I talk to JoJo,

Who is very real.

All the white fur is rubbed off

His beautiful mouse face

And his big, round ears.

And he tells me,

"These things don't matter at all,

Because once you are real,

You can't be ugly."

—Janelle Taylor

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I saw a photo of me 60 years ago. “What a cute kid,” I thought. Then I remembered how I thought of myself then and was surprised at how different that was to how I think of myself now.

There is a Buddhist meditation where we scan our innards (see: http://www.accesstoinsight.org/lib/authors/khantipalo/wheel271.html). The idea is to not get attached to our youthful stupendous looks and to just see ourselves as nothing too appetizing.

This is more in line with the Velveteen Rabbit, who has developed her charm and grace over many years. She is no longer our prom queen. The beauty she now maintains is far deeper and more substantial.

In Europe we see buildings that are a couple of thousands of years old. Some have been maintained and others are mere skeletons of what they once were. But they all have a patina and a presence that is not seen in our modern buildings.

We are a society of the new. Models have a short life span. Unfortunately or fortunately, they don't look like the rest of us. Wouldn't it be nice to see people in the fashion ads that had bald heads and beer bellies and used a cane or wheelchair to get around? People might not look like Miss America, but on the inside, they have the patina of a building that has been around for a while and have acquired a big heart and much wisdom that has lit up the lives of many.

Sadly, some mourn their aging. They look at how they aren't as they were, not at what they are. Some attempt to change their exterior rather than paying attention to the beauty of their interior. They are looking in the wrong mirror. Hopefully they will figure it out before it is too late.

—Kim Mosley

The Moon

Photo by AJ Bunyard (w/moon added)

Prompt: One evening a thief visited Ryōkan's hut at the base of the mountain only to discover there was nothing to steal. Ryōkan returned and caught him. “You have come a long way to visit me,” he told the prowler, “and you should not return empty-handed. Please take my clothes as a gift.” The thief was bewildered. He took the clothes and slunk away. Ryōkan sat naked, watching the moon. "Poor fellow," he mused, “I wish I could have given him this beautiful moon.” This story may be an interpretation of an account mentioned by Ryōkan in a haiku:

The thief left it behind:
the moon
at my window.

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Enlightenment is like the moon reflected on the water. The moon does not get wet, nor is the water broken. Although its light is wide and great, the moon is reflected even in a puddle an inch wide. The whole moon and the entire sky are reflected in one dewdrop on the grass.

—Dogen

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At night, I open the window
and ask the moon to come
and press its face against mine.
Breathe into me.
Close the language-door
and open the love-window.
The moon won't use the door,
only the window.

―Rumi, A Year with Rumi: Daily Readings

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All the Sky and the Moon in It

I would have fed you moon, my love,
scoop of chilled white vanilla moon,
out of black sky, into an ice cream cone.

You would have known you are everything.
(You'd have tasted the moon.)

—Emma Skogstad

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The Moon and I

I tread on purple laurel blossoms,

Searching for the moon.

The moon is not there among the fallen blooms.

Doves are startled from magnolia trees,

Where they meant to roost tonight.

The moon is not in the branches of the dark magnolias.

A cat with nothing but its voice for a begging bowl

Asks, but I have nothing to give.

The moon is not here.

Meanwhile,

The moon –

Minding its own business –

Is not much interested in laurel blossoms,

Or magnolia trees,

Or the needs of hungry cats.

Looking up, 

Into the vastness of the empty sky,

I see the moon at last…

But only part of it.

The full sphere is mostly hidden.

Yet I am content to call

This silver crescent “the moon.”

It has other names.

In Spain it is “la luna”,

In Tibet, “dawa”.

The moon doesn’t mind what we call it.

It’s nature is neither moon

nor luna

nor dawa

nor ice cream

nor the leavings of a thief.

It knows its own way.

I know it will be back tomorrow. 

—Donna Dechen Birdwell

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I saw the moon after my friends had spotted it, high in the pale blue sky. It was framed for me by a somewhat square of tree branches that reminded me of how a cameraman holds his fingers when roughly framing a shot he's looking at, to see if it will work. It worked.

The soft spring air brought sounds of a roofing crew laying black felt over a plywood roof, the hammering of the stapler—a familiar sound from my past. The crew was working hard past the usual quitting time, in case it rained before they could get the shingles down. I wished that I could have given them the silver moon as a bonus.

I saw the moon last Sunday night from my son's backyard, in the country, outside of the city's light pollution sphere. It was “holding water” and the planet Venus, looking like a small brilliant yacht, was anchored just off the starboard shore of the silver crescent.

The night after my son was born (at home), I wrapped him in a small blanket and went out on the deck behind our house. I pulled the blanket back and held him skyward. I looked at the moon and stars sternly and said, “This is my son. Protect and guide him. I put my trust and faith in you.”

The gods have not disappointed me. They have honored my request and given me the moon.

—Robert Porter

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A Princess in a Castle High

She's locked herself into a tower
high high above the sea
and drawn thick walls about her close
against the moon and its seduction.

Still, she cannot hold it away.
It seeps in through the barred windows
and the long tunnel of the well
where it shines up at her and seems about to speak.

On nights of the full she can hardly sleep
feeling the hiss of light, the tug
yearning to it like the waves so far below
she cannot hear their crash and pull
though, like them, she rises, jostles.

Oh, go away, she wants to say to it
what is the use of all your weeping, plucking?
and when you are joyous, you will have to feel that joy alone.

But not quite alone, in truth
because she does hear that shout of light
does clench her fist, storm with the storm
and though she tries, she cannot help but dream
and, dreaming, floats her way to sea.


Ceremony for a Moonlit Night

We cannot say it is this date
or that—the fifth of August
or the second full moon,
only, when the lake is still,
a silver plate under the silver
circle of the moon,
under the waiting stars.

Then we come
each holding in two hands
—exactly so—
a boat prepared with coping saw
and red and yellow paint,
pulled from its hiding place
for such as night as this.

Each child ties the sail,
lights the candle at the back,
and out the vessels go,
bearing their frail light into the dark.

—Sarah Webb