These images are a follow on from this post where there are a few comments on the left arm image.
On the left arm…
The last of human freedoms;
The ability to choose one’s attitude
in a given set of circumstances.
On the right arm…
Fortunate are those who are curious,
For they shall have adventures!
The chap sporting this tatoo loved to read as a young child and never stopped. It is him walking into the house built of books.
These tattoos are on the arms of the chief cook in the care centre where I was visiting Rev. Master Meiten in Victoria, Canada July 2017. Many memories flood in as I think about that time. With bows to the congregation who supported me while I stayed on the island. The cook was special, we would pass the time of day quite frequently as I waited to meet somebody in the lobby of the care home.
This was originally posted on 29th July 2011. I’m republishing it today as it seems to link in with several of the recent posts. The comments to this post are worth a read too.
and I had
Here is Basho talking about his passion for writing poetry. In this mortal frame of mine which is made of a hundred bones and nine orifices there is something, and this something is called a wind-swept spirit for lack of a better name, for it is much like a thin drapery that is torn and swept away at the slightest stir of the wind. This something in me took to writing poetry years ago, merely to amuse itself at first, but finally making it its lifelong business. It must be admitted, however, that there were times when it sank into such dejection that it was almost ready to drop its pursuit, or again times when it was so puffed up with pride that it exulted in vain victories over the others. Indeed, ever since it began to write poetry, it has never found peace with itself, always wavering between doubts of one kind and another. At one time it wanted to gain security by entering the service of a court, and at another it wished to measure the depth of its ignorance by trying to be a scholar, but it was prevented from either because of its unquenchable love of poetry. The fact is, it knows no other art than the art of writing poetry, and therefore, it hangs onto it more or less blindly.
It is not only through our actions that we can give life meaning — insofar as we can answer life’s specific questions responsibly — we can fulfil the demands of existence not only as active agents but also as loving human beings: in our loving dedication to the beautiful, the great, the good.
Should I perhaps try to explain for you with some hackneyed phrase how and why experiencing beauty can make life meaningful? I prefer to confine myself to the following thought experiment: imagine that you are sitting in a concert hall and listening to your favourite symphony, and your favourite bars of the symphony resound in your ears, and you are so moved by the music that it sends shivers down your spine, and now imagine that it would be possible (something that is psychologically so impossible) for someone to ask you in this moment whether your life has meaning. I believe you would agree with me if I declared that in this case, you would only be able to give one answer, and it would go something like: “It would have been worth it to have lived for this moment alone!”