As mankind we are forever asking questions. That's how we've evolved, learned and experienced. Our minds are questioning as the norm. Answers are not always forthcoming...in fact answers are not always necessary.
When I find myself in a remote area I'm always "asking" in my head. I question the meaning of life (very profound). I often wonder who has been in that spot before me...has anyone actually stood on that exact sa
me spot in the heather? How come there are oak trees left here? Who lived in that remote croft? How many deer are on that fellside? Where does the cuckoo go when he leaves? The list goes on and on...my questioning goes on and on. I don't require a definitive answer. Often I muse over possible answers, possible outcomes. I imagine scenarios. I speculate. That's fine. I've satisfactorily answered myself .
Silence isn't empty. It's full of answers....I read that somewhere. For me - silence isn't empty. It's full of questions .
Many questions are purely rhetorical. We neither expect nor wish an answer. It's not necessary, serves no purpose anyway or there is no answer.
I've found two poems this week. The first was written in March 1968. The second in May 2015. They ask questions. I never got any answers as such. They are uncannily similar, given the years between.
To You
When I find myself in a remote area I'm always "asking" in my head. I question the meaning of life (very profound). I often wonder who has been in that spot before me...has anyone actually stood on that exact sa
me spot in the heather? How come there are oak trees left here? Who lived in that remote croft? How many deer are on that fellside? Where does the cuckoo go when he leaves? The list goes on and on...my questioning goes on and on. I don't require a definitive answer. Often I muse over possible answers, possible outcomes. I imagine scenarios. I speculate. That's fine. I've satisfactorily answered myself .
Silence isn't empty. It's full of answers....I read that somewhere. For me - silence isn't empty. It's full of questions .
Many questions are purely rhetorical. We neither expect nor wish an answer. It's not necessary, serves no purpose anyway or there is no answer.
I've found two poems this week. The first was written in March 1968. The second in May 2015. They ask questions. I never got any answers as such. They are uncannily similar, given the years between.
To You
Shall I give my hand to you ?
Perhaps you will take offence and shun me ?
I don't know.
I wish I could make you understand -
My intentions are good. I am sure of that.
If you were to give your hand to me
I would accept it without a second thought.
I cannot change. Accept me for what I am
And I shall give you my hand.
Shall I?
Shall I open my heart to you, or will you reject me and turn away ?
Shall I open my arms to you, or will you shun me and go on your way ?
Shall I open my eyes and see you, or will you be gone for ever and a day ?
Shall I open my door to see you standing there, or will you not be there and I am fay ?
Shall I open my mind to your love, or will you desert me and go astray ?
I'll keep a tight closed heart.
My arms crossed over my chest.
My eyes focused on the future.
My door firmly shut,
And my mind set !
I shall not open up for you,
You must earn your way to my love !
Thanks for reading today, Kath.
