It Would Break the Glass Cover on your Heart
Iconic surfer, Rob Machado, has travelled the world for more than half his life. During that time, he’s crossed paths with countless individuals who share a love for surfing and a passion for the arts. In his new series called Through The Lens, we meet these individuals and follow Rob as he re-connects with the people who’ve inspired him along the way.
In this episode, Rob has the unique opportunity to spend a week working along side legendary tree house builder, Takashi Kobayashi, during the final stages of what Takashi describes as “his most important tree house” to date. By working along side Takashi, Rob begins to understand the power this beautiful, symbolic tree house can bring to the Tsunami stricken Sendai region of Japan. This great gift Takashi is offering to the surviving children of this region is one small step in bringing some joy, happiness, and light to a part of Japan heavily impacted by the Tsunami disaster.
The Laughter of Children
Out there in the park children laugh, play and sing
The sound of young joy is a wonderful thing
I too had my childhood and I knew of young joy
But ’tis been awhile now since I was a boy
It has been awhile now but I can recall
In the Town park with others youngsters I played ball
But time kept on ticking and ticking on fast
And all that remains are memories of the past
The laughter of children a thing of great cheer
Playing ball in the park is a joy for to hear
It takes me to my boyhood and to my life’s Spring
The great gift of youth is a wonderful thing
We laughed as the football we chased up and down
In view of the hill in the park of the Town.
~ Francis Duggan
Bone-spur, stirrup of veins—white colt
a tree, sapling bone again, worn to a splinter,
a steeple, the birch aground
in its ravine of leaves. Abide with me, arrive
at its skinned branches, its arms pulled
from the sapling, your wrist taut,
each ganglion a gash in the tree’s rent
trunk, a child’s hackwork, love plus love,
my palms in your fist, that
trio a trident splitting the birch, its bark
papyrus, its scars calligraphy,
a ghost story written on
winding sheets, the trunk bowing, dead is
my father, the birch reading the news
of the day aloud as if we hadn’t
heard it, the root moss lit gas,
like the veins on your ink-stained hand—
the birch all elbows, taking us in.
~ Cynthia Zarin
The Tree of Awe
How does part of the world leave the world?
How can wetness leave water?
Don’t try to put out a fire by throwing on
more fire. Don’t wash a wound with blood.
No matter how fast you run, your shadow
more than keeps up. Sometimes it’s in front.
Only full, overhead sun diminishes your shadow.
But that shadow has been serving you.
What hurts you blesses you.
Darkness is your candle.
Your boundaries are your quest.
I can explain this, but it would break the glass cover
on your heart, and there is no fixing that.
You must have shadow and light source both.
Listen, and lay your head under the tree of awe.
When from that tree, feathers and wings
sprout on your soul, be quieter than a dove.
Don’t open your mouth for even a cooooo.